Peru Was Not the Pilgrimage I Expected

When people hear that you are going to Peru, especially to sacred places like Lake Titicaca, the Sacred Valley, and Machu Picchu, there is often this immediate assumption that the experience will be beautiful, expansive, magical, and life-changing.

And yes, Peru was all of those things.

But not in the soft, glowing, Instagram-worthy way people often imagine.

Peru did not simply open my heart.

Peru cracked me open. 

In fact, it smacked me around.

It brought me face-to-face with my body, my nervous system, my shadow, my resistance, my need for control, my discomfort with receiving help, and the deep humility of realizing that sometimes the most sacred thing we can do is stop fighting what is happening.

This trip asked me to surrender in ways I was not prepared for.

It asked me to purge.

Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.

And eventually, I understood that this was not happening to me.

It was happening for me.

When the Body Becomes the Teacher

Very early in the trip, my body began to struggle.

Altitude sickness hit me hard. My nervous system was not regulated. My body was not responding the way I wanted it to. I felt physically ill, emotionally raw, and deeply uncomfortable inside of myself.

For someone who is used to being independent, capable, and self-reliant, this was humbling.

I had to accept that my body was not okay.

I had to accept that I could not simply push through.

I had to accept that needing help did not make me weak.

And that was one of the first initiations.

Because asking for help is not easy for me.

It is not natural for me to need someone. It is not comfortable for me to be witnessed when I am unwell. It is not easy for me to surrender control, especially in a foreign country, surrounded by people who do not know me, do not understand my body, and do not understand the way I process things.

And while help was offered, it was not always help in the way I needed it.

That, too, became part of the lesson.

I had to be vocal. I had to be clear. I had to advocate for myself with complete strangers. I had to speak from a place inside me that said, I know what I need, and I am allowed to say no to what does not feel right for me.

That alone was a purge.

A purging of politeness.

A purging of over-explaining.

A purging of apologizing for being sick.

A purging of abandoning myself so that other people would feel more comfortable.

The Medicine I Ignored

One of the harder truths I had to face was that I went against my own body.

I do not usually take medication. My body, my work, and my life are very rooted in listening to what is natural, intuitive, and aligned. But in this case, I chose to take Diamox for altitude sickness.

And my body did not respond well.

Looking back, I know I did not listen to myself.

I overrode my own knowing.

I chose the thing that felt practical instead of the thing that felt aligned. I ignored the whisper in my body that said there may be another way.

In Peru, coca leaves are sacred medicine. They are chewed, brewed into tea, offered, shared, and respected. They have been used traditionally for altitude, digestion, energy, circulation, and connection to the land itself.

And I could feel, deeply, that this was the way my body wanted to be supported.

But I did not listen soon enough.

Then came food poisoning.

Another purge.

Another stripping away.

Another moment where my body forced me to stop, empty, release, and surrender.

At first, it felt cruel. It felt unfair. It felt like my entire trip was falling apart.

But later, I began to understand.

My body was not betraying me.

My body was participating in the ceremony.

It was removing what could not come with me into the next part of the journey.

Lake Titicaca and the Sacral Release

Lake Titicaca was one of the most emotional parts of the trip for me.

Spiritually, Lake Titicaca is often known as the sacral chakra of the Earth, connected to the dragon lines, the womb waters, creation, emotion, birth, release, and deep ancestral memory.

And I felt that.

I felt it in my body.

I felt it in my emotions.

I felt it in the way everything inside me seemed to rise to the surface.

One of the messages that kept being repeated by the guides in that area was:

Whatever you need to let go of, leave it here.

And I did.

I left it there.

I left behind apologizing for being sick.

I left behind trying to be someone I am not. For my closest friend, this may be hard to believe.

I left behind the version of me that feels she has to be strong all the time.

I left behind the need to prove that I could do everything.

I left behind the attachment to material comfort.

I left behind parts of myself that were no longer serving me.

And I let the waters take them.

The Humility of Simplicity

One of the most profound parts of being at Lake Titicaca was witnessing the people who live on and around the lake.

The Uros people live on floating islands made of totora reeds, a way of life that carries both ancient resilience and daily devotion. And beyond the floating islands, there are also the island communities — families living simply, intentionally, and in deep relationship with the rhythms of the land, the water, the animals, and the seasons.

They work for everything.

Their food. Their animals. Their homes. Their clothing. Their blankets. Their warmth. Their survival.

And it was winter there.

There was no excess. No convenience in the way we understand convenience. No endless accumulation of things.

There was resourcefulness. Community. Skill. Tradition. Survival. Devotion.

It made me reflect on how much we think we need.

How much we consume.

How much we chase.

How much we mistake comfort for safety.

And how far many of us have moved away from our own ability to be self-sufficient, connected, and in relationship with the Earth.

As most of you know, I am a very independent person.

But independence and control are not the same thing.

And Peru showed me that.

It showed me that I can be independent and still need help.

I can be strong and still be sick.

I can be capable and still surrender.

I can be powerful and still be humbled.

The Inca Trail and the Story of Failure

One of the hardest decisions I had to make was not doing the Inca Trail.

For those who may not know, the Inca Trail is a four-day hiking experience through the mountains, where you sleep along the trail with the support of porters and guides, eventually arriving at Machu Picchu.

This was something I thought I had come to Peru to do.

And then I had to choose not to do it.

At first, I saw that as failure.

I felt like I had failed myself.

I felt like I had failed the people who were watching my journey.

I felt like I had come all this way and somehow fallen short of the experience I was supposed to have.

But then I remembered something important.

We are meaning-making machines.

We take moments and immediately turn them into stories.

And the story I was telling myself was, I failed.

But that was not the truth.

The truth was, I listened to my body.

The truth was, I honoured the wisdom of my nervous system.

The truth was, I chose not to force an experience that my body was clearly telling me it could not handle at that time.

That was not failure.

That was growth.

That was maturity.

That was embodiment.

That was the lesson.

Listening to the Land

Once I began to recover, something shifted.

I was able to ground more deeply into the places I had arrived in. Be PRESENT!

Ollantaytambo held me in a way I did not expect.

Aguas Calientes, the small town just outside of Machu Picchu, also had its own pulse, its own mystery, its own message.

And then there was Machu Picchu.

By the time I arrived there, I was not the same person who had arrived in Peru.

I was softer.

More emptied out.

More humbled.

More willing to listen.

Machu Picchu is powerful, but not in the way people often describe it.

It is not just a site to visit.

It is alive.

It is guarded.

It is ancient.

It is not something you simply walk through and consume.

And yet, because of how tourism operates now, you are moved through quickly. There is a pace. A structure. A sense that you must keep going.

But the land speaks underneath all of that.

And the message I received very clearly was this:

The gods, the deities, the spirits — they do not play there during the day when everyone is around.

They come out at night.

There was also a portion of Machu Picchu that is no longer available to walk through, roped off due to what they say are safety concerns. But when I looked at it, I felt something different.

It almost looked like a mirage.

Like a portal.

Like something was being hidden in plain sight.

Something sacred.

Something protected.

Something not meant for everyone.

Not Everything Sacred Is Meant to Be Touched

Another message came through clearly, not only from the land, but also through the people and guides.

Machu Picchu will not be open to the public forever.

At least, that is what I felt.

There was a strong sense that the land is tired.

That it has given so much.

That it has been walked on, photographed, consumed, interpreted, and taken from.

And that one day, it may need to close.

Not as punishment.

But as protection.

Because sacred places need to heal too.

We often speak about our own healing as if we are the only ones carrying wounds.

But Mother Gaia carries wounds.

Pachamama carries wounds.

The land carries memory.

The temples carry trauma.

The mountains carry grief.

The waters carry what we leave behind.

And maybe part of pilgrimage is not just what we receive from the land, but what we are willing to give back through reverence, humility, and restraint.

What I Left Behind

Peru was not the trip I expected.

It was not easy.

It was not comfortable.

It was not the perfectly glowing spiritual experience people may have imagined it to be.

It was messy.

It was emotional.

It was humbling.

It was inconvenient.

It was sacred.

It brought me into my shadow and asked me to stop pretending I could control the ceremony.

Because that is what it was.

A ceremony.

One I did not plan.

One I did not fully understand while I was inside of it.

But one that knew exactly what it was doing.

I left things in Peru.

I left behind old versions of myself.

I left behind the need to apologize for having a body.

I left behind the belief that needing rest means I am failing.

I left behind the attachment to completing something just because I said I would.

I left behind the performance of strength.

I left behind the pressure to make a sacred journey look beautiful for other people.

And in return, Peru gave me something else.

A deeper relationship with surrender.

A deeper respect for the body.

A deeper understanding of simplicity.

A deeper reverence for the land.

And a reminder that healing does not always look like rising.

Sometimes healing looks like breaking down.

Sometimes it looks like vomiting, crying, shaking, sleeping, saying no, asking for help, changing the plan, and letting the old story die.

Sometimes the most sacred thing you can do is admit:

I cannot carry this anymore.

And then leave it behind.

Peru was not easy.

But it was honest.

And maybe that is what made it holy in it’s own way.

Michelle Palma

Purple Moon Healing Group