Moon Dance: When Words No Longer Fit

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How do you begin to write about an experience that may have changed the frequency of your being?

I’ve started this piece dozens of times.

I’ve tried to explain what a Moon Dance is. I’ve tried to describe the ceremony, the traditions, the teachings, the symbolism. None of it feels right because those are facts. Facts tell you what happened. They don’t tell you what it felt like.

The truth is, I’m not entirely sure who returned home.

For seven days and four nights, life became beautifully simple and impossibly difficult.

Every night at 9:00 p.m., 150 women gathered beneath the stars to dance until nearly 8:00 the following morning. Hour after hour we moved in prayer, stopping only for the ceremonial “doors,” or puertas, before beginning again.

There were eight temazcals.

Smoke from copal constantly drifted through the air, blessing, cleansing, reminding us that every offering mattered.

Every prayer was made with intention.

To Pachamama.

To Grandmother Moon.

To the guardians of the four directions.

To those who came before us.

To those who will come after.

We lived on perhaps 800 calories a day, enough to sustain life but never enough to satisfy comfort.

There were no showers.

The nights were so cold that I found myself layering everything I owned, yet somehow still shivering beneath a sky more beautiful than any ceiling I’ve ever slept beneath.

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The ground became too painful for my hips, so I strung a hammock between two trees and learned to surrender to its gentle sway. After dancing all night and completing a morning temazcal, sleep became less of a luxury and more of a necessity. From around 8:30 in the morning until early afternoon, the world disappeared as my body tried to recover before doing it all again.

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Wake, eat whatever nourishment I could, Pray: Repeat

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Time stopped existing in the way I understood it before.

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Somewhere between exhaustion and devotion, something else began to emerge.

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And then there was the part I didn’t expect.

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As a therapist, I’ve spent years studying trauma, attachment, neuroscience, and the human nervous system. My work has taught me to hold curiosity above certainty and to trust the wisdom that emerges when people are met with compassion rather than hierarchy.

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During the week, I found myself wrestling with the teachings of the spiritual leader. At times, what I heard felt completely at odds with everything I have spent my professional life learning.

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Part of me resisted.

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Part of me wondered if I was simply being defensive.

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Part of me questioned whether my discomfort was exactly where I was supposed to be.

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Was I witnessing something I simply didn’t understand?

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Or was I abandoning my own discernment in the hope that someone else knew better?

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I still don’t know.

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And maybe that’s part of the ceremony too.

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We often imagine spiritual growth as clarity.

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Sometimes it feels much more like disorientation.

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Like standing in the fog without the need to force the path to appear.

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There were moments of incredible beauty.

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Moments where 150 women moved as one heartbeat.

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Moments where the stars felt impossibly close.

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Moments where prayer no longer felt like words but something the body itself was doing.

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There were also moments where I wanted to quit.

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Moments where I wondered why anyone would willingly choose this.

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Moments where my body hurt so deeply that I questioned my own capacity.

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And then, without warning, another song would begin.

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Another prayer.

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Another offering.

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Another sunrise.

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What strikes me most isn’t any single ceremony.

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It’s what happens when nearly everything familiar is stripped away.

No mirrors.No makeup.No schedule.No phone.No distractions.No comfort.Just your body.Your mind.Your spirit.Your prayers.

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Your stories.

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And eventually, the places where those stories begin to loosen their grip.

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I’m home now.

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People ask me, “How was it?”

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I honestly don’t know how to answer.

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It was beautiful.

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It was uncomfortable.

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It was confusing.

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It was sacred.

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It was physically one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

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It was deeply communal and profoundly solitary at the same time.

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I don’t know if the Moon Dance changed me.

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I suspect that’s a question that can only be answered months or even years from now.

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But I do know this.

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Something inside me became quieter.

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Something else became stronger.

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And something I cannot yet name is still unfolding.

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Perhaps that’s the point.

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Some experiences aren’t meant to be understood immediately.

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They’re meant to be lived.

And then, slowly, allowed to continue dancing within you long after the music has ended.

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Lillie Cortes, LPC, SEP

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