Sick on a Wellness Retreat

I didn't know how unwell I was until I went on a wellness retreat. It was actually a yoga retreat. But my mom and I had been on a yoga retreat with these leaders three years earlier and we only managed to do yoga twice. This time around, I thought we’d feel more successful if we simply tried … to be well. I figure wellness can include sleep, massage, shuffling on the beach, floating on the ocean, and reading. I’m good at all those things. No binding poses needed.

The retreat takes place at Haramara near Sayulita, Mexico. I meet my mom by baggage claim in the Puerto Vallarta airport. We’re both really hungry so we go across the street to a convenience store. Funny how these stores that peddle junk food have the same blah look no matter what country you’re in. Maybe this one is called “Siete Once.” We get lime-flavored spicy nuts and Reese’s peanut butter cups. It will be the last processed food we eat for five days. As I swallow the biting sugary melted chocolate and it burns down my chest, I bid farewell to indigestion, heartburn, lethargy, breathlessness, and headaches. I have high expectations for this wellness retreat. I intend to be born again.

After the one-hour minibus ride to Haramara, I think, hmm maybe this transformation to wellness won’t come easy. At the moment I do not feel well. Probably just motion sickness from sitting in the back seat. Once I get out of the minibus and get my feet on firm ground, I’ll be fine.

Arrival is a turn off the bumbly but paved main road at a corner with fine looking horses in a corral and onto a narrow cobblestone, uphill road. At the Haramara sign, we unfold ourselves and stretch out into a jungle of lavish freshness all around.

I can just smell the plants oxidizing and the ocean churning up such salty, natural aroma that my nostrils flare in delight. A slight walk down a dirt path, and we are on a big terrace overhanging a dense tangle of jungle but through which we can clearly see the holy ocean, presenting itself with pride and brilliance. I hold the railing, feeling unbalanced, and dare I say it, a little breathless. Unfortunately it’s not the magnificent view that has taken my breath. It is the short walk down the dirt path. Oh lord.

Under the shade of an enormous tree with bark peeling off like sheaths of paper, we have a snack. No, snack is definitely not a word worthy of our first taste of the ambrosia to be devoured all week. There is a creamy smooth beet dip the color of bougainvillea served with crisp jicama, carrot, and cucumber sticks. Instantly we are all asking aloud and to the staff—What is this? No butter? How is it so creamy? No salt? How is it so flavorful? And this rose-colored liquid? Water tinted with hibiscus. Surely these foods will not only cleanse my insides but will evolve my body into a temple of purity and enlightenment. Fortified by this potential of change, I ignore the rumble in my belly and the waxy feeling of my forehead covered in sweat as I begin the descent to my cabaña.

 
The air is thick with warmth and humidity. Ignoring the slight suffocation creeping up my throat, I remind myself how great my skin feels in humidity. In my lifetime, there was only one place where I did not have to use lotion—Buea, Cameroon. Near the ocean but also at the foot of Mount Cameroon—an area that is one of the top five highest rainfalls in the world. Maybe this jungle in Mexico would allow me to toss my lotion. Or maybe the wonders of humidity only work when you’re 24. At 48, maybe I would instead simply suffocate. No, no. I will be fine once I put my bag down, take a cool shower, stretch out. I just need time to acclimate. This wellness retreat is going to be monumental. Transformative.

The earthy path takes us under arches of tangled roots, in some places even held up with supporting branches.

Platter-sized palm leaves hang in still silence, interrupted now and again with giggles of tree orchids, guffaws of magenta blossoms, simpers of delicate white butterflies, and my god, wafting of hot air from … what was that? A kite? No, a giant butterfly.

Downhill then uphill. Steps dug into the dirt, defined by logs in some places, but mostly dusty dirt smoothed by rakes.

Throughout the week as I trudge up and down, I think about the rake marks that go all the way down the steep path to the ocean. I never see the raker. I would really suck at silently, invisibly raking a mountainside. Guests’ serenity would be ever-disturbed by my huffing and puffing, stumbling and tripping.

With our guide Lulu, we step up and across four high rocks—the stairs to our cabaña. She slides open the panel made of some dry woven plant and reveals my childhood fantasy life—Island of the Blue Dolphins right before my eyes.

The ocean view is framed by the thatching that hangs from the roof and shells dangle lazily center stage. Two single beds with white sheets, white dome canopies hanging from the ceiling to protect from bugs, white hammock, open-air with the jungle at arm’s reach. The low ocean roar fills the room. We can see the roofs of two other cabañas just below us. They are lined with vultures cooling their wing pits.

Lulu shows us how to light the lanterns: take the glass jar off the brass clips, twist the disk on the side to rotate the wick up, light the wick with the Maya matches placed near a shell by each lantern, put the burnt match in the shell—not on the wooden dresser, turn the disk again to lower the wick so just the flame is left visible, put the glass jar back on.

Everything is glass, wood, shell, rattan. There is nothing between the shower and the jungle except a wooden rail. No glass in the window frames.

The tile is smooth and cool. You must leave your shoes at the front panel entrance. Put the used toilet paper in the trash, not the toilet. There is hot water. How when there is no electricity? Don’t know. Don’t care. All is so wonderfully well I tell myself as I tamp down the slow ache that is starting in my head.

No food in the cabaña, Lulu is telling us. They have el tejón, an animal which sounds like the gutsy raccoon that tries stealing human food in every clever way possible. I am still staring at the shower, deep in a dream of nakedness and jungle. I look up and see an iguana’s head near the rafter above the shower.

I point it out to my mom who matter-of-factly says, “Well that’s not real.” It really does look like a metal statue of fine detailed quality so I agree: “Right, not real; a quirky statue. Cool.” But Lulu says, “Oh no she is real. A new mama, too.” Lulu says they have yet to see the baby iguana, but they see Señora every day. Good thing she’s in our room.

My mom and I are pretty relaxed about things of nature—bugs, mice, bats, possums, raccoons. Already we’ve learned of the fears our fellow retreaters—dogs, the dark, falling, insects, el tejón, the ocean. My mom is fearless. I am secretly afraid of my health, or lack thereof. Of course, all of that will change with this wellness retreat. As soon as I lie down and get rid of this creeping headache.

I lie in the hammock with my eyes closed, willing the headache to go away. I tell myself the headache is a sign of the toxins leaving my body. I picture the neon pulse of toxicity oozing out of my pores and being replaced by the warm, soothing fog of nature. Absurd, I know. But it makes it worth it. I can endure the rocking nausea and throb in my head if it ends with me being lifted in a halo of radiant wellness light.

I think I am better when we start our hike back up to the dining room. It’s dark already. We have headlamps. The bouncing light brings back my disorientation. The organic path brings back my imbalance. I don’t talk during dinner. The moving candlelight makes my stomach feel wavy. The only thing that helps me get through dinner is that I am barefoot and the smooth, wooden floor is oddly arousing. No one is allowed to wear shoes in the dining room. I stare at the female statue pulling her hair. I try to focus on her solidity and not the pools of moving candlelight. I apologize to the people we have just met today. And I am thankful that my mom will always choose bed and a book at night over small talk. We make a hasty retreat. Damn it. This sickness has to go away. Just how much toxic waste do I carry? What if it’s not a metaphor? What if I got sick from my first bite of Mexican food or my first drink of Mexican water? Montezuma’s revenge? That’s not real, is it?

Real or not, it cannot happen to me. I lived through three years of village African food, including unrefrigerated goat and cow meat—all parts. You might not have guessed that the hump of the cattle in Cameroon have a buttery fat that is exquisite on baquettes with brochette meat and pimente. I ate fried crickets, which taste like BBQ chips ... at least after you've not had any for two years. I believe I have a strong, resistant gut by nature. When I went to University of Montana, I spent one summer working at Glacier National Park and even though my job was cleaning cabins, I did a lot of hiking. My Montana born friends told me not to drink the river water or I might get giardia. What happens if I get giardia? You get sick and lose a lot of weight. Now I'd been trying to lose weight since I was 13 as had all my female friends, unfortunately. So my friend and I took our straws to the Montana rivers that summer and did our best to get this giardia. Nope, never got it; didn't lose an ounce.

So if it isn’t the food I ate or water I drank the first day in Mexico, what is making me sick? Maybe my toxin theory is right. Maybe my body is having withdrawl symptoms after one day of no processed food, no bread, no pasta, no sugar, no alcohol. Is my lifestyle at home really so bad that I am full-to-the-brim of toxins? Am I going to start shaking and shivering after only day without a fix?

One time my mom did a sort of intervention on me. She spoke frankly and told me she was concerned about my health because I’m so overweight. I was stunned. But I thought it over and retorted that it’s not like I’m lounging on the couch all day and night eating buckets of fried chicken and slurping gallons of sweet tea filled with bourbon. (Though that does sound kind of good, doesn’t it?) I mean yes, it is hard being a single, working mom and getting a healthy meal on the table every night. And yes I do have to the fight the battle against Dunkin’ Donuts, Dairy Queen, and Steak ‘n’ Shake at least once a week. And yes, an Everything bagel toasted and loaded with cream cheese, a Peanut Buster Parfait with those salty, flaky Spanish peanuts counter-balanced with that smooth cold vanilla soft-serve and hot fudge, and a grilled cheese on that big Texas toast all buttery and cheesy warm are powerful weapons against me. But I also love sautéed kale, spinach, carrots, zucchini, garlic on a bed of brown rice. And grilled chicken breast with little red potatoes roasted only in a little olive oil and sea salt. And fish of almost any kind—cod, turbo, salmon, tilapia, mahi mahi with sautéed vegetables. And I love to walk by the lake every morning. I could walk for hours and hours if only I didn’t have to work. And occasionally I do yoga, ski, swim, bike, paddleboard, dance, and even jump on a trampoline. These are my thoughts as I fall asleep surrounded by warm Mexican night, the pulsating in my head easing with the rhythmic in-and-out of the ocean waves.

We don’t make it to 7AM meditation and yoga the next day. I wake with the familiar feeling of being late. Dread. Time to start the daily race. But a different smell tickles my nostrils. A different light lingers at my closed eyelids. I hear a muffled rhythm. The ocean crashes against rock. I peek an eye open and see my mom is still asleep! Impossible. Never have I felt so lucky. She is an early riser. She is a hard worker. When I lived with her temporarily in my mid 20s, I would come home from my nightly escapades only an hour or so before she was up at 5AM to proudly deliver mail for the U.S. Postal Service. She would pull a chair up next to my bed and quietly start chanting—Drinking and stinking, drinking and stinking. Her maniacal chant would gain speed and volume until I woke in terror. So to find her still asleep in Mexico is like waking in a fairy tale. I quickly roll over and decide to go back to sleep. Only minutes later, she stirs. I mumble that I still feel sick and need more sleep. She mumbles something back and we sleep. Pure ecstasy.

Breakfast is a spread of sliced melons and papaya; whole bananas, apples, and guavas; and homemade yogurt and granola waiting in large flowered pottery turins; coffee and tea; cold water flavored with cucumber, orange, hibiscus, lemon. Then a full breakfast is served. Today it is a zucchini enchilada. I make it through a few bites before the sick feeling of hangover-from-a-life-of-shameful-eating comes back and I excuse myself to hurry back to the cabaña.

As my mom and brother walk down to the ocean, I lie in the silence of the jungle hut and hate my body. It doesn’t serve me well. But of course I don’t always take care of it so why should it serve me well? I first realized my body had limitations and could be a source of shame when I was 10 years old. My family was on a road trip and we stopped at the Grand Canyon. I don’t think we planned on hiking down. At least I hope my parents weren’t intentionally that ill-prepared. We had only one bottle of water between the four of us. I was wearing a pale yellow Macinaw Island sweatshirt. I remember because half way down, I stashed it behind a boulder because I was miserably overheated. I was a teeny bit pudgy, though not aware of it at the time. It hadn’t stopped me from doing anything. I had friends. I played sports. No one made fun of me.

I don’t know if someone in my family said something that day or if I was just struggled so much on that hike that I decided something was wrong with my body. My body didn’t work like everyone else’s. I was going to barf while they all silently trudged along. Who knows? Maybe they were miserable, too. My dad probably carried my little brother on his shoulders. Or more likely my little brother ran up ahead, exploring, and oblivious that we were three hours from the car with a straight up hike ahead of us and down to half a bottle of water.

Or maybe I am mixing this memory with another one that is so vivid from that same time period. I got my first pimple. A big one on my right cheek. Red. Hard. My family made fun of me. All in good humor, of course. But in that awkward time of my life, I didn’t laugh. I was upset. I felt ugly, in the spotlight, ashamed. And for the first time, I felt like an outsider from family. I was a preteen who was becoming aware of her appearance and unfortunately the awareness was negative.

All I know is that the trip seemed to be the planting of a dirty seed. An evil seed that grew into me hating my body. Over the years it became a dark tangled brittle branched tree of anxiety.

The thing is I was hardly overweight at age 10. And my body continued to perform amazing…or at least acceptable…feats. I skied, hiked, swam, ran, mountain-biked, even did a tri-athalon in college. I was on the swim team and the soccer team in high school. I ran 5Ks and even a 10-mile race in my 30s. I was never the fastest or strongest in any of these. But I always finished the races and worked hard on the teams. Still I didn’t recognize and appreciate that my body did all right for me.

So I hated my body, didn’t take care of it, got fatter and slower, hated my body more…round and round we went. Until here I am 100 pounds overweight according to Wii and my doctor.

My mind, on the other hand, I love. And I know I should put my mind over my body. Because of course, it’s all about perception. If I never got the notion to hate my body, I would have stopped and appreciated all my athletic feats. And the cycle of hate/gain weight/hate never would have begun. So now as a wise adult, I try to end the cycle. I tell myself to love a body that could make babies like my two gorgeous, healthy, intelligent children. It is in that idea that I decide I can and will end this sickness. And the first step is to admit that I need two days of my Mexico wellness retreat to recuperate. I need two days to do nothing but lie still and let the shame and toxins ooze out of my body. So rather than feeling guilty that I am not down at the ocean with my mom and brother, I indulge in taking care of myself.

That afternoon I do feel better. Mind-over-body prevail for the day. Lunch is beet salad, a black bean patty, cole slaw, and a meringue with passion fruit.  I do restorative yoga and yoga nindra. Dinner is pumpkin soup, carrot dip, vegetable tofu lasagna, spinach salad with balsamic dressing, and a fig torte with meringue. We are in bed by 8:00. My body is at ease. My insides are still and jitter-free.

The remaining three days are full of exhilarating, rejuvenating activities like whale watching from a boat, snorkeling, paddle boarding (my first time doing so in the ocean), shopping in Sayulita, cooking class with Hugo, yoga, meditation, massage.

 

And meals of exquisite health and wellness packed into each bite: ceviche, mackerel, mahi mahi, salsa, avocadoes, tomato soup with a dollop of goat cheese, polenta, coconut dessert with blueberries and a seedy crust, raspberry sorbet, pea soup, beans, omelets with mushrooms and potatoes, spinach, white fish.

The wellness retreat culminates in a traditional sweat lodge. At the beginning of the retreat, in a flurry of signing up for activities, we all signed up for the sweat lodge without much thought to it. But now the night before, Hugo comes around to each dinner table to look us in the eye and make sure we understand the gravity of taking part in the sweat lodge ritual.

Hugo is a lithe, slim, tall man who has an ethereal quality to him. He grew up in Mexico City and cooked with his best friend in a French restaurant. Now the best friend is the chef at Haramara. Yet it is Hugo who does the cooking class. And in the cooking class, his personality shines like a soft star. He is serious but smiles, answers our questions so respectfully, makes a few jokes but is clearly dedicated to simplicity, nature, and health. On his arms tattooed in Latin: Surrender to love. Love conquers all.

Watching him gives me a vision of a long bubble from one of those big wands. I imagine a small child at the end of the wand being led around by the light bubble on a sunny, summer day.

But this night before the sweat lodge, Hugo is different. He wears a long strand of small brown seeds, like prayer beads. Barefoot. His clothes seem to float just millimeters above his skin. He is stern. He is trying to tell us that this is our last chance to change our minds about the sweat lodge. Some of us are having our first margarita of the trip. Some of us are having our fifth or sixth. We are accustomed to each other now. We’ve been on a boat together aside whales that took four partial breeches in and out of the water for us to see only half of their enormity. We’ve snorkeled among jellyfish together. We’ve shared notes on our out-of-body massage experiences. We’ve paddle boarded in the ocean past stingrays and huge seagulls. We are heady with these experiences and giddy in camaraderie and not listening to Hugo.

Then I realize some of us are listening. Some are getting scared about the sweat lodge. Hugo says there will be four 15-minute sessions. If you aren’t signed up, you cannot go watch. If you have to leave the sweat lodge, it is highly recommended to wait through one of the 15-minute intervals. If you leave then, you cannot come back. Hugo says it is a serious ritual that requires respect.

He tells us to come with an intention or resolve. He says we will burn our fears away. Someone asks, “Do we get to go out every 15 minutes?” Hugo says no. Someone who, like me, is just starting to tune in, just starting to get scared as well, asks, “Will we be able to leave if we don’t like it?” Hugo bristles but answers with a flat tone, “Yes, but only if you ask ‘permisso’ of Marcello the Temazcalera, or spiritual guide.”

Hugo has purchased the large quantity of wood and he will spend the whole next day stoking the fire and heating the volcanic rocks. Volcanic rocks do not explode in extreme heat. Someone asks to have her name taken off the list. Hugo nods with a soft, knowing smile as he moves to the next table. He gets their attention more quickly, as he repeats the warning and taps his pencil on the now shorter list in his hand. His words have sobered us and now we are all listening. He is saying that we can put our faces down on the ground where the air is cooler if we get overheated during the ceremony. That is really the point, Hugo says, to get closer to mother Earth.

I go through a list of claustrophobic experiences I have endured as I consider this sweat lodge more carefully. Three years worth of bush taxi rides in Cameroon, which were up to 10 hours long, over 100º F, and of course, way over packed with people, animals, and bags. Several visits to the Fire Sudatorium sauna at King Spa. You have to crouch down and pull hard on the heavy wooden door to enter what feels like a massive oven. A flotation tank. Yearly MRIs. Being stuck in an elevator for 45 minutes. I decide I’ll be OK. Especially after this conversation with my mom:

Me: Are you scared?

Mom: Of what?

Me: Panicking? Passing out? Suffocating?

Mom: If I don’t like it, I’ll get out.

Me: But Hugo makes it seem that will be disrespectful. Aren’t you at least nervous about getting the giggles during a serious ceremony?

Mom: If it’s so serious, they shouldn’t be selling it to tourists.

Right away I know my intention for the sweat lodge. Even though the sick feelings have all dissipated and I now feel very close to well, there is one more step. To burn up the hatred of my body in that sweat lodge. Once and for all! Watch it melt like the wicked witch of the West.

We are told to wear swimsuits or shorts and tank tops. I opt for long, light shorts because I know how my thighs like to stick together and rub raw when they are bare and sweaty. I don’t need thigh-burn on top of all the other burning that will go on in the sweat lodge. We eat a light meal of pea soup and drink lots of water. Then we head down the dirt path toward the hut, I notice from above that the round open circle on top is covered tightly with a thick blanket. There are no openings visible.

Before entering we stand in a group outside the large bread oven. I know I’m not supposed to be thinking of it as a bread oven. I am not Hansel hanging in a cage, being fattened up in order to be a tastier meal once cooked by the witch. No, the round hut is a mother’s womb. We will go in so that we can come back out and be reborn. Being reborn means a fresh start. I plan on leaving behind whatever mean thoughts I have of myself. Newborns don’t think badly of themselves. They are new and innocent and shameless.

Our Temazcalera, Marcello, is dressed in white cotton drawstring pants and a white tunic—kind of like a baker or the Good Humor man. We face each of the four cosmic directions as he salutes the elements of life: earth, water, wind, and fire. Then he approaches us individually with a stalk of burning sage in his hand. He waves the smoke over the front of my body, turns me, and waves it over my back. It’s hard not to feel I am being prepped for cooking.

As we crawl in through a door that faces south, Marcello tells us that we are going to experience a symbolic cycle of life during which we naturally move toward death; mother is Earth and birth; father is sun and death as the sun goes down each night and dies but then leaves us open to rebirth. It’s a bit of a mumble to me as I am still fixated on the oven, baker, being cooked, and sage. Yes, here I am on the brink of claustrophobic panic, maybe rebirth, and I’m thinking in terms of food. It is simultaneously embarrassing and comforting.

Eighteen of us shuffle in hunched over. We sit shoulder to shoulder on the dirt floor. Our backs are against the curved adobe wall. There is a pit in the middle for the hot lava rocks, which are called abuelitas. The small rounded door is to my right; three people between me and the door—one is my mom next to me with her right leg straight out, not so bendable with the titanium knee replacement; another one is my brother next to the door—should I switch with him? Also Marcello is by the door. I don’t think he ever sits. He squats, kneels, and hovers about as he talks, chants, and does his various tasks. Either way, he is another obstacle between me and the door.

The door is covered with a thick Indian blanket. At first I am so grateful that what separates me from outside air is just a blanket. Five minutes into the ceremony, I hate that fucking blanket. Why is it so thick? It’s probably some fine quality authentic thing woven tight as could be by ancient, experienced hands of a Mexican woman. A thin, cheap manufactured sheet would have been just fine, no?

Hugo passes in large red-hot stones on a shovel. Marcello places them lovingly in the pit on top of the others. Each time he says “A ho!” and we repeat “A ho!” “A ho” signifies request and thanking. Then Hugo lets the blanket drop. I find it impossible to look away from the only light—sparks and a brief smolder of red from the rocks. Marcello begins pouring water or medicinal tea on the rocks and soon that light is gone. I feel smoke and steam in the air but I can’t see anything. The blackness is tangible. I reach a hand out. Put it up to my face. The feeling is heavy but I see nothing.

During the first segment, a stick is passed around. When it comes to you, you can state your intention. I say that I want to burn up self-hatred. Marcello gives a soft reassuring grunt. I think I have chosen well.

Each interval starts with the passing in of the stones and many repeats of “A ho!” Each interval ends when Marcello says we are allowed to yell “Puerta!” to get Hugo to open the door. During the second interval, a bowl of mud is passed around and we get to spread it on our aching parts. I know my brother is covering his foot that is probably fractured from jumping off a rock into the ocean. I think my mom is putting it on her knee but when we go out at half time and rinse the mud off, I see she has slashed the mud across her face like a warrior.

When we crawl back into the steaming hot womb for the last two segments, Marcello’s talk gets more intense. I had read that the Temazcal was a traditional sweat bath used in Mesoamerica (which includes what is now Mexico, Guatemala, and Belize) before the Spanish conquerors came and destroyed all that they could. Marcello adds disturbing detail. He tells of the Spaniards not only destroying sweat lodges because they considered them pagan but also of cutting out the tongues of people who spoke Nahuatl. Marcello apologizes to several of the Spanish guests in the sweat lodge, who in turn apologize on behalf of their ancestors to Marcello and then to Mexico and then to the universe. Anywhere or time else, I would wedge myself into a discussion of the responsibility and blame between generations, but in the Temazcal, guilt, judgment, and shame are left outside the little oven door. You can do things like apologize for ancestors who are essentially complete strangers but with whom you share culture. We carry not only the beautiful shards of our ancient cultures, but the ugly pieces as well. Whether or not it is our duty to apologize, there are few forums to do so without unfair judgment. But the Temazcal seems to be one place to do so.

In Mesoamerica, the primary purpose of the sweat bath was to help heal the sick. People of all sizes and of both genders would go in naked. (Hence the Spaniards’ thought that there was something unholy and probably orgiastic going on in the private, dark, hot huts.) I do wish we could have gone in naked. Not for a family orgy, but because the two silver studs and the zipper on my shorts have become little branding tools.

But being branded by my shorts is worth the possibility of completing my cure. It gives credence to my notion about being sick here in Mexico due to rapid, miraculous detoxification. I later read research by Dr. Horacio Rojas Alba of Instituto Mexicano de Medicinas Tradicionales Tlahuili A.C. He says, “Every liter of sweat lost in the Temazcal is equivalent to a full day’s work by the kidneys!” And you know what that means—toxins oozing out of my body. Through bathing in steam, smoke, vapors from medicinal herbal teas, and essentially your own sweat, you pump up your circulation cycle much in the same you do when you exercise (though minus burning calories, I’m sure) and out with the sweat goes the Dairy Queen, Dunkin’ Donuts, and Steak ‘n’ Shake.

Still after I endure each interval, I actually feel further and further away from my intention. Marcello talks with deep conviction about the devastating effects of war, brutal history, and careless humans on the environment. And my intention begins to pale and shrink. By the end, it seems pitiful and selfish. Who am I to be whining about my one little old body when the whole planet is being scarred, slashed, burned, and beaten every minute?

On the other hand, if I can’t take care of myself, I can’t take care of my family and my planet, right? If I have ugly, toxic thoughts inside, I will act in an ugly, toxic way that will affect the outside badly, right? Like eating at fast food places that have unnatural foods and produce waste that harms the planet.

I don’t know if the circle-of-life talk has me tangled and dizzy or if I am confused because I’m about to pass out. I squeeze my mom’s leg, risking that she might laugh or screech. She gives me a squeeze back. I take shallow breaths and will her to yell “Puerta!” with me. But I know she won’t give up. So neither will I.

That night after a good long shower, I lie in bed trying to read but instead use the corner of the pages to dig mud out from under my fingernails. Am I reborn? In the dark of the Temazcal, I had swiped sweat and mud from my arms and legs and since no one could see me, I flicked the self-hatred muck from my hands toward the abuelitas. Here, you can have this shit. No give backs. Will something be born in its place?

Do I love my body now? Well my skin feels soft. I feel cozy at the core—like all the edges have softened, like there is a perpetual warm hug going on inside me. I feel lighter and like my clothes would float just millimeters from skin like Hugo’s rather than constricting me in a constant reminder of my large lumpiness. I guess I’ll call it love.

In addition to finding a little self-love in the sweat lodge, I leave Mexico with one more important souvenir. During my last yoga class, we are asked to do a variation of vashistasana. As with many yoga poses, I figure I can’t do this one. As everyone does it on the right side, I stay lying on my mat. But when it’s time for the left side, the word perception blossoms in my mind’s eye. I think I can’t do it just like I thought something was wrong with my body at age 10. Nothing was wrong with my body at age 10. And not challenging that notion put me into decades of a negative body-hating cycle. I vow to stop that cycle. So maybe I can do this pose. I try. I do it. It is simple. I never would have known if I hadn’t shut the shame voice up and just tried.

Later that day I make my mom go back to the Shala with me to take this photo. I like it because it is me doing the pose I thought I couldn’t do. And it’s me liking my body.

Me liking my body may be a lie. Or only a temporary truth. But if I keep saying it enough, and if I keep looking at this photo now on my desk, I think I’ll start to believe it. Either way, it’s critical that my kids hear their mother worship an acceptable, sometimes exceptional, body…like mine…like theirs. 

You can read more of Dr. Alba’s research on tlahui.com.