This morning, I made my way to Sihó, an Indigenous women’s centre built by women, for women. A place rooted in education, healing, and community. They work together to bring awareness around violence against women, sexual health, birth, the body, and the sacredness of feminine knowledge that for so long was silenced or ignored. They have been working hard for the last 28 years!!

There was a softness to the space, but also strength. The kind of strength that does not need to announce itself.

A large canvas placed on the floor in the centre of the room displaying the Maya calendar respecting the cardinal points, and someone explained that today was connected to union, to the web, to interconnectedness. K’at. La telaraña. The invisible threads binding people, energy, memory, ancestors, and place together.

The theme seemed to follow me everywhere.

Earlier, John had spoken to me about the churches of Mérida and how they form an interconnected network across the city. Some built directly over ancient Maya sites, layered one on top of another like history trying to erase itself while simultaneously refusing to disappear. Stories hidden inside stone. Threads woven through centuries. A network of tunnels which may have served as an escape route or to guard treasures.

At Sihó, they prepared an ofrenda using the four cardinal points. Flowers. Fruit. Feathers. Copal smoke rising into the thick humid air. Everything intentional. Everything symbolic.

Then came the limpia. The egg. The Maya ritual chant - probably what I find the most healing

The smoke moved around my body slowly, deliberately, as though searching for something lodged deep beneath the surface. At first, I simply relaxed into it, but then I began to feel something shifting. A warmth. An effervescence moving downward through me until it concentrated intensely in the soles of my feet.

Hot. Almost vibrating.

Later, during the massage, it felt as though something was continuing to release itself from my body.

Afterward, she mentioned that she had used salt on one side of me because that part of my body carried more heat. I asked her which side.

“The right,” she answered.

Immediately, my mind returned to 2021. The side affected during my attack. The side that had partially paralyzed.

I went quiet after that.

Not because I fully understood it, but because something inside me recognized it before my mind could explain it.

The conversations with John continued throughout the day with the same strange fluidity they had from the moment we met. We spoke about brujería, fear, courage, spirituality, the things people sense but rarely say aloud. He is one of those rare people whose mind moves deeply and freely at the same time. The kind of person where conversation does not feel forced—it simply flows.

At one point on the drive toward Celestún, John pointed toward blue arrows marking the route to a cenote. Even the roads here seem to hide portals beneath ordinary landscapes.

Without much discussion, we let the wind guide us and shifted course toward the property where the cenote was hidden.

When we arrived, someone directed us farther up the land where a few life jackets hung waiting beneath a simple shelter. The owner greeted us casually, as though what existed beneath his property was perfectly ordinary.

“Solo sigan la cuerda,” he said as he switched on the lights for us.

Just follow the rope.

The entrance itself was almost unsettling in its simplicity. A dark opening in the earth. A wound in the limestone.

Stone steps had been carved directly into the rock, eventually giving way to a wooden ladder planted firmly into the damp sand and stone below. The deeper we descended, the cooler the air became. Humidity wrapped around the skin like breath.

Then suddenly, the cavern opened.

Bats darted overhead in unpredictable spirals while blind fish moved silently through the water beneath us. Everything felt ancient. Suspended in time. We floated there quietly, completely in awe of what existed hidden beneath the surface of the Yucatán.

And all of this—these underground rivers, caves, and cenotes—exists because of catastrophe.

Millions of years ago, a massive meteorite struck the Yucatán peninsula near what is now Chicxulub. The impact was so enormous that scientists believe it contributed to the extinction of the dinosaurs and permanently altered life on Earth. But beneath the peninsula, the collision fractured the limestone, creating vast underground cave systems and freshwater reservoirs that would eventually become the cenotes scattered throughout the region.

For centuries, many remained hidden.

Some are still being discovered today.

Floating there in silence, deep beneath the earth, it was impossible not to think about impact. How destruction can reshape landscapes completely. How something violent can crack the surface open and unintentionally create hidden places of beauty, water, life, and refuge.

The Yucatán carries that memory underground and I could feel its energy…

Later, I dined at Huniik, where the experience felt less like dinner and more like ritual. The restaurant is built to represent a cenote, with golden stone walls and blue ceramic tiles for the floor, everything was intentional they only serve a tasting menu, today there were 12 courses

One dish, inspired by the Earth, featured recado negro, a delicate cone filled with corn, and a sauce so rich and layered it seemed impossible to fully understand in a single bite. A tuna flauta arrived next—soft, delicate, almost melting into the plate. Hoja Santa instead of tortilla - it was Devine. At one point, part of the atún filling slipped into the sauce and before I could even react, the waiter appeared beside me holding a spoon as though he had read my thoughts.

A margarita with miso brought this unexpected umami depth that somehow worked perfectly in the heat.

Between each course, the embroidered napkins were flipped over to reveal the theme of the next dish. Quietly theatrical. Intentional. Storytelling through fabric, food, smoke, and memory.