I was born in Venezuela to Trinidadian parents. English was spoken at home. Spanish was spoken at school, and everywhere in between with brothers, cousins, and friends. Before I ever understood the word global, I was living it.

My home was a revolving door of arrivals and departures. Family came from everywhere. An aunt from Borneo. Cousins from Australia, Canada, the United States, Trinidad, Barbados, the UK. Venezuela was the meeting point. There was always someone landing, staying, leaving. Suitcases were part of the furniture. Airports felt familiar long before they felt intimidating.

Travel wasn't something we planned. It was simply how life flowed.

Life changed early for me. My father, my anchor to the earth, died when I was nine. Grief cracked something open inside me, and what came out was rebellion. I didn't want rules. I didn't want school. I didn't want to behave. I wanted movement without direction.

My mother, wise and Trinidadian to the core, made a decision that would quietly alter the trajectory of my life. She sent me away.

I was expelled three days before my birthday and arrived back in Venezuela on my birthday itself. When we got home from the airport and I finally stood in front of my mother, she looked at me and said, "Today is your birthday. Tomorrow we'll deal with what happened."

Something unexpected happened. Barbados gave my mother back her daughter. I returned changed. Softer. Clearer. Ready to do something with my life.

I didn't follow a traditional academic path. Instead, I discovered my university through work. My mother helped me find my first job at the Eulalia Gilabert School for Bilingual Secretaries, where I trained as a bilingual executive assistant. I loved it. I loved being useful. I loved productivity. I loved organizing, anticipating needs, executing details.

Work gave me structure, dignity, and momentum. From there, I moved fast.

I became the right hand to an architect deeply connected to government projects. I learned how systems function, how power moves, how decisions are truly made. Then, with what now feels like quiet courage, I sent my modest résumé to an international corporation opening operations in Maracay, Venezuela. They hired me. They noticed me. They trusted me.

I became the person who organized everything. That instinct — to hold the entire picture with care and precision — became my signature.

Where Tourism, Flight, and Marketing Became My Language

Margarita Island called me next. Tourism had always lived in my heart, and I followed it. I worked in hotels, resorts, timeshares, and convention centers. Some experiences disappointed me — there was money, but no soul. Others shaped me profoundly.

Around that time, I also studied to become an air hostess. In my family, aviation runs deep. Pilots everywhere. Including my brother. Planes weren't just machines to us. They were symbols of freedom.

At Decameron Hotel, I worked directly with the General Manager and was invited to attend a year-long management program in the Dominican Republic. When that opportunity was denied without my consent, I made a decision that defines me to this day. I left.

Soon after, I joined Laguna Mar Hotel & Beach Resort, newly inaugurated and home to the largest convention center in South America. It was the place. And suddenly, I was organizing events most people twice my age wouldn't dare touch.

People noticed. They wrote to thank me. Owners. Executives. Clients. I didn't call it marketing back then. I just knew how to make things work beautifully.

Traveling for work across South America, Central America, and the Caribbean was me at my best. Organizing movement. Creating experiences. Holding complexity with elegance. And traveling for pleasure? That was even better.

When Life Became Responsibility and Travel Became Medicine

After Chile, life asked something else of me. My family had to migrate from Venezuela to Trinidad. There were responsibilities that could not be postponed. Hearts that needed tending. Mine included.

What followed was one of the hardest and most formative periods of my life. For many years, life became responsibility. Still full of wonder — new countries, new friends, family we had forgotten and found again. But underneath it all, there was a broken heart with the potential to destroy my future if left unattended.

So I traveled to heal. I traveled to reclaim myself.

Anthony Robbins. Joe Dispenza. James Arthur Ray. These teachings became anchors. Deep self-development work. Plant medicine journeys. Mushrooms. Bufo. Spiritual study. And the unwavering presence of my Pundit Hector, may God have him in His glory. Without him, I may not have survived.

It took me nearly twenty years to come back to myself. But I did.

Why Alchemy Life Travel Is Not a Pivot, but a Return

Today, living in the United States, I am founding Alchemy Life Travel. This is not a career change. It is a homecoming.

I have spent over three decades organizing movement. Of people. Of ideas. Of experiences. I understand precision, logistics, budgets, emotions, and expectations. I understand how a single dinner, hotel, or moment can define an entire journey.

Travel is not about destinations. It is about how you feel. When everything is handled with care, you are free to connect and feel the moments.

If you are here, you are likely someone who knows that journeys are not accidental.

Neither was mine.

Welcome.

Around 2008, my best friend and I were both carrying more than our fair share of life. We were seasoned travelers, free spirits by nature — but that year felt heavy. For the first time, everything in my life rested squarely on my shoulders. Every decision. Every responsibility. Every consequence. New country. New company. Family recently migrated from Venezuela to Trinidad. A tough and nasty break-up. My mind buzzed constantly with details and obligations. Exhausted doesn't quite cover it.

So, we did what sensible, slightly overwhelmed women do. We went to Paris.

We arrived, settled into the hotel, and that first evening my friend casually said, "Tomorrow, let's rent bicycles and discover Paris like Parisians — not tourists!"

My entire body froze.

Paris suddenly felt enormous. Busy. Demanding. My resistance rose in protest. What? No! Are you out of your mind? I'm too old for this. I can't remember the last time I rode a bike. Have you seen how Parisians drive? We are going to get killed!

I resisted a little longer. Then a voice inside me whispered something inconveniently true: you don't want to be that travel companion. The one who says no to joy before it even has a chance to unfold. The one who sours the trip with fear and negativity.

So, reluctantly — and very much "for her sake" — I said yes.

That yes changed everything.

The next morning, we picked up the bikes. As we rolled out of the shop and down a hill, the breeze hit my face, the speed kicked in — and something inside me snapped open. Joy. Pure, unfiltered joy. I started screaming at the top of my lungs: "THIS IS THE BEST IDEA YOU'VE EVER HAD!"

My body remembered something I had forgotten.

We weren't tourists anymore. We were just two girls riding through Paris.

The city softened. The noise became movement. We pedaled without urgency, stopped whenever we felt like it, laughed constantly. Eventually we found ourselves near the Louvre — and instead of going in, we lay on the grass reading a magazine, doing absolutely nothing productive. No schedule. No guilt. No pressure to optimize the moment.

My inner child came roaring back to life. She took over. For ten days, those bicycles became our entire world. We rode to restaurants, met friends for drinks, and yes — occasionally rode back to the hotel a little tipsy. The hotel staff kindly stored our bikes in the luggage room like precious artifacts.

My friend's sister and niece joined us mid-trip, and — of course — resisted the bikes too. Until they got on them.

One afternoon, we got caught having to circle the Arc de Triomphe — a five-lane roundabout of pure Parisian chaos, sirens blaring everywhere. As I lost sight of my friend, I was absolutely convinced she had been run over. Meanwhile, she was somewhere else thinking the exact same thing about me. We both survived. Obviously.

Ten days passed. Ten extraordinary days.

And here's the most surprising part: when I returned home, life was still there. Intact. The world had not collapsed in my absence. All the things I believed required my every moment of vigilance were waiting patiently. The only thing that had changed was me.

I came back lighter. Clearer. Reconnected to what actually matters. Empowered — not through effort or control, but through internal strength and a fresh view.

That is what traveling with presence can do for us. This is one of the reasons I am so passionate about it — I don't care how you travel, as long as you are moving, living, expanding.

Since then, I recommend cycling to everyone traveling to cities that are mostly flat (you're welcome 😄) — it's a way back to being, to breathing, to letting curiosity lead instead of obligation. No schedules. No social expectations. No endless "have to's."

Trust that joy doesn't dismantle responsibility. It lightens it.

Sometimes, the most important journey isn't across continents. It's the one back to yourself.

The first time I connected with sacred medicine was through Bufo Alvarius. At the time, I had no idea what that even meant. Like most people, my references to altered states were vague, cultural, secondhand. Woodstock. Psychedelics as rebellion. Something distant, historical — not personal. Not sacred.

Everything changed with a phone call.

My best friend of over forty years — the kind of friend you build a life alongside, the kind you trust without explanation — called me one day and said something that would quietly reroute my existence.

She told me that a friend of hers had met a Venezuelan shaman. She had done a ceremony with her and said it was extraordinary — and that we all had to do it. The shaman had been initiated by elders from a Mexican tribe and sent out into the world to carry what the toad teaches. That's how we refer to it, with love. Simply. Reverently. The toad.

I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. But I trusted her completely.

She explained that this shaman was coming to the United States and would be in Miami — and that she herself could travel from Venezuela to meet me there so we could do the ritual together. She asked how I felt about it.

I told her I needed to research it first — but that instinctively, it felt like a yes.

What followed was a deep dive into rabbit holes I didn't even know existed. Stories of healing. Of profound clarity. Of people touching Source. Of encounters with God — not as an idea, but as an experience. I was mesmerized. Not naively, but in recognition. Something ancient woke up in me. I was in.

I called her back and said: yes. Definitely yes.

Then the bad news came — bad news in disguise, as it turned out. She wouldn't be able to come after all. A conflicting engagement. But she said I should meet the shaman in New York and do it the same — just... alone.

I prayed. A lot. It was not an easy decision. I wrestled with fear, responsibility, intuition, and faith. I prayed more.

I called my brother — my spiritual guide on earth. We spoke at length. He laughed warmly, then told me the story of when he did mushrooms in the Venezuelan Andes after our father's death. He said the grief that had consumed him simply lifted — and never returned. He calmed every one of my doubts. I was ready.

In the end, something very clear emerged: I needed to live this. Not hear about it. Not read about it. I needed to experience it myself. So I booked the session.

I took the train from Philadelphia to New York. I carried a small tote bag — inside it my Kundalini Yoga clothes, all white, chosen deliberately. Pure. Intentional. I prayed the entire way.

My stepdaughter met me at the station with a friend, making sure I didn't get lost. We walked to Central Park on a beautiful autumn day, to a secluded area with green grass, beautiful trees, and large grounding rocks. The space was fenced, quiet, protected. It was perfect.

We climbed over the fence. And there she was. The shaman.

Mili. A stunning, olive-skinned Venezuelan woman — she looked as if she had stepped directly out of a Native American lineage. Rooted. Powerful. Soft and commanding all at once. Puro amor.

Once inside the space, I lay on a colorful, native-patterned blanket as she began the ritual. She protected the space. She spoke to the spirits. She asked for guidance and asked that I be shown exactly what I needed to see and receive.

She explained everything calmly. The crystalized medicine is placed in a pipe and smoked. We practiced the breath first. She told me clearly: one long puff. That's all.

I followed her instructions. It didn't have a pleasant flavor — very earthy, very raw.

And then... I was gone.

As I closed my eyes and was gently laid back, reality itself cracked open. It shattered like mirrors breaking into infinite fragments. And then I entered the void. There are no words for what happened there.

The next thing I became aware of was Mili calling me back. It had been an eternity — contained inside ten minutes. She made soft sounds. She spoke gentle words in my ear that I can no longer remember. Essential oils under my nose to awaken the senses. I didn't want to return. I told her, begging: just a little longer. Please. Just a little longer.

I became one with everything.

It's funny how we hear it all the time. We are all one. Gurus repeat it. Books print it. People quote it. But until that moment, I had never truly understood what it meant. You have to live it to know. And now I knew.

I remembered my brother's words from the day before. He had called to wish me well and said, half joking, half knowing:

He understood. His grief after our father's death had been lifted by his own experience in the Andes. He knew something that cannot be taught.

When I regained full consciousness, I opened my eyes under the most beautiful tree I had ever seen. The green was unreal. Radiant. Alive. I remember thinking: I left the third dimension... and I came back to the New Earth.

I saw Mili. I hugged her and cried. I told her through tears: "You have no idea what you do. This is extraordinary."

All I wanted was to hug everyone. My stepdaughter. Her friend. The stranger who had gone through the experience before me. I wanted to feel their souls. To feel connection without separation.

At one point, I noticed our friend vaping what I assumed was marijuana — and I burst out laughing. It felt like watching children play with toys after what I had just touched.

Three things became permanently clear to me after that day.

First: everything I had ever read, studied, contemplated, or learned intellectually was now integrated. I didn't believe it anymore. I knew it.

Second: "We are all one" means that I am not only connected to every person, but to every living thing. To hurt another is to hurt myself. I will never knowingly harm another being again.

Third: we live in God. Everything is made of God. We are divine particles. God is not separate from us — God is the quantum field itself. And God is Love. Only Love. Love is the only thing that is real. Everything else is illusion.

I cannot promise anyone will experience what I experienced.

But I can say this with complete certainty: