The first thing I remember is the smell. Acrid, sour, almost like old metal mixed with bile. My stomach twisted as I knelt over the bucket, trying desperately to hold myself together. Everyone had told me ayahuasca would show me light, transcendence, cosmic visions of infinite love. What I got was a mouthful of half-digested dinner, hot and bitter, forcing its way out of me in violent heaves. The purge ripped through my body with a force that felt both humiliating and strangely holy.
For years, I had carried this quiet hope that if I was “good enough,” “calm enough,” or “small enough,” then maybe I’d finally feel worthy of the mystical breakthroughs everyone else seemed to talk about. But instead, ayahuasca shoved me headfirst into the exact opposite. It didn’t give me blissful silence—it gave me raw chaos. It didn’t soothe me—it shook me until everything I’d tried to hold down came spilling out. And yet, in the middle of all that mess, I felt something sacred. Something in me was breaking free.
The thing about ayahuasca that no one warns you about is how primal it feels. There’s no pretending. The body takes over. I wasn’t calmly meditating; I was a wild, sweaty, sobbing creature making noises I didn’t even know I had inside me. And when I finally collapsed against the mat, shaking and tear-streaked, I realized that what I thought was shame had actually been the doorway. The purge wasn’t my failure. It was my initiation.
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I Used To Shrink Myself Until I Was Practically Invisible
Before this ceremony, I had made a career out of staying small. Not just physically—though yes, I was the person always trying not to take up too much space on the subway or apologizing when someone brushed against me—but emotionally, too. I swallowed my opinions, kept my needs hidden, and tried to be the kind of person who didn’t disturb the peace. My voice was quiet, my body folded in on itself, my presence almost ghostlike. Being small felt like survival.
So when the plant medicine started building in my stomach, I fought it. I clenched my jaw, crossed my arms, and tried to keep everything contained. I wanted to be the polite participant, the one who didn’t make a scene, who didn’t inconvenience anyone else with my mess. But ayahuasca doesn’t care about your manners. The pressure grew until it was unbearable, and suddenly my body betrayed me. My mouth opened, my throat convulsed, and out it came—loud, violent, unstoppable.
For a split second, shame burned me alive. I was sure the room hated me. That I was disgusting. That I had failed. But as the sounds echoed out of me, something miraculous happened: I realized I was still here. I didn’t die of humiliation. The world didn’t collapse because I was messy. In fact, I felt lighter, freer, almost… proud. For once in my life, I had taken up space, made noise, been unapologetically visible—and I survived. That moment cracked something wide open in me.
Why We’ve Been Trained To Believe Smallness Equals Worthiness
Here’s the thing I had to wrestle with afterward: why did I believe silence and smallness were safer than letting myself be fully alive? A lot of it comes down to cultural conditioning. For women, sensitive people, or anyone raised in environments where “don’t make a fuss” was drilled into us, being small feels like the ticket to acceptance. We get rewarded for being quiet, polite, tidy, and self-contained. Taking up too much space? That’s labeled selfish, dramatic, or “too much.”
Ayahuasca doesn’t operate on those rules. It doesn’t give a damn about your cultural conditioning. It pulls the truth out of you, and that truth is often messy, loud, and uncomfortable. My purge wasn’t just about physical release—it was about expelling years of internalized shame. It was my body saying, “Enough. You don’t have to be tiny anymore.”
The irony is that the very thing I feared—being seen, being messy, being too much—was the thing that actually liberated me. And it made me wonder: what would change if we stopped apologizing for existing? What if the thing we’re most afraid of revealing is actually the medicine we—and the people around us—need most?
🍄Discover my guide on the five profound spiritual lessons I learned while exploring ayahuasca and how they can inspire your own journey
The Body Knows Things Your Brain Is Too Scared To Admit
One of the biggest lessons ayahuasca taught me that night was that my body is a teacher. My mind wanted to strategize, control, and analyze. But the purge didn’t come from thought. It came from surrender. My body led, and I had no choice but to follow.
At first, that was terrifying. I’ve spent most of my life trying to override my body—dieting, silencing emotions, suppressing desires—because I thought being in control was the only way to be safe. But when I finally let my body speak, even through something as unglamorous as vomit, I realized it had wisdom my mind could never touch. The release wasn’t intellectual. It was cellular. My whole nervous system shifted.
That kind of surrender changes you. You start to see that the body isn’t your enemy. It’s the doorway. And sometimes that doorway opens through sweat, tears, trembling, or the kind of guttural sounds you’d never make in polite company. It’s terrifying, yes, but it’s also the truest kind of liberation.
Maybe The Mess Was The Medicine All Along
We live in a culture that loves neatness. Cry quietly, smile politely, don’t let anyone see you fall apart. But ayahuasca threw me into the opposite: ugly crying, shaking so hard my teeth rattled, and purging until I thought I had nothing left. And for the first time, I didn’t see that mess as weakness. I saw it as medicine.
The truth is, what looks messy on the outside is often the nervous system finally releasing what it’s been holding onto for years. Trauma-informed work calls this “completing the stress cycle.” The shaking, crying, and yes, vomiting, aren’t signs of failure—they’re signs of healing. Ayahuasca just pushes you to stop resisting it.
What if we stopped treating our mess as shameful and started seeing it as sacred? What if trembling or weeping in public wasn’t embarrassing, but holy? That shift alone feels revolutionary.
The Safety Of Smallness Was Actually A Cage
For most of my life, safety meant shrinking. If I didn’t make waves, I couldn’t be rejected. If I kept my head down, maybe no one would criticize me. But ayahuasca flipped that script. Lying there, sweaty and emptied out, I realized that real safety wasn’t in being small. Real safety was in knowing I could take up space and still be loved.
The first time I laughed after the purge, it startled me. The laughter felt big, free, like thunder rolling through my chest. I didn’t care if it was too loud. I felt safe in my own bigness. That was new. That was everything.
Now, when I catch myself shrinking again, I remind myself: safety is not silence. Safety is space. And I deserve all the space I need.
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Shame Was The Old Story—And I’m Not Living It Anymore
The purge didn’t just expel bile. It expelled an old script I’d been reciting since childhood: “I must be small to be loved.” That belief had run my life, guiding every choice, every relationship, every silence. And in that sweaty, messy moment, it dissolved.
Taking up space is not about arrogance. It’s about rewriting that script. It’s about claiming love and belonging without apology. When I take up space now—whether with my voice, my art, or even just my presence—I’m declaring that the old story is over.
And the truth is, the people who love you don’t need you to shrink. They need you whole, loud, alive. They need you as you.
Living The Lesson Outside The Ceremony Was The Hardest Part
It would be easy if the lesson ended there, wrapped up neatly in the ceremony. But the real challenge came after. Integration. Could I actually live this? Could I speak up in a meeting, set a boundary with someone I loved, walk into a room without apologizing for existing?
At first, it felt impossible. But little by little, I practiced. I said “no” when I meant no. I stopped laughing at jokes that weren’t funny. I let myself dance bigger, sing louder, take longer pauses before answering questions. And each time I took up space, I felt that same spark of survival, that same freedom that had started in the purge.
Living the lesson isn’t glamorous. It’s awkward, slow, and sometimes exhausting. But every time I catch myself expanding instead of shrinking, I know I’m honoring the medicine.
What Ayahuasca Taught Me, Microdosing Helped Me Practice
Here’s something else I learned: high-dose ayahuasca cracks you wide open, but microdosing is what helps you practice the lesson in daily life. It’s one thing to roar in a ceremony at 2 a.m. in the jungle. It’s another to speak up in a staff meeting or tell your partner what you really need.
Microdosing psilocybin became my way of keeping the door cracked open. A small dose would remind me of that night, the way my body had led me, the way space had felt safe. It gave me courage to show up fully in little ways: to take time for myself, to breathe deeply before answering, to say no without over-explaining.
Integration is where the real healing happens. Every small act—writing in my journal, moving my body without self-judgment, even just taking up a little extra room on the couch—became a ritual of reclaiming space.
I No Longer Hide—And Neither Should You
The night I purged, I thought I was dying of shame. Instead, I was being reborn. The vomit, the shaking, the tears—they were all part of learning to take up space. Now, when I stand taller, speak louder, or let myself be fully seen, I remember that bucket and that moment. And I smile.
So here’s my dare for you: today, take up just a little more space. Breathe deeper. Speak a little louder. Claim your chair, your voice, your presence without apology. Watch what happens when you stop shrinking.
Taking up space isn’t selfish. It’s sacred. And it’s the only way we can truly live.
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Ready To Take Up Space In Your Own Life? Magic Mush Canada Has Your Back
At the heart of this story, the lesson was never really about vomit—it was about freedom. Ayahuasca forced me to confront the places where I had been shrinking, silencing myself, and living smaller than I truly was. What looked like a messy, uncomfortable purge turned out to be the exact medicine I needed. By letting my body release what it had been holding, I learned that it’s not just okay to take up space—it’s sacred. That shift rippled through everything: my voice, my relationships, and the way I carry myself in the world.
This journey showed me how deeply ingrained our fear of being “too much” really is, and how healing begins when we finally stop apologizing for existing. From ayahuasca ceremonies to the little choices we make every day—like speaking our truth, saying no, or claiming time for ourselves—the message is the same: you don’t have to stay small to be loved. You were made to be here, to take up space, and to live without shame.
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