My First Ayahuasca Experience: When the Medicine Doesn’t Come the Way You Expect

The calling to Ayahuasca was not sudden. It lived quietly in the back of my mind for decades. As a child, I was already enchanted by the Amazon. I remember even dreaming about the rainforest at night. I read countless books and watched documentaries, imagined myself becoming a researcher of marmosets, and felt the rainforest as a kind of faraway home, a place of special connection.

Later, during my anthropology studies, the call grew stronger. I fell in love with courses on consciousness research, altered states, and ethnobotany — those were my favorite subjects. Alongside the academic curiosity was also a deep connection to South America, especially Brazil. I immersed myself in the spiritual traditions of Brazil, researching Umbanda (an Afro-Brazilian religion) and Spiritism for my PhD. The thread of the Amazon, Brazil, and shamanic traditions was woven through my life long before I sat with the sacred medicine.

Five years ago, the subtle calling became clear. I came across APL Journeys, an Ayahuasca retreat provider that works together with Peruvian Shipibo maestros. I appreciated their approach of humble learning rather than appropriation — honoring the medicine men and women as masters and treating their wisdom with respect and humbleness.

The decision happened in minutes. My husband and his friend were curious about Ayahuasca, I sent them the website, and as soon as they said “We’re interested,” I hung up the phone and clicked Reserve. Then I called again and said, “It’s booked!” They still tease me about that moment. In hindsight, I laugh too — I thought I knew what I was signing up for. Little did I know…

I received my first cup and returned to my place buzzing with anticipation. We were invited to cheer “Salute” and drink it all. The candles were blown out, and for everyone else, it seemed the journey began. My neighbor began to cry even as he held the cup in his hand. The room settled into silence. At one point I heard my husband talking somewhere in the dark, and a thought crossed my mind: He’s usually the guy who likes to be in the driver’s seat. If he’s going through the same thing, then he’s just as much in trouble as me. I couldn’t help but laugh inside myself at that realization. For me, it felt like standing on a threshold with the door cracked open. Around me, the room seemed to plunge into otherworldly dimensions. People shifted, the air grew thick, and I noticed dark shapes moving in the space. My body… confused. My mind… afraid of freaking out. I remembered how, as a child, I sometimes heard noises and steps in the darkness of the night — and that same unease crept back in.

All this stirred different parts of me into action. The hyper-vigilant one perked up, scanning every flicker in my body. Another part worried: “Nothing’s happening, when will I journey?!” Yet another carried expectations of fractals and visions. All the while I was trying to relax, focus on my breath, and hold my intention to meet the medicine.

Meanwhile, the shaman began to sing beautiful icaros – his medicine songs. I noticed how they seemed to affect me, as if the medicine in me responded to the songs of the maestro. Lights in different colors flickered in front of my eyes, feeding a growing unease in my mind and in my stomach. At some point the sounds became repetitive and I could only hear “Naina, naina, naina, naina…” The swirling fractals and the growing nausea in my body seemed to go hand in hand. Desperately, I whispered a mantra to myself: “I’m myself, I’m myself, I’m myself.”

After some time, I remembered to ask for tobacco — the strong liquid, tobacco mixed with water, that you inhale through your nose. The sharp burn shot straight into my head. Tobacco, in its raw intensity, grounded me. I kind of returned to my body. My mind felt clearer and I could finally sense the floor beneath me again.

As the night went on and the icaros continued, the next wave arrived — patterns and lights spinning in front of me, the experience turning out of control. I fought the waves, resisted the stirrings, and eventually purged. Relief. A little more space. Some people went for their next cup, but for me there was no way — enough was already moving inside.

As the night went on, slowly a calmness began to settle in. In that quieter space, I felt the presence of the medicine approaching. Not as a vision, but as a felt sense, a gentle nearness. Words appeared in my mind as if written on a blank page: “We know each other. We have been together before.” Our dialogue felt soft, empowering, and intimate, though it seemed to arise from within me. And then came a line that pierced me: “There is nothing I can teach you.” I was left with a mix of surprise and disappointment. Part of me longed for wild journeys, for ancestors to appear, for grand visions. Instead I felt a door closed.

At the time, I couldn’t understand. I felt both calm and left out, as if the medicine hadn’t received me. Only much later did I realize that I wasn’t ready to truly learn — not ready to surrender and allow myself to be guided. That deeper trust would take more time.

When the ceremony closed and we returned to our rooms, I felt disappointed, but finally let down my guard. It’s over now, I thought. No more surprises.

And that’s when it truly began … later that very night, as I lay in bed, I heard the maestro’s chakapa — the soft rattling of bundled leaves — and his icaros. My protectors were exhausted; they laid down their weapons. A soft presence approached — the medicine arrived — and my journey opened. I felt the nearness of my father, my stepdad (who had passed the year before), and my brother. Their support and love moved through me. Parts of me that had felt alone, isolated, not understood for most of my life softened. The stance of “Leave me alone, I’ll handle this” shifted into “I’m held. I am supported. I can trust.”

Little did I know that my inner stance of “I got this, I don’t need your support” also meant I was blocking myself from receiving.

Receiving what?

Love. Care. Support.

All that the medicine offers.

The deep sense of being held and knowing everything will be fine. It took me years to unfold that message fully and to see how my fears and the armor of my protectors had blocked out such beautiful experiences that were ahead of me — also with the medicine.

Ayahuasca is not only a guide, but a companion — along with the spirit of Tobacco, Sananga, and many others who walk beside us. Plant spirits remind us, reconnect us to our divinity, to the Great Spirit… if we let them in and allow their gentle guidance to bring us home.

These plant medicines are often called psychedelics, from the Greek psyche (mind/soul) and deloun (to reveal) — literally “mind-manifesting.” They expand consciousness and perception. Yet, to me, they are not simply tools of the mind; they open us to the sacred. This is why I resonate more with the word entheogenic. From the Greek entheos (“filled with the divine, inspired, in God”) and genesthai (“to generate”), it literally means “generating the divine within.” In traditional, indigenous, and ceremonial ways, these plant medicines restore connection, invite healing, and remind us of the Spirit that moves through all things.

Today, it is different. She carries me, she holds me, she dances me — and I allow it. I allow Ayahuasca… and Spirit itself, to guide me. And in that surrender, I relax into the flow of it all.

Looking back, I can see how my first Ayahuasca ceremony experience was a dance between my parts and the medicine. My protectors were active almost all night long — controlling, scanning, resisting — and in many ways they blocked me from receiving what was offered. Only when they grew tired did space open for other, more tender places in me to be touched. In IFS language, these are the exiles: the young, vulnerable parts that carry our deepest wounds and longings. They are the ones who eventually received the healing, when the protectors finally stepped aside.

IFS – Internal Family Systems Therapy, developed by Richard Schwartz, sees our inner world as a kind of family. Some parts are protectors, some are exiles, and at the center there is something more: Self. Self is calm, compassionate, and deeply connected — a presence that feels both personal and larger than us. In my experience, the very presence of Ayahuasca seems to resonate with Self, like a mirror or doorway into that essence. You could call it soul, spirit, or simply our true nature.

In non-ordinary states, protectors may tighten their grip — trying to control, analyze, compare, fight, or numb. But with trust and safety, they can soften and let Self lead. And when Self leads, the ceremony opens. This inner stance can profoundly shape the whole journey.

Here’s what I wish someone had told me:

• Meet them ahead of time. Take a little time to journal or reflect: which protectors might be present as you step into an Ayahuasca ceremony? They may show up as the vigilant one, the doubter, the one who needs control, the curious one, or the one who uses humor to ease tension. Ask them gently: “What are you concerned about? What would help you feel more at ease?”

• Offer them lighter roles. Protectors don’t need to step aside — they just need ways of helping that don’t block the Ayahuasca experience. You might invite them: “You can keep an eye on my breath, or hold onto the touchstone, or jot down impressions for me to remember later. And I will be the one guiding tonight.”

• Rehearse the edges. If you’re worried about purging, or about seeing something intense, imagine your protectors being the ones who feel it. Picture them encountering the discomfort or fear, and then gently say to them: “I see you. What do you need me to know about all this? What are you afraid of?” Often, even imagining these moments ahead of time helps protectors relax and makes the unknown less overwhelming.

• Lean on anchors. Choose a few simple practices to ground you — a steady breath pattern, a touchstone in your pocket, a mantra such as “I am here. I am myself.” Practicing them beforehand helps your body and protectors recognize them when it matters.

• Remember support is here. Remind your protectors: “We’re not doing this alone. The facilitators and guardians will be present. And I can always open my eyes, breathe, and ask for help.”

Looking back, it still makes me smile how much my protectors were afraid and tried to control the uncontrollable. And the medicine? She simply waited with patience. When they finally laid down their arms, the healing came rushing in.

Ayahuasca did not come the way I expected. There were no fireworks or grand revelations, but something more intimate — a felt sense I had longed for: love, care, support, and the feeling of being carried.

The realization that my own stance of “I got this” was keeping me from receiving the very things I desired most did not arrive all at once. Since then, it has been a process of deepening — allowing more, softening more, receiving more.

Five years and many ceremonies later, I see that this first night was the beginning of a long apprenticeship. Each cup since then has taught me again that the medicine connects us back to Self — the soul, the essence in us that knows how to trust. The more my protectors relax, the more space opens for healing, guidance, and a different way of being in life.

So can you block out Ayahuasca? Yes, for a time. But if you let your protectors rest, you may discover, as I did, that the medicine is not only something you drink, but something — or someone — that holds you, carries you, and patiently teaches you how to surrender into the flow of it all.