I returned to Chichén Itzá nearly twenty years after my first visit, carrying a body that had lived an entirely different life since the last time I stood on that ground. The return did not feel casual. It felt deliberate, as though something unfinished had been quietly waiting.
The first time I visited, I was with my then-husband, now my ex-husband. I arrived full of excitement, deeply in love with travel and exploration, and thrilled to finally be in a place I had long dreamed of seeing. Instead of sharing that joy, he worked to dismantle it. I remember a specific spot on the grounds where he deliberately taunted me until I cried. It was intentional and deeply disorienting. I didn’t have language for it then, but my body learned something there. It learned how to brace.
In the years since that visit, Chichén Itzá has changed as well. The crowds are nothing like what they once were. This time, even though we arrived very early, close to when the site opened, and even with a light rain falling, the grounds were already full. What stood out most was not just the number of people, but the way commerce now threads through the site. Where there had once been relatively little, the paths were lined with vendors selling mass-produced goods. While I understand the desire for people to experience this extraordinary and energetically charged place, I felt a quiet sadness at the impact this level of tourism appears to be having on land that was never meant to be consumed.
This time, I arrived with five close friends. That alone changed everything. Being there together created a sense of support, safety, and shared reverence. Even as the rain fell on us, the experience felt light and joyful. We laughed. We lingered. We moved slowly. No one rushed the moment or tried to dominate the experience. I felt held by the group, and that support allowed me to soften and arrive fully in my body and in the space.
We hired an English-speaking guide named Rueben, a Mayan descendant whose connection to the land was unmistakable. When he shared that he had come to live at Chichén Itzá at sixteen years old to learn about the site, it was clear that his relationship to the place was not only historical, but ancestral.
As we walked the grounds, Rueben explained that the Pyramid of Kukulcán, also known as El Castillo, is a pyramid built on top of another pyramid, and that ground-penetrating radar now suggests it may even be built over a third. Hearing him speak about standing inside those layers of stone and time felt like listening to someone describe the interior of a living being.
He shared that the pyramid was constructed above a cenote believed to be extremely powerful. In Mayan cosmology, this location represents the Axis Mundi, the center of the world connecting the heavens, the earth, and the underworld. The pyramid functions as a stairway to the gods, while the cenote below serves as a gateway to the underworld, a place for offerings to deities such as Chaac, the rain god, and Kukulcán, the feathered serpent god.
Rueben spoke about how nothing at Chichén Itzá was accidental. The pyramid reflects the solar year through its steps and orientation, its four sides marking the seasons. Its layered levels echo the Mayan understanding of descent and emergence, death and rebirth. Time, astronomy, and spirituality are not separate here. They are embedded into stone. He spoke of the Maya as master astronomers, tracking the sun, the moon, and even Venus with extraordinary precision. Listening to him, I felt less like I was learning facts and more like I was being reminded of something ancient and intuitive.
Throughout the site, symbolic guardians appear again and again. The eagle represents the spirit world and higher consciousness. The jaguar represents the underworld, power, and transformation. These symbols felt especially potent given the site’s role as a bridge between realms. At the top of the temple, above the entryway, a carved face represents Chaac, the rain god. As the rain continued to fall lightly around us, his presence felt unmistakable.
From there, Rueben led us to the Great Ballcourt, the Gran Juego de Pelota, the largest of its kind in Mesoamerica. The space is immense and severe, with acoustics so precise that a whisper can travel from one end to the other. This was where the ritual game of Pok ta Pok was played, a game tied to sacrifice, cosmic balance, and the movement between worlds. Nearby stands the Sacred Cenote, distinct from the cenote beneath the pyramid, where offerings and human sacrifices were made to the rain god Chaac, marking it as a deliberate threshold between the living world and the underworld.
What surprised me most was where I felt the strongest energy. I expected it to be at the pyramid. Instead, it was at the ballcourt.
Standing there, on the same ground where countless warriors once stood in a fight for their lives, I felt a deep sense of empowerment and recognition that went beyond intellect. Over the past twenty years, I have fought my own battles, survived my own underworld passages, and emerged changed.
And in that meeting, my body knew before my mind that I had been received. Years ago, it had only known how to brace. This time, it knew how to stand on its own.
Returning now, supported by friends, guided by lineage, and grounded in my own transformation, I felt welcomed into relationship with the land rather than standing outside of it. Chichén Itzá had not softened or changed its nature.
I had.
Chichén Itzá did not just leave an impression on me. It moved through me and into my work. If you are curious to see how this experience continues to unfold, I share that process exclusively with my mailing list. It is where I offer an intimate, behind-the-scenes look at how places like this shape my creative and spiritual work, from early reflections to the finished piece before it is shared anywhere else.
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