Maria Guadarrama

The forest has always been my home. I know the scent of each leaf, the whisper of each tree. As a girl, I followed my father’s footsteps through the mists of San José del Pacífico, Mexico. He was a respected doctor, but he also listened to the land. My mother taught me which plants could soothe a fever or a broken heart, and my father showed me the mushrooms that open the soul.

Now, at 75, I’m mostly an observer. My daughter, a trained physician, runs the retreat we built together. She has brought science and structure to the old ways. But the spirit of this place—the silence of the hills, the pulse beneath the bark—that’s something I still feel in my bones.

Our retreat is small but known. People come from all over the world, seeking something their lives have not given them: clarity, peace, a glimpse beyond the veil. We don’t promise miracles, but often, they happen anyway. The mushrooms—always collected with care—are prepared in tea or capsules. The guests lie in silence, supported by our team. And something deep stirs in them. Some weep. Some laugh. Some simply breathe for the first time in years.

I don’t lead the ceremonies anymore. My daughter says I should rest. But I still walk the forest paths, basket in hand, spotting the subtle signs that others miss. The best mushrooms never grow where the light is strong—they hide under thick leaves, in quiet shadows. Like wisdom.

I offer advice when asked. Not much more. But when I sit by the fire in the evening and hear our guests talking softly, I feel pride—not in myself, but in the chain of hands that brought us here. My parents, my daughter, and now others too.

The mountain gives us what we need, if we know how to listen. I’ve spent a lifetime listening.