A Temazcal Sweat Lodge in Tulum Taught Me to Listen to My Body

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Nômade Tulum

In the days before I left for Nômade Tulum, I was so sick with flu-like nerves that I almost didn’t board the plane. I later realized this was a subconscious coping mechanism; when you're bracing for something intense, your reptilian brain (the part that houses your fight or flight instincts) can take over, attempting to shield your body from something it isn’t ready to confront. For weeks, I’d been emotionally preparing to participate in a temazcal ceremony, the Mayan sweat lodge tradition that's more ancient purification ritual than casual sauna treatment. A spiritual cleanse is always personal and private, lending a natural layer of mystery: Like childbirth or ayahuasca, nothing can fully prepare you for a temazcal—although that didn't stop me from trying.

In Mexico, temazcal means “house of heat” in Náhuatl and originated from Aztec and Mayan cultures. (Sweat lodging is also a North American Native American purification custom of the Lakota tribe, known as inipi.) The physical extremes of the temazcal are not for everyone; possibly, in particular, me. A diagnosis of severe bradycardia landed me in the hospital often enough to require a pacemaker at the medically insubordinate age of 32. Years later, I’m still trying to restore a baseline via endurance running, Bikram yoga, and saunas—a game of low blood pressure roulette, because you only live once, right? (In my case, twice so far.)

This is what brought me to Tulum, which is by no means an unspoiled place—Joan Didion’s once-rustic Quintana Roo? Of course not. But no matter how many Tuluminati pass through, the fact remains that the area’s ancient Maya civilization was one of the most influential from Mesoamerica, and those roots run deep in a modern culture of rituals, language, and life well beyond the tourist sphere. In today’s wellness world, where charlatan shamans and false ritual peddlers can easily blend in with trained healers, it’s crucial for the spiritual set to find somewhere trustworthy. Nômade sets itself apart as a destination where “journey designers” focus fully on immersion and managing safety and well-being of the guests, with all their nuanced emotional and physical needs. “Whatever you want your experience to be, we’re here to guide,” says Lucrecia Millan, or Lula, the wellness director. “If you want to party, that’s fine, too, but if you’re interested in honoring Mexican culture, we open that path.”

So, why take the risk of participating in a sweat ceremony? The thinking goes that spiritual growth requires confronting and processing your deepest fears to unlock emotional release and access soul healing.

The way that temazcal sweat lodge ceremonies work, in terms of your nervous system, is that the humid air and darkness of an igloo-shaped sauna, or temazcalera, simulates a mother’s womb. Participants crouch through an entrance to enter then gather around a fire pit where flames steam wet volcanic stones—called abuelitas—that represent ancestral knowledge. The lava rocks are doused with medicinal, herb-laced water—rosemary, basil, rue, lemongrass, chamomile—and the steam and structure prevent your own sweat from evaporating. Temperatures climb to around 105 degrees, and the lymphatic system is stimulated, turning your body into one big “detox” machine. The ceremony can last around two hours, most of which takes place in pitch black. If the heat doesn’t bring you to your knees, the darkness might, as a temazcalera guides you through the ritual of instruments, words of meditation, and songs in Spanish, Náhuatl, and Lakota. For the purest, most focused experience, participants are not supposed to bring in any drinking water; this is to encourage a physical, spiritual, and mental harmony—the mystical “rebirth.”

NYU Langone Heart specialist, Dr. Anais Hausvater says that quantifying the health benefits and risks of heat-related wellness practices can be tricky, although there’s been a definitive uptick in patient curiosity in recent years. “These treatments essentially simulate exercise: the high temperature causes blood vessels to dilate, blood pressure lowers, and heart rate increases,” she says. Dehydration and electrolyte loss concern her when it comes to the practice, especially in my case: “Even as a healthy person, it’s unsafe to [experience] significant sweating without proper hydration, especially in the heat,” she says. “If you can replenish fluids, it’s much safer.” Dr. Hausvater notes that, even while research on mainstream treatments with similar effects on the body (like saunas and steam rooms) shows cardiovascular and stress-reducing benefits, isolating positive effects of a temazcal is challenging.

In Tulum, the handful of women I traveled with for the experience shared varying fears about dizziness, fainting, or even asthma complications. Others were simply afraid of stepping into something entirely outside their experience, and the emotional toll of processing their pain. Nearly every one of us had some form of chronic anxiety, depression, or emotional blockages to address. “If one of the biggest benefits is stress reduction, and you’re telling me the experience is causing the opposite effect for you, that’s a red flag to me to avoid it,” Hausvater says.

Anxiety disorders affect 1 in 5 adults—the most common mental illness in America—and women are twice as likely to be affected as men, according to the Anxiety & Depression Association of America (ADAA). The International Indigenous Policy Journal has published studies showing that traditional healing practices blended with Western recovery therapies improved treatment in rehab centers for Indigenous people dealing with PTSD, substance use disorder, and intergenerational trauma; sweat lodges were a key component, and people directly connected emotional and spiritual improvement to their experiences in the sweats.

If sweat lodging is the path of transformation you pursue, Dr. Hausvater offers practical advice if you’re nervous about a physical response: Watch for symptoms like lightheadedness, dizziness, a racing heart, chest pain, or difficulty breathing—signals your body is at its limit. Choose a skilled, experienced guide who can manage risks and ensure your safety. The intensity is part of the power, but respecting boundaries ensures that the journey doesn’t come at the expense of your own wellbeing.

At Tulum wellness destinations like Nômade and the nearby Casa Violeta, with its highly regarded programming from hotelier Karla Gutierrez, it’s tempting to jam in as much as possible. But barraging your psyche with treatments won’t guarantee progress; in fact, it may just overload your system—especially since there’s no way of knowing what reaction you will have to any experience. After my consultation with Pablo, the Head Journey Designer at Nômade, I had two more days to prepare for the temazcal, and already my perspective had begun to shift: “Give yourself time to rest,” he cautioned me. “I don’t advise [experiencing] very intense things on the last day of a stay.” My first morning, I received a sobada maya, sometimes referred to as a womb massage—a somatic therapy often performed pre- or postnatal to realign internal organs. It encourages the release of stored trauma through the physical body, and can be a powerful experience—but in my case, it ended up being more than I bargained for.

Inhaling heady, smoking incense while my abdomen was purposefully pummeled and songs murmured over my body, I felt cared for rather than universally rocked. My sobadora told me to practice unlocking my shoulders and jaw, and to eat pineapple and drink plenty of water with lime afterward. She looked like she wanted to say more, but hugged me instead, looking slightly sad for me. Within hours, I was too sick to leave my room—what I assumed was a simple food sensitivity (though I’m not prone to traveler’s stomach and no one else in my group was affected), Pablo later called a “healing crisis.” Health experts call this a homeopathic aggravation from a detox or cleanse. But I was not passively ill; it was an active, angry takedown. Food was out of the question; I cried for hours, my tears rising and falling with frustration, rage, and fear. I wanted to scream. Twenty-four hours in, I started to worry when I couldn’t keep down water—but I clung to the hope of recovering in time for the temazcal. By the second day, my beautiful room, a monastic temple of stone, poured cement, and glass, began to feel like my own Xibalbá (the Mayan underworld) and it was clear I wouldn’t be making the ceremony.

My sister, still nursing PTSD from witnessing the toll of international endurance trips in my past, had firmly disapproved of my plans from the start. When I told her I had to opt out of the ceremony, she was thrilled, texting me from back home that she was imagining raising my two year old without me. Wellness director Lula explained later that my physical and emotional reactions were all part of the deeply personal work that can occur with a sobada maya, and that those first days at Nômade were “an opportunity to support the release of toxins, aid the body in rebalancing, and honor the shifts initiated.” You might say that.

The final morning, I was well enough to join the other women for breakfast, eager to hear about the sweat lodge. We were meeting on the other side—they’d had their own experiences emerging from a dark cave, and I’d had mine. One woman had “broken through,” ending a decade-long streak of never crying. Another had panicked, then turned inward, finding deep relaxation and release. One skipped it altogether, having recently done extensive work, including ayahuasca, and feeling she’d had enough journeys for now. The woman I’d connected with most, over shared fears, had lasted only a few minutes before choosing to exit the lodge. She sat outside for the rest of the ceremony, furious and crying until the rain washed it all away, leaving her with the acceptance that she’d stepped out of her comfort zone and faced her fears. For everyone, it wasn’t the end of an experience but the beginning of renewal and work to continue at home.

Before the temazcal, I sought a definitive answer: “You’ll be fine,” or “No, absolutely do not do it”—a clear path to absolve me of responsibility. But it was always a game-time decision, mine alone to make, and nothing would have fully resolved my uncertainty. As Pablo said, I’d had my transformation, one way or another.

Originally Appeared on Condé Nast Traveler