The Cost of Becoming: Ayahuasca, Poverty, and the Long Road to Healing

I had some complicated emotions after the ayahuasca retreat.

Let me start by saying—I don’t regret going. I’m glad I went. I believe it happened exactly the way it was meant to.

But when I came home, something didn’t sit right. I was feeling a swirl of emotions I couldn’t name. I had just spent two weeks in Pucallpa, Peru, sitting in ceremony, receiving beautiful icaros from gifted Shipibo maestros, and working with my soul sister, Mee Ok. And yet—I was unsettled.

It took about a month for clarity to come.

Some background you should know:

I was brought to the States when I was five—illegally, I might add. I grew up poor in Duluth, Georgia.

My dad worked night shifts as a janitor. My mom waited tables at Korean restaurants. My grandmother babysat kids in our rented townhome.

I remember hearing:

“It’s really hard to earn money.”
“You think we have money for that?”

I remember watching my father dig through a coin jar to put gas in the car.
I remember turning off the lights and hiding from the landlord when she came for rent.

I wasn’t unaware. I knew we didn’t have money. I even stole chapstick and eyeliner from Kroger until a security guard caught me. That ended that chapter.

And here’s the thing:
Growing up poor is a trauma.
Not just emotionally. Not just psychologically. It rewires your nervous system. Shapes your worldview. Turns you into someone who counts pennies while trying to dream big.

The retreat cost $5,000.

Yes, I was happy to pay it. I believed the experience was worth it.
But that didn’t make it any less complicated.

The thoughts I had while deciding to go were things like:

• “I’m barely making enough—do I really need this?”
  
  

• “That money could go to rent or groceries.”
  
  

• “My family would think I’m insane for spending this much.”
  
  

• “Shouldn’t I be sponsoring my mom or brother instead of going alone?”
  
  

That’s what growing up poor does.
It inserts money into every single decision.
It becomes a weight you carry into every room—even the sacred ones.

And I think of what bell hooks might say.

She might speak about how healing must be rooted in love, community, reverence.
She might say plant medicines can be tools for liberation—if used with care.

And I agree. I really do.

But I’d also want to respond:

bell, I hear you. I want to believe that ayahuasca can be liberatory.
I’ve experienced its power.
But I come from poverty. From survival.
From coin jars and working-class shame.
And when you grow up like that, healing isn’t something you get to retreat into.
It’s something you do in-between shifts.
It’s something you fight for.

The ones who most need the medicine are often the least likely to access it.

And when they do?
It’s usually because someone else paid their way.

And even then, we’re expected to jump into the deep end of our trauma without ever having learned how to swim.

So yes—I honor the Earth. I honor the medicine. I honor the sacred.

But I also question any narrative that presents ayahuasca as the answer—especially for those of us whose trauma is generational, economic, systemic.

Sometimes what we need isn’t a psychedelic ceremony.
Sometimes it’s food. Sleep. A safe place to cry. Affordable housing.
Sometimes what we need is just the space to exhale.

And listen—I came back from the jungle, and I’m still poor.

Did I expect to be rich when I returned?

No. Of course not. That’s not the plant’s job. That’s mine.

And to be honest, the medicine helped me with other stuff—maybe things that needed to come first. I’m at peace with that.

But still...
How many more thousands of dollars will I spend trying to figure this out?
How many more flights to the jungle until I’m “healed”?
One more? Five more?

I’m sorry, but that’s just not sustainable—for me, or for most people in this country.

Yes, I’ve heard all the “money mindset” teachings:

• Money is neutral.
  
  

• Money is energy.
  
  

• Feel rich now!
  
  

• Raise your vibration!
  
  

• Quantum jump into wealth!
  
  

And I believe in a lot of that. I do.

But I’m still here, untangling my own knots of scarcity and survival.
Still trying to break a pattern I didn’t choose but deeply inherited.

So here’s my truth:

If you grew up poor, ayahuasca is not the answer.
Not the only one.
Not the first one.
Not the shortcut you may be hoping for.

Because ayahuasca is not easy.
It is not a bypass.
And it will not fix your relationship with money.

In fact, if you haven’t looked at your financial trauma, it might just crack it wide open.

My advice?

Take your time. Slow down. Be honest. Ask:

• Have I worked on my money wounds?
  
  

• What about my parents? What stories did they pass down?
  
  

• What survival beliefs am I still carrying?
  
  

• Do I have support if things get messy?
  
  

Because ayahuasca won’t do that work for you.
And if you grew up poor, you’re already doing enough.

You can heal in other ways.

Therapy.
Support groups.
Somatic work.
Crying under a tree.
Journaling.
Dancing.
Breathing.
Resting.

Rest is medicine.
Boundaries are medicine.
Community is medicine.

When you do arrive at the jungle—arrive with reverence.

Because the medicine will stay with you.

It will ask you to change how you live, how you relate, how you love.

It’s not just a cup.
It’s a commitment.

Can you honestly say you’re ready for that?

I’m not sure I can.

And that’s the part no one talks about.

If you grew up poor, sacrificing income, taking time off work, choosing yourself over your family—those aren’t light choices. Sometimes, they don’t even feel like choices at all.

So what is the answer?

I don’t know.
Maybe you don’t either.
And that’s okay.

If you grew up poor, start there.
Figure out a few things first.
Before the flight.
Before the brew.
Before the irreversible transformation.

You’ve heard the phrase:
“Don’t bring sand to the beach.”

Well—don’t bring unprocessed trauma to the jungle.

Final thoughts.

I’m not here to gatekeep. I’m not here to shame anyone who feels the call.

I just want you to check in with yourself.
Deeply.
Gently.
With love.

Especially if, like me, your nervous system was shaped by scarcity.
Especially if survival shaped your soul.

Because yes—the call of the medicine is sacred.

But not every call needs to be answered right away.
Not every door needs to open the moment it appears.

Sometimes, the medicine is in preparation.
In the pause.
In the soil you tend before planting anything new.

For me, preparation looks like:

• Healing my relationship with money
  
  

• Learning how to rest
  
  

• Saying “no”
  
  

• Asking for help
  
  

• Slowing the f*ck down
  
  

Ayahuasca is not a shortcut.
It’s not a one-size-fits-all.
And it’s not a substitute for the long, steady, boring, beautiful work of becoming.

So if you’re feeling the tug toward the jungle, pause.

Ask yourself:
Am I grounded enough to go up?
Do I have the tools to come back down?

And if the answer is “not yet”—that’s okay.

That, too, is sacred.
That, too, is medicine.

Because healing is not a race.

You are not behind.
You are not broken.
You are not missing out.

You are becoming.

And that is more than enough—for now.