My Ayahuasca Journey: Reclaiming My Inner Compass

Note: At Yondera, we share stories to spark thought and conversation. This is a personal experience and doesn’t necessarily represent the views of Yondera.

Foreword by Jack Lawrence

I wanted to share this piece written by my friend Carmen, about her recent ayahuasca retreat, because it captures something that’s hard to put into words, what it feels like to confront yourself honestly and come out the other side with a clearer sense of who you are.

Regardless of your views on ayahuasca or plant medicines, this isn’t really about the ceremony itself. It’s about what happens when someone slows down enough to listen to themselves, to feel what’s been buried, and to reconnect with something deeper.

What struck me most about this piece was how grounded it is.

There’s no performance in it, no attempt to impress, just a real account of fear, surrender, and ultimately, self-acceptance.

If you read it with an open mind, there’s something in here most people can relate to.

Carmen's Story

Leading up to the ceremony, I was nervous. My body felt it. I was shaking as I lit the candle and set my intention. Fear crept in, could I handle it, would I be okay, was I ready? The unknown felt loud. I even caught myself thinking, Do I really need the whole dose? Maybe just a little is enough…

But deep down, I knew. I was ready. I had felt the calling for over a year and had prepared mentally and physically. So when I asked Lonnie, my session guide, if I needed to finish it all, he replied, in his straightforward Dutch manner, “You have to finish it.” And so I did.

Having Lonnie there, a familiar face, someone I trusted, made everything feel more grounded. Before lying down, I read the letter I had written to myself, and then the one I wrote to Mother Ayahuasca. My intention was clear: I reclaim my inner compass. I invite healing into the space where I have doubted my power. I trust the medicine to guide me home.

At first, I waited for visuals. Would I see flying elephants or faces whispering cosmic truths? But that wasn’t my path. This experience was rooted in feeling, deep, raw, embodied feeling. Every now and then, something visual would flicker. A hanging lamp briefly morphed into a set of smiling teeth,  strange, but comforting. Later, staring into a small glass ball I use in meditation, I saw a caterpillar emerging. I was told it symbolised transformation, and it made sense. I felt like I was at a standstill in life, yet something in me knew change was coming. A quiet reminder that transformation often begins in stillness.

As the night unfolded, what surfaced was emotion. Truth. Sensation. When I opened myself to the places where I had doubted myself and given my power away, what met me was love, warm, quiet, soul-soothing. A love I had forgotten how to feel for myself. A love that didn’t need to be earned, only remembered. That’s what this journey gave me: connection, not just with others, but with myself.

At one point, I looked across the room and saw Lonnie. He was glowing, not just physically, but energetically. And I thought, that’s all any of us need: connection. Everything around me began to feel hazy, like I was suspended between this world and another. My thinking mind softened, and my everyday life felt distant, almost dreamlike. The noise, the roles, the busyness, all of it faded. At times, I couldn’t even remember my intention. It felt like it had been handed over to something deeper. So I surrendered.

From that place, I whispered, “Mother Ayahuasca, show me your love.” And she did. Not through visuals, but through feeling. A wave of warmth washed over me, ancient, wise, and full, wrapping around me like I was being held by something timeless. It asked nothing of me. It didn’t need proof or perfection. Just remembrance.

Around me, others were having intense experiences, but the practice was to stay inward. To stay grounded. To return to myself no matter what was happening externally. A lesson not just for the ceremony, but for life. At one point, Lonnie handed me a green rubber band and said, “Use it to let the energy out.” That small moment became an anchor, something simple, but exactly what I needed.

Later, I drifted into a lucid, dreamlike state. It felt like it was just me and the medicine. Lonnie took my hand and said, “Everyone is losing their shit… but you… you’re doing well.” And I replied, “I am doing well.” Saying it out loud felt powerful, a quiet reclaiming of my strength. I told him, “I saw your soul.” He smiled and asked, “You saw my soul?” I laughed slightly and said, “Maybe not your soul… but your light.” Then I added, “I just feel so much love and connection.” And he said something that cracked something open in me: “You deserve that.”

Because I did. Not just in ceremony, but in life. That moment wasn’t just passing, it was a reconnection to a truth I had buried beneath people-pleasing, self-abandonment, and tying my worth to others. In that stillness, something became clear: connection exists beyond worthiness. It doesn’t need to be earned.

At one point, he gave me a stuffed teddy dog, and I curled up with it like a child. It gave me something I didn’t realise I needed, a sense of being held, safe, comforted. It felt like the universe tucked me in. Soon after, I locked eyes with the man next to me. We didn’t speak, we just reached out and held hands. I told him, “You are enough. You matter.” Later, he said he needed to hear those exact words. And that’s when it landed, I needed to hear them too. That was the compass I had come to reclaim.

Toward the end, I told Rob, the shaman leading the session, “You are such a beautiful person.” He smiled and replied, “So are you.”

The love I had been giving out came right back to me, and in that reflection, I saw myself more clearly. I found myself thinking about my mum. For the first time, I wondered if she had been longing for connection too, not through words or being “taken care of,” but through being seen and felt. It softened something in me. It made me want to love differently. To listen more. To control less.

The ceremony wasn’t chaotic. It was gentle. Wise. Exactly what I needed. When the tears came, they were quiet, a steady, sacred release. Later, deep exhales moved through me, unforced, like something within me was finally letting go.

I didn’t walk away feeling like someone new. I walked away feeling like someone who had returned to my body, my truth, my light, and a deep, steady love that had been there all along.

If I had to put it simply, I came in looking for direction. I left remembering my worth. And that is the purest compass there is.

This journey wasn’t about wild visions or dramatic revelations. It was about remembering. About coming home to the quiet, steady truth: I am enough. I matter. I am already whole.

And now, the work is in the integration. Checking in with my body before my calendar. Returning to my breath when things feel overwhelming. Creating small rituals that make me feel safe and grounded. Listening more, speaking less, and staying present. Trusting that the medicine is still working. Choosing connection over perfection.

Because connection isn’t something we chase. It’s something we return to.

Photography by Carmen Ogle