Storyteller with strings
This podcast unveils the intimate stories behind Gina's Baruch artistic creation, exploring the unique moments of inspiration that compel an artist to bring a piece of art to life. Woven into her narrative are the powerful stories of women she has encountered on this global pilgrimage. While each journey is unique, the underlying emotions and experiences are universal. Hear how these global encounters inspire Gina's art and reflect the shared story of women across the world.
Alright, welcome to Turn Into! Grab your headphones and buckle up – our first podcast episode starts... now! If you've ever lived on an island and owned a 'pre-loved' car like mine, you know the essentials: a full supply of water for surprise radiator leaks (or engine fires, because you never know!), a reliable hammer for coaxing the starter motor, and at least one sticker of your favorite deity for those 'divine intervention needed' driving moments. Because let me tell you, there are moments you just have to turn into something new. Like that day I was doing 50 miles per hour on Kuhio Highway, tears streaming down my face, no brakes to speak of, yet feeling this bizarre calm, a presence right there beside me. I just knew I'd reach my destination, even if I had no clue how. So, how did a Mexican woman wind up in Hawaii, navigating life with such... 'spirited' transportation? Let's rewind just one week. If you're on Kauai's North Shore, finding an available mechanic is a sacred quest, a true test of patience. My first mechanic declared my transmission dead. Another was impossible to reach. So, driving south, car stuck in first gear, creating a symphony of honks and annoyed faces behind me, I opted for a closer, questionable alternative. I barely made it, a massive water leak gushing from under the engine. The guy barely glanced at it, saying, 'Transmission is shot. I wouldn’t drive this car if I were you, I canl take it to the dump.' I believed him, I itook the bus home, and spent the rest of the day mentally calculating how I'd ever afford a new car. The next morning, I woke up with this strange, nagging feeling to go back to my car, but I just dismissed it as sentimental attachment. Then, a whole week later, the mechanic finally called, and guess what he asked for? My title. That's when I politely told him where he could go, took my car, and decided on another mechanic. But my car, still stuck in first, started overheating, smoke pouring from the hood. My only option was a kayak business parking lot. As I fumbled for my insurance, a rude voice barked, 'Lady, this is private property! You can not park here!' My explanation about the broken reverse was met with a shrug. It was 2 PM, hot, and my car was overheating. I opened the hood, checked the water – still there. I closed it. Stared at my car, sun beating down. Then, a wild thought hit me: What if reverse works now? Crazy, right? Gears don't just magically change. But I tried it. And guess what? The gear display was black, but it worked! Not just reverse, but second gear too! Suddenly, I was cruising. Smoothly. No overheating. Which brings us back to me crying on the highway. Those weren't tears of anger or sadness. They were tears of profound realization. Of feeling a force larger than myself holding me, a profound stillness within, despite the chaotic external circumstances. Was this a life metaphor? A lesson in trusting a greater plan? Or was it a sharp reminder about my own laziness, my willingness to accept someone else's verdict instead of asking smart questions, making an effort, and taking responsibility for my own situation? Perhaps it was a divine two-for-one special? Like the universe whispering, "I've got your back... but also, you've got a brain, so let's use it!" I had given my power away because it was easier than dealing with more mechanics and more 'shitty' cars. In that moment, an epiphany struck. I saw myself writing this story, and countless others, to share with women. Not because I'm extraordinary, but because my journey, my failures, my struggles, my triumphs – they resonate. My story is your story, it’s our sisters’ stories, our neighbors’ stories, the stories of women everywhere. And that's how Turn Into was born. It took months to quiet the imposter syndrome, to find the courage to share my vulnerabilities and mistakes without judgment. But if you join me on this ride, I promise joy, fun, maybe a few shared tears or moments of righteous anger. We'll journey through my personal odyssey: from the vibrant jungles of Southern Mexico, through the corporate grind of Silicon Valley, a spiritual retreat in India, a teaching community in Hawaii, and finally, my path as a textile artist. Most importantly, I'll share the moments of inspiration and the interconnected stories of powerful women that breathe life into my art. This podcast is for women (and men!) of any age (minus the little ones!), who are searching for their passion, seeking a spark of inspiration, and looking for tools to explore new ways of self-expression. I truly hope my journey encourages you to learn, to grow, to create your own art, and above all, to keep loving. Hold on, I almost forgot the crucial cliffhanger! You're probably asking: what happened with the car? Did I finally arrive? The answer is a resounding yes! And better yet, my car got fixed – for significantly less money than a new transmission. Talk about a powerful lesson in trusting your gut! Thank you for listening! If you enjoyed this episode, you would like to hear more of this, please support this project by subscribing to my Patreon, sharing it with all your friends, and following me on Instagram at @ginabaruch_art. See you next week! And always remember: You were born to shine!" Spotify https://open.spotify.com/show/61ulGaGQJ8ooObRRYpkK2s?si=624a8d05b254411c Youtube Channel https://www.youtube.com/@GinaBaruch Apple Podcast https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/turn-into/id1819805436 Podbean https://www.podbean.com/wlpi/pbblog-tksuj-13da4ab Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/Turn_Into Join my Instagram group https://ig.me/j/AbYJ-AJSJMP6jYzU/ Join my weekly maling list https://www.ginabaruch.com/turnintopodcast Link tree https://linktr.ee/ginabaruch
Welcome to Turn Into! I'm Gina Baruch, and if you joined me for the last episode, you know I actually did it – I faced my fear and dropped this podcast! So, here we are, Episode Two. You might be wondering, how do you know if you're on the right path? Should I be an artist? A writer? Should I just start that idea I've been dreaming about? Some lucky souls know their calling from an early age. For the rest of us, myself included, it’s an epic exploration to find our passion. But before we dive into that, I want to share a true story, because you’ll see how all the pieces eventually connect. Let’s head back to my childhood. I grew up as the youngest of four daughters and one son, on the tropical coast of the Gulf of Mexico. Imagine a place hot and humid as hell, yet utterly blessed with the shimmering sea, cascading waterfalls, and winding rivers, all surrounded by vibrant flowers and lush trees. My dad was a doctor, my mom a housewife. They divorced while she was pregnant with me. It's a bit of a paradox, but we were both incredibly poor and, in our own way, millionaires at the same time. To give you a glimpse of the 'poor' side: our toilet never worked – we literally used a bucket to flush. The kitchen sink was a perpetual leaky faucet. My dad bought us clothes only twice a year: school uniforms in August, a special dress for Christmas. And, as awkward as it sounds, our entire family slept in the same bed until I was fifteen. Not because we lacked rooms, but because we only had one air conditioner. Despite those peculiarities, my dad ensured we always had food on the table and access to education. We had a mini-orchard of twenty different fruit trees right home: tamarind, soursop, plums, coconuts, mangos, grapefruit, even cinnamon and pepper. Most of our food was organic and fresh from the local market. Books and music were constant companions. I was introduced to Vivaldi, Mozart, The Beatles, Ray Conniff, and Frank Sinatra at a very young age. Even without being told to read, I gravitated toward books. I devoured The Great Gatsby at barely ten – and while I definitely didn't grasp the adult themes, it gave me a glimpse into the vastness of human experience. My father also championed culture, buying the newspaper daily and making us read articles. Movies were part of our education, too; my mom organized weekend marathons. I vividly remember crying through Empire of the Sun, dreaming with Cinema Paradiso, being inspired by Scarlett O'Hara’s courage, and getting traumatized by the food industry watching Soylent Green. My mom barely finished elementary school, but that never stopped her insatiable curiosity for learning cooking. While she mastered traditional dishes, she was always experimenting – Even with a limited budget and living far from the city, she’d find a way to source the ingredients and prepare us exotic meals. My mom was truly unusual for our small town. Imagine this: A tall, white woman with fiery red hair made a bold statement walking down the school aisle. Her vibrant, psychedelic mini-skirt and knee-high boots drew every eye, as did her long, shapely legs. She was also remarkably good at what I call "indoctrination." Her core tenets for our household were clear: "In this house, we don't lie, we don't steal, we work, and we thrive together." I grew up with a wild mix of Montessori freedom and army-like rigidity. Everyone had chores assigned, even me, from a very early age. Of course, they weren't my favorite tasks, but when you grow up seeing everyone else tackle their duties without complaint, you simply understand it's the right thing to do. For example, if I said I didn't want to go to school, she would ask why. If my reasons were honest, she would let me miss. Ironically, with that much freedom, I rarely ever did. On the flip side, certain things were non-negotiable: asking for a random toy or daily candy was not even a concept. Tantrums in the supermarket for the latest Barbie? Not a chance. My mom was creative, courageous, yet also carried deep insecurities and wounds from my father’s divorce. She was very traditional and conservative when it came to sexual values, like not having sex before marriage, but surprisingly open about nudity and women’s menstrual cycles – blood was never a secret. She wasn't religious at all, but we prayed before bed and sent me to both Catholic and Christian churches. She was wild in so many ways. There are legendary stories of her and my aunt literally kicking a neighbor’s butt for trying to steal our clothes. Or the time the police stopped her for speeding, with my brother and sister buckled in the back. As the officer walked back to his car to write the fine, she just floored it and left him in the dust. Ms!! Msss!!! Come back!!!! What normal mother would do that?! So, given that example, what do you expect from her daughters? As you can imagine, my sisters and I were easygoing in our early years. But as we left childhood, my mom's rigid values became highly questionable. My oldest sister left home at a very early age because my mother didn’t want her to study abroad – her main concern: "What will people think about a girl living by herself?" Fortunately, my father supported my sister, and she went to university. My sister Guadalupe was the diplomat of the family. She would say, "Yes, Mom," then do whatever she wanted the moment Mom turned her back, even if it meant punishment later. Then there was Dalia. She was never quiet! If my mom said something Dalia disagreed with, she’d question her relentlessly. My mom would resort to "Because I said so," but Dalia would keep pushing. An average child would shut up, but not Dalia. She would continue making her point, no matter how much it hurt. But my siblings weren't just rebels questioning the status quo. My brother read constantly, and as an engineer, he loved taking things apart. The problem? He never put them back together, so we constantly stumbled over tools and screws. Zazil was the Academic, while Lupe and Dalia were kind of kamikazes. They loved roller skating on the street – and if you've ever seen the quality of Mexican streets, you know how dangerous that was. They were adventurers, also graceful contemporary dancers. Not everything was a rosy dream. My mom could be spring in the morning, winter by midday, and summer by night. She dealt with five children by age of 31, and even with the option to remarry, she chose to stay with us. She also had stages of depression; I remember her going with the Psychiatric, lying in bed with crushing headaches and running away from home. In those seasons, my older sister Zazil cooked for us, Guadalupe helped me with homework, while Dalia took me to the dentist. Sometimes Zazil and Guadalupe would have a fierce fight, and then Dalia and I would team up, supporting our best ally. These fights were tough. My mom would arrive and, without even asking who started it, she would give us all what we deserved. Undoubtedly, my sisters gave me crucial skills I would need later in life. When my mom was in the right mood, she was pure sunshine. She would make handmade tortillas for bean burritos, and we would explore rivers and waterfalls. One of my favorite places was Las Lomas, an island without electricity, where houses were made of mud with roofs of palm. The "fancy" homes might have had a bed, but most people slept on hammocks. To get there, we had to cross by boat; later, they built a platform to transport cars and people across the river. The population there was warm and present, always welcoming us with fresh caught fish and smiles. I would stay playing in the water with my sisters the whole day until our fingers were soft and wrinkled. At night, we would go back home. Those are some of my best and happiest memories. Who knew that memory would later spark my creativity as an artist? You can see a picture of the four of us, swimming naked in the river on my website, whether print or textile, serves as a powerful reminder of the deep, unspoken complicity and love encrypted in our sisterhood. It represents the hand that held my bike seat when I was learning to ride, the secrets we shared while preparing Christmas dinner, the fun we had playing baseball with our neighbors, the laughter we shared dancing together, the prayers we whispered before going to bed, the punishments we endured for stepping into a fight, the cheers we heard when we perform in front an audience, the excitement of our first boyfriends, the tears we dropped when Dad passed away, the patience, the listening when we felt lost, and the pain and struggles we navigated together. No matter the genre – sisterhood or brotherhood – the language of community is always the same: love. And even if you don’t have blood sisters, genetics are irrelevant. Wherever you’re meant to go, you will always find a sister, or, even better, many sisters on your path. Your chosen clan will love you and accept you just the way you are, sharing drops of joy and happiness with you, and holding your hand in moments of despair. The bond of sisterhood is timeless. No matter the distance or how many years pass without seeing each other, love is eternal, and it will always be there for us. Thank you to all my sisters! Thank you for listening! If you enjoyed this podcast and want to support the work I'm doing, please consider checking out my Patreon – you can find the link in the show notes. You'll get my heartfelt gratitude and help me create more content you love. You can also follow me on Instagram at @ginabaruch_art. See you next week! And remember: You were born to shine! Spotify https://open.spotify.com/show/61ulGaGQJ8ooObRRYpkK2s?si=624a8d05b254411c Youtube Channel https://www.youtube.com/@GinaBaruch Apple Podcast https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/turn-into/id1819805436 Podbean https://www.podbean.com/wlpi/pbblog-tksuj-13da4ab Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/Turn_Into Join my Instagram group https://ig.me/j/AbYJ-AJSJMP6jYzU/ Join my weekly maling list https://www.ginabaruch.com/turnintopodcast Link tree https://linktr.ee/ginabaruch
Welcome back to Turn Into! I'm so excited to dive into this episode, where we'll explore the fascinating story behind one of my art pieces, inspired by Medusa. For those unfamiliar with this captivating figure from Greek mythology, Medusa is often described as a monstrous gorgon, capable of turning anyone who met her gaze into stone. She's typically depicted as a woman with snakes for hair. Her story, particularly her transformation, often involves a betrayal by Poseidon and a subsequent punishment by Athena. But here's a thought: every woman has a Medusa inside of her. Yes, even if you're quick to deny it. First, let's demystify Medusa, because my version isn't about betrayal or punishment. In fact, it's more like a blessing to host her. My interpretation of Medusa represents our natural state of being. She embodies pure love rooted in truth. Her vision has the unique ability to uncover obsolete beliefs and bring them into the light, revealing reality. Those who resist facing the truth may, in a metaphorical sense, turn to stone because they're unwilling to listen. And her hair, often depicted as snakes, I envision as multiple long braids. In many Native American cultures, hair is a physical extension of the spirit, symbolizing strength, connection to ancestors, identity, and a link to the land. Long hair, in particular, is often considered sacred and linked to one's knowledge and wisdom. So, you might be wondering, if you have this "Medusa" within you, why haven't you seen her? Or perhaps, you recognize her, but she often appears as rage and anger. Where is Medusa? It all begins with domestication. This process starts in our early years at home with seemingly innocent phrases like, "Don't cry!", "Sit properly!", "Don't chew like that!", "No elbows on the table!", "Say thank you!", "Say please!", "Don't laugh too loud!"—the list is endless. Now, this isn't entirely wrong. I was recently at Kilauea bakery, and a cute toddler less than one year old pulled down his pants and peed right in the middle of the tables. The reactions were expressions like Oh my gosh! he is so sweet! Look at him, so Adorable! But imagine if a 75-year-old man did the same—the expressions would quickly shift to horror and disgust! What a pervert!! So, domestication is a necessary set of rules that helps us live in a functional community without, well, stepping in someone else's pee. The real challenge arises because each home, community, and country has its own set of beliefs, which can sometimes be obsolete, extreme, or not even founded on love. These belief patterns are often unconscious and repeated from generation to generation without question. Imagine this: You're a child, and your mom stops to visit that old auntie nobody really wants to see. She's usually moody, her favorite topic is the last illness the doctor found out. You don't like her, and to make the visit worse she smells like an old couch. But your mom pushes you to be polite, say hello, and hug her for her birthday, despite your natural desire to run away. If you're young and wild enough, you might blurt out, "I don't want to, she stinks!" But if your family and community have already done a great job domesticating you, you'll likely repress your desire to speak the truth and do what's expected – be a "good girl" or "good boy" if that’s your case. This is how Medusa gets sent to the closet of your subconscious, over and over again, until one day, you barely remember her. She'll try to emerge occasionally, often stronger than ever and accompanied by anger—perhaps after too much repression or trying to be "perfect". At first, you might not recognize her as a part of you, and you might even feel guilt or shame about her behavior. It's only when you **accept her with love and understanding** that you'll transform her vision and wisdom into your own strength. This reminds me of some stories. As I was wrapping up my final days in Mexico City, an exciting invitation arrived: to join a startup focused on creating an online education platform in San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato. This cosmopolitan town has repeatedly been named one of the best places to live in the world, enchanting visitors and residents alike with its charming colonial architecture, mild climate, thriving arts scene, numerous galleries, live art events, and international culinary offerings. David, the founder, is the son of a famous artist from Diego Rivera's generation. His family owns galleries, and his collectors include wealthy Asian businessmen and famous singers like Sting. While David didn't follow the artistic path, he inherited his father's creative mindset. He had a master's degree from Harvard, a passion for luxury cars, and a high-level cousin. It was the job of my dream! My job had a purpose and impact on education, the founder was smart and humble, we worked in a flat organization or horizontal hierarchy, which means few or no levels of middle, we chose the projects we wanted to work on, we also had flexible schedules, unlimited vacations, meals included in most of the restaurants and enjoying the benefits of living in one of the most beautiful towns in the world. When we started the company, there were four of us: David, Mayara – a vibrant Brazilian woman, Hugo – an ex-army man turned developer, and myself. We began in the back of David's mom's gallery. Later, David rented a two-story house; we transformed the first floor into our office, while he and Hugo lived upstairs. Our entire first year was dedicated to developing the product and navigating the complex world of compliance to get it launched. David loved going to the gym and consuming supplements and nootropics daily. One day, he was complaining about not finding certain supplements in Mexico, and Hugo suggested, "Since you love supplements, why don't you just import them from China and sell them?" Things moved so quickly that in less than a week, David have created another company in Mexico and ordered containers. We were developing the labels, and I was in charge of researching and developing products. The original idea was to sell natural products that enhanced people's health, which sounded great. But the truth was, David lacked clarity about his target audience and his offer, so we had a mix of different products. David also wanted to introduce Nootropics to Mexico. For those who don't know, nootropics. They are chemical substances designed to improve cognitive functions like attention, memory, wakefulness, and self-control. These formulations can include natural compounds or synthetic substances. This trend started in the halls of private universities like Harvard, Stanford, Princeton, and Yale. --- Imagine Sarah, the eldest daughter of a prominent lawyer. She'd been at the top of her class for as long as she could remember, a direct result of her parents investing countless hours in private lessons and after-school programs. Now at Harvard, she carried more pressure and stress than ever to fulfill their expectations. With final exams looming, she was completely overloaded, struggling to master every topic. One day, her neighbor, who seemed to spend most of her time partying and having fun, strolled into the room looking as fresh as a daisy. "How are you so relaxed?" Sarah asked, bewildered. "Don't you have to study?" Her friend simply replied, "Oh, last time I just took some **nootropics**, stayed up all night studying, and *boom*! Abracadabra! I aced it." Overwhelmed and anxious, Sarah, without a second thought about the formula, decided to try some herself. I researched the side effects of these substances, and the warnings were concerning. For synthetic nootropics, you often can not even find studies evaluating their long-term effects. The scariest part was that you could buy them without a prescription in the United States, but fortunately, they're prohibited in Mexico and most other countries. I wrestled with many existential questions and conflicting feelings. I genuinely loved the team, the company culture, the city, and my life in general. But my soul was in conflict with creating some products I wouldn't consume. I had many discussions with the team and spoke my truth: we don't need drugs to enhance our brain functions; what we need is good sleep, and improve our eating healthy habits. Apparently, I was the only one who saw it this way. Making the decision was incredibly difficult. It was time to move on. Perhaps the supplement world wasn't my passion. If I had stayed comfortable in that job, I would never have become an artist. In the end, everything unfolds perfectly. Years later, I learned that David had a baby and later shifted the company's direction. Now, he focuses on skincare and beauty supplements—perhaps fatherhood made him more conscious. There will be situations in life where you have to decide whether to stay or to persist. According to American author Adam Grant, when a situation isn't working out for you, you have four choices: **exit** (remove yourself), **voice** (actively try to change it), **persistence** (stick with it), or **neglect** (staying put but reducing effort). Which option is best? Trust your gut, when you quiet your mind, which decision brings a sense of peace? I personally think we don't change the world from the outside; we change it from the inside. In Adam Grant's book *Originals*There's a story I found incredibly inspiring for understanding Medusa's power. It's about a prominent woman in a government intelligence agency, **Carmen Medina**, who challenged the status quo. This CIA analyst spent a decade advocating for her workplace to adopt a secure online system for sharing information, facing initial resistance. Medina was central to the creation of **Intellipedia**, an internal Wikipedia that became a key resource for intelligence agencies. How did she do it? After years overseas, Medina had little status back in the U.S. She hadn't been able to prove herself to her colleagues, so they didn't give her ideas any credence. Medina was trying to exercise power—getting a new idea accepted—without having the status to back it up. Frustrated by her initial failure, Medina moved into a staff position and gradually worked her way into a more senior role in the area of security. When she presented her idea again, she was able to do so from a position of respect she had earned by working within the system. She presented herself as being *for* something, as part of her mission to protect security, rather than just *against* the old ways of doing things. Just as Medina said, if you want to influence others, you first have to earn their respect. **Grab a book, train yourself, get better and better at what you're passionate about without expecting anything.** Once *we* change, we change the world. When Medusa's energy is balanced with both feminine and masculine energies, her leadership is warm, playful, and flexible, yet possesses the directness and sharpness of a sword. She doesn't need to tell you what to do; she simply provides direction, and her presence alone inspires movement. The opposite of this Medusa would be a rigid, serious, and constantly nagging leader who feels the need to dictate every step. Medusa changes her world when she **questions her own beliefs** and sees the truth. Her wisdom and courage empower you to step into that truth. So tell me, do you know your own Medusa? In our next episode, we'll travel to the mountains of Oaxaca to uncover the story of a Mexican shaman from the 70s. Her wisdom and courage were so profound that she drew figures like John Lennon, Bob Dylan, Mick Jagger, and Aldous Huxley to her home. Thank you for listening! If you enjoyed this podcast and want to support the work I'm doing, please consider checking out my **Patreon**. You can find the link in the show notes. Your gratitude and support help me create more content you love. You can also follow me on Instagram at **@ginabaruch_art**. See you next week! And remember: **You were born to shine!** Spotify https://open.spotify.com/show/61ulGaGQJ8ooObRRYpkK2s?si=624a8d05b254411c Youtube Channel https://www.youtube.com/@GinaBaruch Apple Podcast https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/turn-into/id1819805436 Podbean https://www.podbean.com/wlpi/pbblog-tksuj-13da4ab Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/Turn_Into Join my Instagram group https://ig.me/j/AbYJ-AJSJMP6jYzU/ Join my weekly maling list https://www.ginabaruch.com/turnintopodcast Link tree https://linktr.ee/ginabaruch
Cure yourself with the light of the sun and the rays of the moon. With the sound of the river and the waterfall. With the swaying of the sea and the fluttering of birds. Heal yourself with mint, neem, and eucalyptus. Sweeten yourself with lavender, rosemary, and chamomile. Hug yourself with the cocoa bean and a touch of cinnamon. Put love in tea instead of sugar, and drink it looking at the stars. Heal yourself with the kisses the wind gives you and the hugs of the rain. Get strong with bare feet on the ground and with everything that is born from it. Get smarter every day by listening to your intuition, and looking at the world with the eye of your forehead. Jump, dance, sing, so that you live happier. Heal yourself, with beautiful love, and always remember: you are the medicine. Welcome to Turn Into. The poem you just heard was written by an extraordinary woman who deepened our connection to nature and ancient wisdom. Today, we're traveling deep into the Sierra Mazateca mountains of Oaxaca, Mexico, to learn about a woman whose life bridged the seen and unseen worlds, Her chants were improvisational poetry, a beautiful tapestry of spiritual invocations, personal narratives, and healing pronouncements. Maria Sabina Magdalena García. Born in 1894 in the village of Huautla de Jiménez, Maria Sabina was a Mazatec *curandera*, a traditional healer and shaman, who became internationally known for her use of mushrooms in spiritual ceremonies called *veladas*. For centuries, these "sacred mushrooms, were central to her people's spiritual practices – a way to commune with divine forces and gain insight into illness and life's mysteries. Maria Sabina's path wasn't chosen; it was inherited. She came from a long line of *sabios* – wise ones – who understood the language of plants and the rhythms of the spirit world. She didn't see herself as extraordinary; she was simply a vessel, a voice for the mushrooms themselves. For most of her life, Maria Sabina's practices remained within the confines of her community, a sacred tradition passed down through generations. But the world outside Huautla de Jiménez wouldn't remain unaware for long. In 1957, an American banker and ethnomycologist named R. Gordon Wasson traveled to Huautla. After being introduced to Maria Sabina, he participated in a *velada* with her. His subsequent article in *Life* magazine, titled "Seeking the Magic Mushroom," shattered centuries of secrecy. Wasson's article, while intended to be respectful, opened the floodgates. Suddenly, Huautla de Jiménez became a magnet for Westerners – anthropologists, spiritual seekers, and, unfortunately, many who were simply looking for a psychedelic experience without understanding the profound cultural and spiritual context. The quiet, sacred village transformed, overwhelmed by outsiders. And you might be wondering, how does any of this relate to Gina’s Art? Well, I had no idea who Maria Sabina was, or how profoundly she would impact and inspire me to create the "Mushroom Lady" artwork. It was 2011. I was young, and sharing a house run by nuns in one of Mexico City's most beautiful neighborhoods, Roma Norte, known for its new classical architecture, incredible restaurants, and vintage stores. (How I ended up living with nuns is a long story for another podcast!) I used to ride an eco-bike to my job, which I absolutely loved. I was the head of Marketing at a software startup, covering every role imaginable in the department. It was never boring, always challenging. The team was incredibly talented and fun; I made my best friends there and learned so much from them. I had just returned from Silicon Valley, feeling on top of the world, living the life I wanted, and dating who I wanted. Every weekend, I would visit the latest art exhibitions – René Magritte, David LaChapelle, Yayoi Kusama. At night, I would party with friends, exploring alternative spots: crossing restaurant kitchens to find hidden speakeasies with brilliant jazz musicians, dancing salsa in huge ballrooms alongside politicians and construction workers, or going to punk concerts in hidden nooks. I knew I had a brilliant future ahead. I was wondering what my next step would be; Australia seemed to be on the horizon. But destiny, as it turns out, had a trick up its sleeve. One day, after finishing a trade show, the Sales Manager offered me a ride home. I didn't like him. He was seven years older than me, short as a gnome, and uglier than Gollum, but smarter than Sauron. We often argued at work because we disagreed on everything. Since I was carrying so much stuff, I thought, "Why not?" Before we got to my place, he asked if I was hungry. Of course I was! So we stopped for dinner, and to my surprise, I discovered he was incredibly smart and intellectual, with two bachelor's degrees – one in Commercial Relations and another in Sociology. We had a fascinating conversation about Bukowski, Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Gabriel Garcia Marques, Foucault, Kafka, and so many other authors. We continued dating, I liked him but I knew he wasn't what I wanted. I broke up with him so many times in less than a week I lost count. But Andrew was famous at the office for selling anything; one day, he sold a million-dollar product that didn't even exist yet – the developers had to create it after the sale! So, as you can imagine, he wouldn't give up on my resistance. At 26, most of my friends were getting married and I was usually dating guys but never committed to any relationship. He persisted until, one day, I finally gave in. Andres is originally from Ayautla de Jiménez, and has indigenous blood. His parents speak Mazatec but he didn't. He was afraid of trying mushrooms, arguing he didn’t believe in any God. Each year, we visited Huautla to celebrate New Year 's. To get there, we had to drive about seven hours from Mexico City through winding curves. Nestled amidst the verdant mountains and swirling fog, charming houses with red tile roofs emerge, their presence accentuated by the symphony of birdsong and fresh clean air. It was the end of 2014, we were having dinner with his family, when Maria Sabina's name came up. Andres's father shared his experience with the mushrooms and how they had healed him. "Why don't you try them?" At that moment, his father planted the seed in my mind. I'd been practicing meditation and telepathy since 2010, and my teacher had explicitly warned me against trying mushrooms, saying my mind was already too open. But, like Eve with the apple three, I just couldn't resist! Six months later, it was the summer, rainy season. My guide, a robust indigenous woman named Maria, arrived at Andres's house around 8:00 PM, carrying candles, copal, and tobacco for the ceremony. I wasn't the only one embarking on the journey; my sister’s in-law boyfriend joined me too. My partner, his mother, his father and his younger brother sat next to us to pray. In Mazatec culture, people believe that mushrooms should only be consumed at night, and always accompanied by a guide and people who pray for them; otherwise, one might get lost on the journey and never come back. The guide lit some candles. Before we started, she asked, "What would you like to heal?" Then she gave us some mushrooms and began chanting and praying, guiding us through our spiritual journeys. According to **Mazatec traditions**, the profound insights gained from these sacred experiences are not meant to be shared openly; They believe that the true journey unfolds within each individual, and to reveal too much would be to diminish your own unique path. Therefore, I won't describe what I experienced. I don't want to generate any expectations or ruin the surprise of your own potential revelations. Let me explain something for those who think mushrooms are recreational. There’s a "VIP lobby" just before the "infraworld" where these visitors are received and protected. Think of them as bodyguards, like the ones outside a popular nightclub. These "dudes" keep these types of visitors in the lobby, enjoying the entertainment of different colored lights until the effect wears off. Conversely, for those whose intentions are pure of heart, the doors of the palace of wisdom will open. For Westerners with a "stone head" – meaning a strong prefrontal cortex developed by scientific thinking, usually accompanied by very low sensibility – let me use a metaphor. Picture your mind as an island. On this island, you've crafted a beautiful castle, made of beliefs collected from your childhood, your community, and your own experiences. In this castle, you feel safe and secure because, of course, everything you see is familiar and known by you. And because you might think you can control every single concept of your world. But as soon as you step to the perimeters of your island, you start feeling uncomfortable, anxious, and fearful because of the unknown! Holy moly! What is this? Better run away and come back to my castle! That's what most people do, and we don't need to take mushrooms to live this process. It could be facing the challenges of a new job, a love relationship, moving to a new country, developing a new skill, learning to live alone, dealing with grief, or recovering from an illness. Any experience that pushes us to expand the frontiers of our mindset makes us fearful. Once we realize that our fears are based on unreal beliefs, they vanish like a curtain of smoke. Immediately, our island expands, and our castle is demolished to be rebuilt with new bricks of knowledge and wisdom. As long as we are alive, this process is continuous; we call it: growth. The key to a smooth journey is letting go our old beliefs. Otherwise, resistance will only bring suffering, and we might find ourselves needing another lifetime—or several—to move on. The decision is always ours. We live in a culture where we want everything to be express. If we visit a restaurant we expect the food in no more than 15 minutes, if we order anything on Amazon, we will expect them the next day! Why shouldn't it be the same with mushrooms? We may think that if we consume some medicine plant and survive for five hours, we made it! Hmm, how do I explain that healing doesn't work that way? First, let's clarify: what is healing? According to my new Ai, Gemini, the true meaning of "healing" isn't about eradicating our wounds but about **integrating them**—acknowledging and embracing the parts of ourselves that we have long rejected. This is the journey of becoming whole. So if you think healing is a pleasant and quick process, you might be disappointed by the mushrooms. The healing happens later when they bring to light what has been rejected or denied in the shadows of our subconscious. I had to take mushrooms to learn this lesson by myself. I wish Gemini existed back then, but, well, no one truly learns from someone else's head. Coming back to my journey! The next day, I woke up feeling light and clean as a baby. My state of mind was pure love and innocence. In my ignorance, I didn’t know that the real healing was about to start. I returned to Mexico City with my partner and continued my life. I didn’t notice any immediate change; it was smooth and slow. Suddenly, I found myself contemplating nature more often, crying for no reason, observing people’s behavior, questioning who I was and what I was doing. A huge curiosity and hunger for learning intensified on me. I was already eating healthy, but now I was more and more conscious about what I was consuming – not only food but also alcohol, television, and even the books and friends I chose. I had started meditating some years ago, but now my fervor was even greater. I would meditate twice a day for longer periods, sometimes for hours. I was so excited about the mushrooms that I started telling everyone about my experience. My family, who aren't usually open to practicing any therapy or healing, just listened to me, except for my sister Dalia. At that time, she was in a violent relationship with a drug addict, and I wanted to help her get out. I took her to Ayautla, where Maria and I guided her, but surprisingly, my sister’s prefrontal cortex didn't allow her to see or experience anything. The lesson was for me: I was trying to save, control, and change my sister's reality, when in fact, only she had the free will to change the direction of her life. I returned to Mexico City frustrated and disappointed, yet still immersed myself in the "red path." This journey involved uncovering the wisdom encrypted in my indigenous heritage, exploring shamanism, temazcales, the power of stones, and participating in dances with drums, flowers, and feathers. My father, who has already passed away, used to come into my dreams and give messages that I didn understand yet. I was also feeling presences in my home and hearing voices. I remember one day I woke up in the middle of the night with the urge to meditate. I went to another room, sat there, and heard monks chanting and meditating with me. The next morning, Andres woke up upset! "Who the hell came last night? They didn't let me sleep; they sounded like monks chanting! In one of my most beautiful and strange meditations, I saw my whole life running as slides on a screen. It contained everything in microseconds. When I opened my eyes, I realized it had only been 5 minutes, I wondered, "Is this what people see before they die?" By that time, I had already quit my corporate job and feeling so confused, trying to find my passion, looking for meaning in this life, but I didn't know what to do. Online, I stumbled upon a workshop in Tepoztlán about how to start social projects inspired by Australian Indigenous culture, so I signed myself and my partner. If you haven't been to Tepoztlán, let me give you some context: it's a "hippie" town where wealthy people from Mexico City and popular singers and actors buy country houses. Its famous mountain, El Tepozteco, is, according to shamans, an epicenter of energy. The day arrived, and we showed up. Andres, however, wasn't the same. Over the past few years, he'd climbed the corporate ladder, becoming the CTO of the company I had left. He was furious, upset I had taken up his precious weekend. "Why on earth did you bring me with these stinky hippies?" he complained. Yet, by the end, he was genuinely grateful and thanked me for the invitation. One of the workshop participants was a singer named Moyenei, but because we were divided into different teams, I had no contact with her at all. The workshop ended, and we came back home. The next morning, I woke up around 6:30 AM. I could feel my body in my bed and heard Andres going to shower. I was half-conscious, half-sleeping. It was dark, and I saw spots of energy of different colors. I couldn’t see her face or body, but I recognized her: it was Moyenei. I was surprised and tried to focus my sight even more. Ironically, my eyes were closed, but I could see I was in my room. I focused my eyes again, then realized I wasn’t in my room anymore; it was another room, not my own bed. There was a wide closet in front of me, as well as a small white dog and a big black dog. I touched them, played with them, and turned my sight to see around the room. It looked kind of disorganized; clothes and shoes were on the floor and furniture. I focused my eyes again, and now I was back in my own room, but her presence was still there. I focused my sight again, but this time I felt a huge electrical energy running through my body, and the experience ended. To confirm if my dream of her dogs was real, I found Moyenei on Facebook and recounted my experience. She validated my hunch, explaining I had reached the Theta stage, allowing me to exist in two locations at the same time. My sensibility was overwhelming. Feeling others' pain became intense; the metro was my biggest torture. If I ate meat, I would wake to the spirit of the animal beside my bed. I lost interest in how I dressed, in sex, in TV, social media, and even in socializing. Andrew didn’t like my new personality, he wanted me to be like I was before. He did many trials to revive the passion in our relationship, but every time we went to dance, I couldn't stand people's energy, especially if they were drinking, so I usually ran away from those places. What the heck was happening to me? Where was the rewind button? Please! Can I get off this train? I wanted my life back! I wanted to be normal again, but I wasn't the same anymore. In our next episode, find out how the residents of Ayautla reacted to Western visitors and Maria Sabina's newfound popularity and how I was able to come back to Earth again. 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Welcome back to Turn Into. I’m so glad you’re here with us again as we continue the story of the Mushroom Lady. So, where were we? Oh, right. I was struggling. Not with the world, but with myself. With my own heart, my own senses, my own path. A year and a half had passed since my first, transformative encounter with mushrooms. Life had decelerated, shifting from a frantic race to a quiet, meandering walk. I was searching for something real, a job with meaning, a purpose that resonated deeper than a paycheck. But reality, as it often does, had other plans. My credit card debt was a quiet hum of anxiety in the back of my mind, growing louder each month with the sting of interest. A small, persistent voice inside me whispered, “Trust. It will all unfold perfectly.” It’s a beautiful sentiment, but hard to hold onto when the bills are piling up. So, with a spiritual sigh and a very un-spiritual grimace, I started looking for a job. I went through the motions of interviews, which felt less like career opportunities and more like elaborate charades where I pretended to care about "sale goals" and "analytics." With each polite rejection email—or, in one memorable instance, an actual physical letter stating, "We regret to inform you that your aura did not align with our corporate culture"—I realized I was subconsciously screaming, "This isn't what I want anymore!" My spirit wasn't just rebelling; it was staging an interpretive-dance protest against the life I was supposedly trying to build. And in that space of quiet rebellion, Andres and I were like mirrors for each other. He reflected my deepest wounds, and I, his. There was a raw honesty to it, but we learned how to heal those parts of ourselves and move forward together. In the beginning, our relationship was a partnership built on the solid ground of equity and mutual respect, as we both navigated our careers. But the landscape shifted the moment I stopped working. Then, almost overnight, we somehow time-warped into a Mad Men episode from the 1950s. He became The Provider, valiantly venturing forth to slay the corporate dragons (or at least, sit in a lot of meetings). Meanwhile, my world, which used to span continents of possibility, suddenly shrank to the precise dimensions of our living room rug. My days were a blur of meticulously organized chaos: cooking meals worthy of a magazine cover, scrubbing surfaces until they gleamed with existential dread, and running errands with the efficiency of a highly caffeinated squirrel. I was playing the part of "Miss Perfectly Organized," a character so committed to her domestic duties she probably alphabetized the spice rack in her sleep. It's really no surprise, then, that the Sunday Blues started haunting me like a ghost in sensible shoes—that familiar dread of a weekend ending and a life I no longer recognized, starring me as the overly enthusiastic, slightly unhinged housewife, beginning anew. The space between Andres and me had become a canyon, carved out by the slow erosion of our shared dreams. We were no longer on parallel journeys. He chose the steady rhythm of the corporate world, exchanging boundless horizons for the brief comfort of a ten-minute sun break. His weekends settled into a predictable cadence of Netflix and family lunches, a lullaby of comfort that sounded, to my ears, like a cage. During my last mushroom journey, a seed of knowledge had been planted deep within me: I was going to get pregnant soon. And with that knowledge came a question that hammered at my brain, relentless and terrifying: Was Andres the father of my children? One day, caught in the middle of my Mad Men tv show, something made me stop. I turned my face to the sky. It was so blue and vibrant that it felt alive, and the clouds looked like cotton candy, soft and sweet, melting into one another. At that moment, a thought struck me like a physical blow. Wait a minute. Is this truly the life I signed up for? A wave of gratitude for Andres washed over me. He had been my best friend. He taught me how to think, how to reflect, in a way no one else ever had. He loved me, and gave me stability, a sense of being grounded when I felt like I might float away. He was loyal, a hard worker, and supportive partner. No drama, no addictions. To make it all the more difficult, my family adored him. But our paths had diverged. I yearned to see the world, to live in another country, and I knew, deep down, he would never leave the status he had built in Mexico to start over somewhere new. Though I truly loved him, I had an aching certainty that I couldn't grow if I stayed. Andres resented my emotional distance. One night, he crossed a line, mistaking my body for his property. It wasn't until the next day that I fully grasped what had happened. What I remember is the flood of tears, a deep, soul-shaking sorrow that had been building for months. In that moment of complete emotional release, I knew. The decision wasn't being made; it had already settled in my bones. It was time to move on. Two days later, a job offer arrived from San Miguel de Allende. And in that same week, in a moment of bittersweet synchronicity, my stepmother passed away. The inheritance was just enough to pay off my debts, buy a car, and move. It was September 2017. And what about those heightened senses, you ask? The ones the mushrooms had awakened? The pain of the breakup was so immense that I disconnected from my body. I threw myself into work, a frantic distraction, and then into a new relationship that burned bright and fast, lasting only a month before fizzling into ash. And then… came the crisis. An experience so stressful, so otherworldly, that I prayed for two solid days without sleeping. I still have no scientific explanation for what happened to me. All I know is that it left me with a profound case of Post-Traumatic Stress. My mind was wiped clean, a blank notebook. I knew who I was, I remembered my family, my past… but my entire system of beliefs had been shut down. My senses were screaming. My sense of smell was so acute I could perceive a cigarette being smoked blocks away. The sunlight physically hurt my eyes. I was never a mathematician, but now, simple addition felt like advanced calculus. And sleep? Impossible. I’d wake up five times a night, a cold dread washing over me, feeling presences in the room. Abusive, negative voices whispered in my ear, trying to diminish me, to break me down. I didn’t know what was happening. My family, though they love me, are from a different world. To them, hearing voices is the work of the devil, or a sign of madness. A therapist would have likely diagnosed me with schizophrenia, handed me pills that would have turned me into a zombie, blocking the serotonin, the very hormone of love and joy. I would lose the voices, but I would also lose my ability to feel. In contrast, In many African Indigenous cultures, what Western societies might label as "craziness" isn't seen as an illness to be cured, but rather as a natural process within human beings. It's often understood as a revelation of the spirit attempting to manifest, a sacred communication that requires careful interpretation and guidance, not suppression. So, I followed my intuition. Hang in there. Allow whatever needs to come up to come up. For months, I woke up sweating and desperate, my heart pounding from nightmares. In one, I traveled to the future and saw the state of our planet… a vision you truly don’t want to know. I would drag myself to work, exhausted, and as night fell, the anxiety would rise again, a tide of fear, because I knew the nightmares, the presences, the voices, would be waiting for me. One day, I just looked up and asked, "How long? How much longer can I live like this?" Through that fire, I learned something profound. I don’t need to consume mushrooms anymore to access that wisdom. It’s already here. We are all connected. We just need to return to our natural state of being to hear it. My perspective shifted. I became more scientific, more empirical, integrating all that I had previously learned with a new approach and understanding. If I'm sharing my experience on this podcast, it's because someone else out there is likely going through the same things I experienced, Hear me: a light awaits at the tunnel's end. This is not an ending, but a rebirth. I stand here, a living testament to that truth. Saying all that. I’m not here to tell you what to do. Use your own judgment. Follow your own intuition. Do I regret my experiences with mushrooms? Not for a second. It is from our greatest failures that we gain our deepest wisdom. We have to honor our past, learn from it, and embrace it as part of who we are. To be old and wise, you first have to be young and stupid. I would rather live a life overflowing with my own experiences than a life dictated by someone else’s vision. Finding your own truth takes courage. It takes time alone, contemplation, and a willingness to question everything. This often means less time spent scrolling through social media and more time immersed in nature. However, please don't take anything I've said in this podcast as gospel. Instead, discard it, and go find your own truth. Oh, and by the way, my sister Dalia? Years after her mushroom experience, she finally ended her toxic relationship. She found love again, remarried, and is genuinely happy—still growing, still facing challenges, just like all of us. Who knows what the true catalyst was? Perhaps we just need to allow the universe to unfold as it should. A year after my psychic break, I started to see slow improvements in my health, but I knew I still had a long way to go.Then one morning, I woke up with an undeniable urge: to start over, somewhere close to the beach. In a single week, I quit my job and sold everything I owned: my furniture, my car, my bike—all of it. I was ready to embark on a new adventure, setting my sights on the Riviera Maya. A new chapter of my life was clearly emerging. But, as the saying goes, if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. And that... well, that's a story for another time. Let’s go back for a moment, to Ayautla. To María Sabina. She became a reluctant icon. Her face on album covers, visited by rock stars and artists—The Beatles, Bob Dylan. Some came with respect, but many more came as spiritual tourists, disrupting her life and the sacred traditions of her people. In the years that followed, she faced great hardship. Her home was looted. Her community was strained by the influx of outsiders and the inevitable government crackdown. Meanwhile, a French mycologist patented the mushroom’s psilocybin, creating pills now worth billions, while Maria Sabina and the Mazatec people, the original stewards of this sacred medicine, saw none of the profits. María Sabina often expressed her sorrow, lamenting that the mushrooms had "lost their purity," that their "spirit was gone" because they were being used for recreation, not healing. Yet, she remained a healer until her death in 1985. Her life is a powerful reminder of the profound wisdom held by indigenous people, and it challenges us to approach that wisdom with humility and respect. Her voice still echoes, inviting us to listen more closely to the whispers of the earth, and to the wisdom we all hold within. Many Westerners saw her simply as a healer. But she was more than that, wiser by the purity of her heart. The material world wasn’t seductive for her. She deeply knew what The Little Prince once said: "What is essential is invisible to the eye." In our uncoming Episode! My journey to the Riviera Maya takes an unexpected turn. First, a brief return to Veracruz, my hometown. It's there, amidst familiar streets, that a serendipitous meeting with an Indigenous woman will redefine my path and change everything I thought I knew." 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Thank you for tuning into Turn Into! Today, we're diving deep into a truly transformative chapter of my life, a story that began in 2019 with a simple trip home, but quickly moved to another direction. My plan was straightforward: a quick week-long visit with my mom in Veracruz, my birthplace, before heading off to the beautiful Riviera Maya. For those of you who know Veracruz, you know it's a place where the morning sun feels like a joyful celebration, where music and vibrant colors are woven into the very fabric of daily life, and where mysticism isn't just a concept, it's a lived experience. It’s a town where we remember to sing good morning to the first person we meet. My only purpose was a short visit, but as you wi ll hear, the universe had very different plans for me. I was enjoying my days in Jaltipan! Eating all the delicious tamales, black beans and fried bananas, soaking up my mom's company, reconnecting with childhood friends. One week turned into several. Then, I remembered a gift my sister Dalia had given me: a stunning handmade bag, crafted with the ancient technique of backstrap weaving. It was made by an Indigenous woman named Juliana, who lived not far from my town. And in that moment, an epiphany struck: What if I tried to learn this technique while I was still here? In my blissful ignorance, I had no idea what I was truly embarking on. I visited Juliana, proposed her to be my teacher, and to my delight, she accepted, handing me a list of tools and strings. I was hooked from the very first class! I wanted to keep going, but I knew this would take more than a few weeks. While I loved staying with my mom, we both needed our own space. That's when my sister Dalia, bless her heart, offered me my dad’s house. She had inherited it after he and his wife passed away. As the "black sheep," of the family I had been left out of the will, but that’s a story for another time. I gratefully accepted and moved in. It was this abundant, white house, surrounded by spacious decks in the suburbs of my little town, with a huge yard boasting all sorts of fruit trees and nature to admire. The house was so far away from the street and the neighbors that there was a profound silence there. The perfect heaven to stay. One day, I was cooking and having this intense internal conversation with God. "Is this where I need to be right now? Is weaving truly my path? Should I continue? How am I supposed to afford to live without a job? How will I make a living from weaving? Please, just send me a sign. I took my plate to the back of the house to have breakfast there. As soon as I stepped outside, a congregation of toucans arrived in the yard! They were sitting at the top of the trees, croaking all at the same time! My eyes couldn't believe it! I grew up in that town, and in all my life, despite our huge variety of birds, I had never seen a single toucan. And now, I was in the presence of fifty, eighty – it was hard to count! It was absolutely beautiful. I felt an undeniable certainty, a feeling of trust, that something beyond me would hold me. It’s hard to explain, but I knew the universe had answered my question. I was in the right place, at the right moment. So, I continued my classes. Every day at 2:00 PM, I had to travel to another town for my classes, under the scorching Veracruz sun. If you’ve ever been there at that hour, you know I truly wanted to learn backstrap weaving! Juliana was methodical, strict, and incredibly meticulous about setting up a weaving. She taught me to do things properly, professionally. I'm still grateful for that. While her heart was well-intentioned, her precarious Spanish and my endless curiosity utterly frustrated her. Beyond my slow mental process, my lack of dexterity, and my infinite questions: "But why this way and not that way?", Is it possible to make this? What if I try this instead of that? I was feeling kind of stuck. So, one day, I dared to ask about an advanced technique, and she replied, "Don't worry about that, you will never be able to learn it! Sad and frustrated, I came home. But my principles wouldn't allow me to quit. As Carol Dweck mentioned in her book Growth Mindset , people with a growth mindset believe that their most basic abilities can be developed through dedication and hard work—brains and talent are just the starting point." So I quit my classes with Juliana and committed to continue learning by myself. Every morning, after breakfast, I tie myself to my weaving and try to figure it out. Meanwhile, I was still struggling with insomnia and my senses. I'd stopped meditating for a while because I was afraid of the voices I was hearing. So, I came back to "A Course of Miracles." I had bumped into this technique in my twenties, but I wasn’t ready for it then. For those who don't know about this technique, imagine your brain as a computer with an automatic program running from the moment you wake up until you go to bed, often without you even realizing it. This "software" is a set of beliefs we've collected from our family, school, books, tv, communities, society in general, and everything we've encountered – even the beliefs we've rejected. This new programming in the Course is based on three pillars: First, **relax, this world is just an illusion.** Second, **forgive, because actually nothing really happened.** And the last one, ---**You are love!** You don't need to walk a dark, difficult path on your knees to find it; it is already here, available to all of us. The Course uses some biblical terms, but **don't let these words intimidate you**. They are simply symbols, meant to convey a deeper message. If you approach the material with an open mind, you'll get the true meaning. And remember, "A Course in Miracles" is not the absolute truth. It's only one more of many valuable resources out there. Back to my weaving struggles. I made countless mistakes, wasted tons of threads, and dropped a lot of frustration tears through my learning process. But I didn’t quit, I continued. And you might be thinking, "Gina, you've been talking for over ten minutes, and I still don't have any idea what backstrap weaving is!" So here is a little explanation. Backstrap weaving is an ancient technique where one end of the **warp** (the long, vertical threads) is secured to the weaver, and the other end is attached to a heavy object, such as a tree or a post. In the middle, two additional sticks and a batten (or "sword" made of wood) are strategically placed. These tools allow the weaver to separate and manipulate the threads to create the textile. Ethnologists believe that the backstrap loom's appearance coincided when human beings stop hunting mamuts, to settle in one place and plant their own food. While there's no concrete evidence pinpointing its exact origin, historical research suggests it emerged during the Bronze Age, while Egyptians were creating linen and the Chinese were producing silk. Who owns the credits of the invention? Nobody knows. They also believe its use spread from South Asia to the Pacific Ocean, and eventually to South and Central America. Besides, weaving and nature share an intrinsic, unbreakable bond; one simply couldn't thrive without the other. Nature provides essential resources, from the wood used to craft tools to the flowers, fruits, and leaves that dye fabrics. The specific materials depend entirely on the weaver's region and personal preferences. Beyond raw materials, nature is a wellspring of creative inspiration, influencing both style and symbolism in woven designs. Indigenous groups, for example, often depict the local flora and fauna that surround them, while other communities might draw inspiration from different natural elements. While weavers can practice their craft almost anywhere, a profound connection with nature is forged when weaving is physically tied to a tree. This act fosters a deeper conversation with the natural world and the universe beyond. One of my favorite parts of weaving is setting the warp up. This is prepared by wrapping thread around a warping frame and then transferred to the loom. This frame allows you to create a figure of an eight or a cross with the strings, similar to the infinite symbol. This repetition brings so much calm and peace that it becomes addictive. Now that I remember, one of my Art pieces, The Magician was inspired by this meditation in movement. In contrast to other textile techniques like embroidery, stitching, or knitting, backstrap weaving involves both masculine and feminine energy. It can be smooth and gentle, as well as agile and potent, like the movement of a jaguar hunting. You may use so much force in your arms that you won’t miss the weights at the gym. And make sure you've tied your loom securely to that tree, or you might see your weaving take flight! Besides, every time a weaver lifts the heddle rod with her left hand to open the warp, she opens her arm as much as possible, releasing energy, opening her heart. This movement reminds me of the warrior position in yoga, where the heart chakra expands every time we raise our arm to the sky. By practicing backstrap weaving, you'll repeat this movement hundreds of times. Don't be surprised if, one day, your heart opens so wide that tears stream from your eyes. The months passed, and a deep relationship between the loom and me was born, and slowly, without any expectation or anticipation, love emerged again. And it was thanks to the purity of its love that I was able to heal and reconcile with myself. Weaving freed me from many ties to the past, and in turn, it has given me the gift of creating and giving life to dreams that would otherwise have remained only in my imagination. But not everything was beautiful flowers and sunny mornings. Jaltipan wasn’t the safe, innocent little town I had grown up in. Foreign investment arrived to explote our sulfur and petrol, ironically unemployment soared, the rise of more accessible and affordable Chinese clothing led to a significant shift: it outcompeted traditional woven garments. Consequently, women stopped weaving, while families migrated to border states to set up Chinese electrodomestics, or follow the American Dream. Drug trafficking increased, and with it, insecurity. Shootings in downtown in the middle of the day, unknown bodies found in plastic bags – The morning topics in the market: that Susanita's son has already been shot? Yes, poor kid, he was barely 19 years old, Don’t tell anyone, the mean tongues said it was a reckoning, that he was a chamula, A What? SHHHH don’t talk too loud! Chamulas!! the guys who pick it up and deliver the white powder so other people whiten their nose!! Other people said he spent the mafia’s money on whores. Who knows!! My mom, my neighbors, including everyone who knew I was a single woman living alone, were terrified for me. They would plead, "Gina, don't tell people you live alone!" If my internal chaos wasn't enough, now I had to deal with this too! I came back home reflecting, What should I do? I had this feeling that I still had something else to learn here, but at the same time, my safety was questionable. Should I leave the town or continue weaving? —------------------------------- In our next episode, we'll **discover Gina's decision** and meet new characters who further **shifted the course of her journey.* Spotify https://open.spotify.com/show/61ulGaGQJ8ooObRRYpkK2s?si=624a8d05b254411c Youtube Channel https://www.youtube.com/@GinaBaruch Apple Podcast https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/turn-into/id1819805436 Podbean https://www.podbean.com/wlpi/pbblog-tksuj-13da4ab Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/Turn_Into Join my Instagram group https://ig.me/j/AbYJ-AJSJMP6jYzU/ Join my weekly maling list https://www.ginabaruch.com/turnintopodcast Link tree https://linktr.ee/ginabaruch
Hello, and welcome back! This is Gina Baruch, and today we're continuing my journey through my hometown Jaltipan. In our last episode, I was grappling with a big question: Should I stay, or should I go? I was lying in my hammock under a full moon, the breeze warm, the crickets singing their nightly chorus. The moonlight filtered through the grapefruit and orange trees, casting dancing shadows. My mind wandered, searching for a truly safe place in the world. But the truth is, **life is unpredictable**. We have zero control over the big things, like the hour we'll die. So, should I let fear drive my decisions? My answer, clear as the moonlight, was no. I knew I'd leave eventually, but for very different reasons. As I gently rocked the hammock, a childhood memory surfaced, bringing a smile to my face. As a kid, my family thought I saw ghosts. "It's there! Sitting there!" I'd exclaim. While I don't remember those specific instances, I vividly recall seeing faces everywhere, especially in nature – in tree trunks, in the shadows of branches. Later, I'd learn there's nothing strange about it. Scientists have found that more creative brains often have the ability to spot patterns, even faces, in everyday objects. But my family didn't know that. All they knew was that I couldn't sleep and neither could they. My parents, in her loving concern, sent me to my aunt's. She performed a traditional cleansing, passing an egg and basil over my head and body. She then broke the egg into a glass, seemingly "read" it, and that night, I slept like a newborn. I didn't see anything for years after that. My mom herself has a talent for these "white tricks." If she had a party and didn't want rain to ruin it, she'd stick a knife in the earth. If her keys went missing, she would tie the tail of the mischievous spirit who hid them to the table. And surprisingly, it *worked*! Moments later, I'd hear her muttering, a little guilty, "This is the last time, I swear!" I grew up steeped in stories of rituals, wizards, and spirits. My mom once told me about her older brother, who got into a fight with the son of a well-known witch. My grandma took my uncle to a wizard for protection. That night, they heard a ferocious fight of wolves so loud it kept them awake. The next morning, they found the wizard injured, covered in wounds. It makes me wonder: When will we realize that **energy is like a boomerang**? As Ram Dass wisely said in *Be Here Be Now*: "One day, you will realize that you are the only one in the room." Everything you put out, you're giving to yourself. So, where does all this mysticism come from? It reaches back to 1492, when Christopher Columbus accidentally landed in the Caribbean. Weeks later, an Indigenous person spotted his caravels floating in the ocean, bewildered, "Look at that thing!" Why the delayed recognition? Because the brain struggles to process anything it hasn't registered before, even if it's right in front of you. Columbus returned to Spain, spreading news of this "New World." But it wasn't until **1519** that Hernán Cortés arrived in Mexico. Sent on an exploratory expedition, his ambition and desire for wealth led him to defy orders and conquer the Aztec Empire. This marked **Veracruz** as the first established port in Mexico. Later, Spain forcibly shipped over **100 thousand African enslaved people to Mexico**. **Jaltipan**, my hometown, is nestled in the South of the Gulf of Mexico, bordering Tabasco, Chiapas, and Oaxaca. It was a virgin jungle, teeming with diverse flowers, fruits, mosquitoes, and yes, even venomous spiders, snakes, and jaguars. Its population is a vibrant mix, largely descended from those Africans who settled in Veracruz. Many were forced into slavery, cultivating sugarcane for brandy, working in fisheries, hunting grounds, sugar mills, and cattle ranches. This rich history explains the incredible mix of cultures, traditions, and physical appearances seen today in my little town. The traditional Indigenous dress for women in Jaltipan is also a hybrid of prehispanic, Spain and African influences. The **Refajo**, a striped textile wrapped around the hips and tied with a wide, woven belt. The colors denote age: young girls wear red, adult women sport classic yellow and red stripes. The typical blouse is a white knitted top. Nature also plays a role in custom: a flower placed strategically at the **left ear** signals engaged or marriage status, the **right ear** means single, and a flower placed in the **middle of the head**? mmm That could suggest a more complex relationship status, perhaps even a nod to polyamorous relationships! I remember as a child visiting **Los Pocitos**, a spring with several wells where women would gather water and wash laundry. These women, often wearing their traditional Refajos, would wash topless, their laughter and jokes echoing as I, barefoot, played in the water, lost in my own fantasy world. Who would have thought that this experience would leave such a profound mark, inspiring me years later to depict "The Laundrywasher" – a reminder of the wisdom and joy I found in those women? Continuing the story, During the 16th century, Mexico was called the New Spain and its dominant economic activities were mining and agriculture. Spanish landowners developed vast agricultural estates throughout the country, including Yucatan. It's fascinating how a creative spark generated in this place would profoundly influence the traditions of Veracruz a century later. Picture Juana, after a long day in the fields under the scorching sun. She arrives at her small shack, takes a shot of aguardiente, and collapses into her hammock under the shade of an avocado tree. Her children, hungry and craving attention, are distracted with bananas while she tries to snatch a quick nap. Just as she's drifting off, a voice calls, "Juana! Juana!" "Why wake me? I'm trying to nap!" she grumbles. "The landlord calls! He has new guests and a party; he needs more help cooking and serving!" "¡*Mmmta madre*!" she curses under her breath. "I'll go after I feed my children." Juana arrives and cooks the most delicious dishes imaginable. After serving, she's stuck cleaning up. The sunset paints the sky in oranges and purples, and a cool wind finally blows. Suddenly, she hears a beautiful, soft melody. Hypnotized, she follows the sound. It's a Spanish guest, playing a piece of wood shaped like a woman's body with a hole in the middle. She stays all night, hidden behind a bush, delighting in the sound. After that, Juana couldn't sleep anymore. She was obsessed with the sound of the music. One day, working in the fields, a cedar tree branch almost fell on her head! The branch had a silhouette like the instrument she had seen before. A wave of ecstasy washed over her. Despite her exhaustion, she carved the tree trunk nonstop. When she finished polishing the wood, she attached four fish intestines as strings. This was the moment the Jarana was born. Now, the truth is, no one really knows who invented the Jarana, but I love to imagine it was a woman. A century later – yes, a whole century! We didn't have Uber deliveries back then – this amazing invention would inspire the creation of the **Son Jarocho** in Veracruz. The Jarana is similar in size and design to the ukulele, both having four strings. However, their sounds differ: ukuleles are gentler and more harmonious, while the Jarana is a bit more thunderous. The Son Jarocho has no single creator; it's a true cultural expression, a clear example of **cultural fusion**. It intertwines baroque instrumentations with the cadence of pre-Hispanic and the rhythms of African music. Later, other instruments were added, such as the *leona*, an instrument similar to a guitar, the drum and the *quijada de burro* – a percussion instrument made from the dried jawbone of a donkey, horse, or mule. The lyrics are poetry, usually in verse, quatrains, or tenths, often improvised, passing from generation to generation. They speak of love, heartbreak, rural life, characters, animals, plants, weather, and nature. It reminds me a little of the Blues created by African Americans. The Son Jarocho is mainly performed in **fandangos**, traditional festivals where people dance and sing. The women's dress code usually features a colorful, flowery wide skirt, a woven blouse, a flower in the ear, and sturdy-heeled shoes to make a louder sound on the wooden platform. Men dress in the typical *white guayabera*, with a red bandana around their neck and a hat. The **Zapateado** is an essential part of Son Jarocho. Dancers perform a rhythmic footwork over a wooden square platform, becoming an additional instrument to the music. The song usually starts slowly, with musicians playing the Jarana and reciting verses, and dancers maintaining a smooth *zapateado*. As the music builds to a climax, the dancers' footwork becomes as fast and powerful as the rhythm. The fandango was also a form of courtship. When a man had his eye on a woman, he would invite her to dance. If she accepted, he would place his hat on her head, a sign that she was committed to dancing with him all night. A bit old school, right? Today, most people use Tinder! Each year, the local Cultural House promotes a seminar where musicians and dancers from other states and countries come to stay for a week at a ranch in Las Lomas de Tecamichapan, continuing to cultivate and perpetuate our traditions. It was in these workshops that I made incredible friends and met Angela, a National Award Winner in backstrap weaving, who would expand my mind in ways I never imagined. Join me in our next episode as we discover how Angela influenced my artistic path, the evolution of my dreams, and the unexpected turns my inner voices took! Spotify https://open.spotify.com/show/61ulGaGQJ8ooObRRYpkK2s?si=624a8d05b254411c Youtube Channel https://www.youtube.com/@GinaBaruch Apple Podcast https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/turn-into/id1819805436 Podbean https://www.podbean.com/wlpi/pbblog-tksuj-13da4ab Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/Turn_Into Join my Instagram group https://ig.me/j/AbYJ-AJSJMP6jYzU/ Join my weekly maling list https://www.ginabaruch.com/turnintopodcast Link tree https://linktr.ee/ginabaruch
Welcome back to Turn Into! In our last episode, we explored the vibrant folk music and traditional dancing of my hometown. Today, we continue our journey, diving into the world of backstrap weaving with my second teacher, Angela. Angela was a true master, earning a national award for crafting the most astonishing and perfect shawl imaginable. She generously shared her advanced techniques, showing me how to break the rules, take shortcuts, and, most importantly, how to design my own patterns. I was in heaven! This newfound knowledge felt empowering, allowing me to bring any design from my imagination to life. Unlike some other weavers, Angela was a genuine giver, always willing to share her wisdom. Yet, beneath her generous spirit, she carried immense sadness. Her little daughter had passed away at barely two years old due to medical negligence at a public hospital. I often wonder if, with access to better resources, her daughter might have survived. Despite her profound grief, Angela continued to teach, sharing the ancient wisdom of backstrap weaving with other women. I remember attending her group classes, and witnessing a remarkable phenomenon that often occurs when women gather, especially during hands-on activities like weaving. Without any prior planning, a conversation would simply begin. It would start with something trivial, perhaps a shared laugh. Then, as a sense of confidence and shelter settled over the group, a woman would share a story that had been choking in her throat. I recall Teresa, a robust woman with white skin, curly hair and dizzy eyes. Her gestures immediately suggested that something wasn’t quite right. She struggled with her weaving, causing the teacher to grow impatient. That day, Teresa was beaming, excited to share that she'd received a scholarship to a new public university, a program our "magnificent President" had created. (As a side note, these universities and scholarships were often a charade, improvised weekend programs in elementary school buildings, set up merely to justify millions in their budget. But I'm not here to expose the Mexican government.) So, back to the story... Teresa was thrilled, explaining how easy it was to get the scholarship, how anyone could apply, and the best part – she only had to attend school once a week. "What about your son?" someone asked. "My mom is going to take care of him," she replied. But in women's groups, there's always one bold member who can't hold her tongue or her curiosity. This woman spoke up, "Tell us, Teresa, how did you get pregnant?" Teresa's voice dropped, "Well, one day, a guy who knew I wasn't mentally well took me to his house, gave me drugs, and the next day I woke up without knowing what happened. My parents took me to the doctor, but it was already too late. Because they are religious, they didn't allow me to abort, so my kid was born mentally sick as well, like me." A raw silence descended, interrupting our weaving. Our collective sighs avoided Teresa's eyes. Some felt a rush of anger, others a sense of complicity, while still others felt deep compassion. It took us a while to recover our breath. Teacher, how can I fix this? Thanks god someone changed the topic, and the class continued as if nothing had happened. If you go to Jaltipan, you might see Teresa, with her drizzled eyes and her son by her side, selling candies and Tupperware at the entrance of her house. Who cares if she got a university title when she ha's already earned the biggest degree in life? In the midst of my weaving lessons, I stumbled upon a book titled "The Voices Within" by Charles Fernyhough. This British author completely transformed my perspective on my inner voices. With a background in cognitive neuroscience, he examines the internal voices people experience, which can range from supportive inner dialogues to guiding voices of conscience. The book challenges the traditional view of voice-hearing as solely indicative of mental illness, instead fostering an understanding of these internal voices and their connections to creativity and personal growth. By the time I finished the book, I felt immense relief. What I was experiencing wasn't mental madness; in fact, it was a huge potential for creativity trying to manifest! So, I stopped judging myself and embraced my inner voices. The result was a torrent of creativity, inspired by birds, turtles, and nature. I couldn't stop drawing, designing, weaving, and writing. I even ended up designing a line of chairs for children and some books for toddlers. I was eating super healthy, riding my bike everyday. I also overcame my fear of meditation and began practicing again. My relationship with my mother grew closer; we became best friends and were able to laugh together again. My father and stepmother even appeared in one of my dreams, looking happy. My father told me he never left me, that he was always taking care of me. I continued to hear the voices, especially when weaving in nature. But this time, they became gentle, loving, and wiser. Sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish, their accents would also diverge. But I wasn't afraid anymore. I knew it wasn't my internal routine dialogue because the main voice was soft, kind, and confident. Its dialogues were simple parables that explained things about topics I didn't know before, like the nature of the human mindset, the behavior of animals, the function of the universe, a different culture I'd never visited, or the causes of an event. Sometimes they would even share jokes and make me laugh with their unique sense of humor. I grew up listening to stories about Jesus, but never in angels. One night before going to bed, I meditated and asked for wisdom. The next morning, the first thing I heard after waking up was a voice whispering a name: Jofiel. That's not a common name. I tried to ignore it, denying the veracity of the voice. "I don't think that word means anything. I probably made it up," I thought. But the voice challenged me, "Really? Is that what you think? Research online." "Okay! Okay! I'll Google it," I conceded. As soon as I typed it into Google, I found Jophiel, also known as, Iofiel, Youfiel, Zophiel, and Zuriel – an archangel in Jewish and Christian angelology, associated with beauty, art, and wisdom. What the heck! I was shocked! I didn't practice any religion, the only thing I asked for the night before was wisdom and discernment, and the next morning I had an angel, or whatever it was, whispering in my ear! I then started paying more attention to my angels and their messages. I remembered a dream I had years before, when I was living in San Miguel de Allende. I knew I was dreaming because I saw myself lying on my bed, facing the ceiling, my arms crossed over my chest, which was very odd since I usually rest on my left or right side. My body felt like a gas; I couldn't see it, but I could feel it. I heard a voice in my mind that told me: "Time doesn't exist, it's linear, and you can travel wherever you want – past, present, or future." "Really?" I answered, somewhat skeptically. "I want to go back to my childhood!" I felt my body extracted by a tunnel where I could barely see sparks of light speeding at light speed. In seconds, I was back in my childhood home. I saw everything like a 3D movie scene: My brother was arguing with my mother, begging her for money – "I promise I'll pay you back later," he said. My sister Guadalupe was advocating for him while Dalia and I watched TV. It was night, the rainbow lamp was on, shifting colors from pink, purple, yellow, and green. From the television, I could see and even hear the soap opera dialogue as well as the ads. "Do you believe it now? You can travel anytime," the voice said. I was still skeptical, "Take me to another place?" I requested. And the voice took me to another place. Now it was daylight; we were on a street. I recognized the place: a well-known park far away from my childhood home on my left, and an old guy selling shaved ice from his tricycle in front of me. After that, I felt my body being pulled by a vacuum tube. Slowly, I felt how my body began integrating back into my physical body, and then I opened my eyes. I found myself with my arms crossed over my chest and saw an angel with a sword lying on my chest. I tried to focus my eyes, but the image dissolved like sparks of energy. At that time, I couldn't find an explanation for what I had experienced. I continued having these dreams once in a while, then they stopped, until I came back to my hometown and they intensified again. Now I was not only traveling in time, I was also traveling to other dimensions, visiting other worlds. I wasn't scared, but I was trying to understand what was happening, so I kept asking the Universe for an explanation. Sometimes I get the answers right away, sometimes years later, but the answers always arrive. It could be a person, a book, a conversation in the background of a coffee shop—we just need to be present to receive the information. Well, this time, I was on my computer, and by some twist of destiny, I found an article in a magazine called Vice. (As a note, I knew nothing about this magazine, I don't even remember how I got to the link.) The point is that the article title grabbed my attention: "How to escape the confines of time and space." What in the world was that? The story began in the 1950s with Robert Allan Monroe. This man began presenting evidence that certain sound patterns had visible effects on humans, including increased alertness, drowsiness, and expanded states of consciousness. Six years later, Monroe formed a research and development division within his radio program company, RAM Enterprises, with the goal of studying the effect of sound on human consciousness. He was obsessed with "sleep education," or hypnopedia, a technique in which a sleeping individual is exposed to sound recordings to stimulate the memory of previously learned information. While experimenting with hypnopedia, Monroe discovered an unusual phenomenon: he began experiencing sensations of paralysis and vibrations accompanied by bright light, culminating in an out-of-body experience. Monroe later began producing tapes containing applied learnings from the research program and founded the Monroe Institute in Virginia, with the mission of helping expand awareness of non-physical activities. This technique is accessible to some people, those capable of affording $2,695.00 for a five-day, six-night retreat"—The voyage experience is such a success that you need to book six months in advance! Someone I know went there; she came back pretty energized and motivated by the community but wasn't able to get out of her body. In 1983, the Gateway Voyage caught the attention of the CIA, who assigned Colonel Wayne M. McDonnell to investigate how the Gateway Experience, astral projection, and out-of-body experiences worked. You can read and access the government file online; surprisingly, page 25 is missing, and nobody knows if the colonel made it intentional or if it was omitted by the agency. Monroe published his first book, "Journeys Out of the Body," in 1971, which is credited with popularizing the term "out-of-body experience." In Monroe's book, I found that his out-of-body experiences were quite similar to mine, the key difference being that I wasn't using any Hemi-Sync recordings, drugs, or anything to induce them. I was having spontaneous out-of-body experiences. His book and my own astral dreams would inspire me years later to create a piece of art called "Out of Myself." It not only depicts my journeys outside my body but also represents the several mental stages I go through during the day. The diverse colors of these faces can represent the fluid nature of our mindset. Perhaps you begin a day in deep thought, find yourself moody the next, then drift into a dreamy state, and later feel a surge of excitement. Accepting each stage as a natural part of our self-expression allows us to be less judgmental and more compassionate towards ourselves, reminding us that we are simply living a human experience. I was again laying in the hammock, puzzled; what was I doing that was triggering these journeys out of myself? I did a check-up on my daily routine but found nothing extraordinary. I just had slow mornings, meditated, wove in nature, and went to sleep. Perhaps it was something that happened in the past that I didn't know about? In our next episode, we'll discover when my spiritual journey truly began. To find out, we'll time travel back to my beautiful teenage years in the stunning deserts of Sonora and Arizona! Join us next time to uncover more! Spotify https://open.spotify.com/show/61ulGaGQJ8ooObRRYpkK2s?si=624a8d05b254411c Youtube Channel https://www.youtube.com/@GinaBaruch Apple Podcast https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/turn-into/id1819805436 Podbean https://www.podbean.com/wlpi/pbblog-tksuj-13da4ab Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/Turn_Into Join my Instagram group https://ig.me/j/AbYJ-AJSJMP6jYzU/ Join my weekly maling list https://www.ginabaruch.com/turnintopodcast Link tree https://linktr.ee/ginabaruch
Hey everyone, and welcome back to Turn Into! I owe you a big apology for the delay with this episode. Yesterday was… well, let's just say it was eventful. I was literally sitting down to record when a tsunami alarm went off. Talk about an unexpected turn! Just like in the movies, my first instinct was to run to the hills. But reality set in fast: traffic was jammed, moving at a snail's pace, and most places were closing. The strangest part? Some spots were still open, and there were incredibly long lines for shave ice—people apparently getting their last sweet treat before the supposed wave. Thankfully, everything turned out fine, and I'm finally able to record this for you. To be honest, I thought long and hard about sharing this personal story, but ultimately decided to show up real. After all, my past is an integral part of who I am today. Get ready for a story of self-discovery, family secrets, and breaking free. __________ It was 2000, and I had just turned 15. A sweaty, sticky feeling woke me as sunlight cut through the curtains, a clear sign that it was going to be a hot day, but my morning started with a jolt: my underwear felt wet. A wave of confusion, Had I really peed the bed? A strong, metallic scent hit me, and I shot out of bed, heading straight for the bathroom. And there it was—an intense red spot in my panties. There was no reaction—no shame, no guilt, no surprise. One of the advantages of growing up surrounded by women is that you get an early introduction to women's anatomy. By the time you start experiencing those changes yourself, there's no fear, just acceptance. I looked at myself in the mirror. My legs seemed too skinny, my mouth too big, and my front and back were flatter than a surfboard. Jeans just didn't fit right. If you've ever walked the halls of a high school in my hometown, you'd know that the Kardashians would look petite next to my classmates. As you can imagine, I was the perfect target for bullying. And if that wasn't enough, there was a lot of passive aggressive communication happening right in my own home. My mother overvalued white skin, seeing it as a sign of beauty and nobility. While my sisters inherited her fair complexion and a profiled nose, I was born with brown skin and indigenous facial features, a heritage from my father's great-grandmother. Like the ugly duckling among swans, I always felt like an outsider. High school was a huge leap. I was still very childish and naive. My little town was a shell, but now I had to travel daily to a neighboring city for school. That's where I met Elizabeth, the typical troublemaker. Pretty soon, we were skipping classes and getting drunk. One day, I woke up in a hospital with a massive hangover. My parents didn't approve of Elizabeth's friendship, so they didn't hesitate. They wouldn't let me finish the school year. Have you ever heard the quote, "small town, big hell"? Immediately, people started gossiping about me. To avoid having to explain anything, my mom and I temporarily moved to Sonora. _______________ Jupare is the name of my mom's hometown, a small community in the south of the Sonoran desert. The highway was terrible; it felt like the taxi driver was playing a game, swerving to avoid every pothole. Meanwhile, I was fascinated, enjoying the landscape through the window. Infinite, perfectly green square fields, divided by water channels, appeared on the horizon. We finally arrived. It looked like something out of an old Western movie: sunny, dry, and dusty. The houses were made of mud and decorated with roof tiles. The predominant trees were mesquite and cotton. Nobody walked on the streets; sometimes, you would glimpse an old Chevrolet with an American license plate or a horse-drawn cart far in the distance. There was only one elementary school in the center of town, with a basketball court next to it—the main social gathering spot. I don't know the exact number of inhabitants in 2000, but my intuition tells me there were no more than 500 people, of which 50% were my mom's family. The town was divided by a wide street, with the cemetery in the middle, acting as the frontier between Old Jupare and New Jupare. I asked my mom, "Which Jupare are we living in?" "The New one," she replied. "And what's the difference?" I mean, the houses and appearance were the same—poverty and dust everywhere. She said, "In the old town live the Yaquis, a population of the Mayo ethnic group, Who lives in the New Jupare? The people who are not indigenous." That didn't make sense to me! For me, we all looked the same. It took me years to connect this conversation with the unconscious daily speech my mom used at home to label other people based on their ethnicity. Fortunately, with the passing years, she changed her mind.My mom and I were staying at my grandmother's house. She was over 70 years old and spent most of her time in bed watching TV. Despite her age, you could she was a tall, beautiful woman with white skin, olive eyes, and a profiled nose. All my aunties, including my mom, inherited her sturdy legs. She was a young single mother with one child when she met my grandfather. Every day, he rode his horse in front of her house. My grandma would sit outside, waiting for him, trying to attract his attention, but he never looked at her. Until one day, mad and frustrated, she threw a stone at him. After that, she had eleven children with him, six of them women. My mom was one of the last ones and the only one who formally divorced. Every afternoon, all my aunties would gather on my grandma's porch to drink coffee and catch up on the latest town news. Who headed off to chase the American dream? Who's expecting a baby? What couple just broke up? "Did you hear that Emita is getting married?" one of my aunties mentioned. To whom?" "To a Yaqui from Old Jupare," someone else replied. "Hoooo!" Everybody exclaimed with faces of disappointment. "What a shame! She's so beautiful!" "And what does he do for a living?" a voice from the group asked. "He's a teacher," another voice replied. "Mmmm…." my grandma would exclaim while looking at her nails."And what about Patricia?" one of my aunties changed the topic."Hooo! She got engaged to a guy who owns many truck transportation businesses! You've got to see the house he's building for her. A huge porch with a wooden door that cost him 3,000 pesos! Can you believe it?! And he even ordered furniture from the United States. Lucky her!" "I'm glad she found a gentleman who wanted to marry her," an envious voice said. "People were saying horrible things about her, that she had been seen late at night with Chapo's son. Who would want her after that?" It was in this window of time that I took the opportunity to escape my mom's strict control. Because half the town was my family, she didn't worry about where I was. She knew perfectly well that if I got into trouble, she would know about it before I even got home. After finishing my duties I used to get out to sell cookies and cheese. Then I'd meet up with my cousins, and we'd play basketball, climb trees, cut mangoes at the orchard, ride horses, go to the river, walk on the highway, and watch sunsets. On our return, we'd stop at my cousin's home. They were so poor that the whole family shared a single room, yet somehow, there were always enough flour tortillas and beans for everyone, even the extra children who were automatically included at dinner. I felt immense happiness. One day, my friend Milk, a chubby, blond-haired twelve-year-old, stopped by my grandma's house and invited me for a ride in his horse-drawn cart. I didn't think twice. I just jumped on the seat and enjoyed the 10-minute ride. By the time I came back home, my mom was waiting for me with the look of – "I'm about to kill you". "Where were you?" "I just went for a ride with Milk." "You don't go anywhere with a man without my permission!" she interrupted my excuses with a slap on my face. At that time, I didn't understand my mom's reactions, why she was so apprehensive about letting us hang out with men. It wasn't until I learned about the secret stories of the women in our family that I was able to understand my mom's behavior. When my mom was 17 years old, she had a boyfriend who was doing his medical service at the little hospital next to her house. He left to finish his degree as a doctor and promised to come back and marry her. But in the meantime, her uncle started rumors that my mother had had sex before marriage. Because my grandfather was the town chief, a figure of authority, my mom became the shame that covered the whole family. She couldn't stand the pressure, so as soon as she met my father, she got married to clean her reputation and make her father happy. Of course, that marriage with my father wasn't meant to be and ended 10 years later. Besides that, there’s another story that marked my mother. When I was a baby, the youngest of my mom's sisters visited my hometown in Veracruz. During her stay, she got a boyfriend and got engaged. Summer vacation arrived, and she went to Sonora and supposed to come back to get married, but in the meantime, she met another man and got pregnant by him. The shame covered the whole family, and soon her boyfriend in Veracruz found out the truth. Of course, he wasn't happy about it all, but he accepted to marry my auntie even though she was carrying a baby from another man. My auntie had two more children with him and never worked. They have been married for 44 years, and every time his husband’s betrayal wound is triggered, he reminds my auntie that she would be nothing without him. She would leave home and then come back because she has no money, nor intentions to work. As you can imagine, my mom was traumatized. One of her biggest fears was that her daughters would be dishonest, have sex with a man before marriage, get pregnant, and be humiliated by people's gossip—just like had happened with her mother and her little sister. The years passed, but my mom still believed that the value of a woman was in the purity and chastity of her vagina. She wasn't concerned; she was obsessed with virginity. She allowed my sisters to have boyfriends, but they were never allowed to be alone. Usually, it was her, Dalia, or me who accompanied them during dates. My mom even checked my sisters' underwear in case they had some "sperma." She was also monitoring my sisters' periods to make sure they weren't pregnant. One day, my older sister dared to arrive a few minutes late from the agreed time. My mom became so enraged that she was calling her a "slut!" and questioning what she was doing. Without even expecting it, a knife flew through the air. Fortunately, my sister dodged it in time. Have you ever watched The Virgin Suicides movie? Well, that film falls short in comparison to what we lived at home. Fortunately, we were smart enough to get out of home without that end, but it doesn't mean that I didn't think about it. And if you reflect, you'll realize that even right now, there are still a large number of people who believe that the value of women resides in the purity of her vagina. Continuing the story, the new school year was about to start, so my mom and I came back to my hometown in Veracruz. But because I had gotten drunk that one time, my parents didn't trust me and were constantly controlling my money and time. I knew education was the only way to escape the misery of my family. So I started high school again in 2001. Six months later, my whole family fragmented into pieces. Without any notice, my older brother got married in secret to someone with a questionable reputation. My sister Zazil got an abortion from a married man, My sister Guadalupe was dating a man who hid his sexual preferences for other men. And my sister Dalia got pregnant without being married, while I was struggling with my own existential thoughts. I still remember the day my sister Dalia ran away. It was an early school day. As usual, my mom was still in bed. Dalia packed her clothes into plastic bags. My legs were shaking, and a rush of adrenaline ran down my back while Zazil and I helped her escape. She came back later with her boyfriend to confront my mom and tell her that she was pregnant. As you can imagine, my mom went insane! Well, she already was, but worse! "What would people say? Traitors! You did it in my face!" When I returned from school, my mom was burning my sister's pictures in the backyard. As always, my mom ran away to Sonora to hide her shame. My father wasn't happy about the news, but he accepted reality quickly. In fact, it was a relief for him because now he had an excuse not to pay for my sister's university. _____________ The months passed so quickly, and my nephew was born. He was so blond and skinny that he looked like a little chicken; we nicknamed him "Pollito." As the first grandson, he was definitely a blessing, bringing so much joy to both families. At 21, my sister wasn't exactly humble, but motherhood, work, and weekend university studies rapidly matured her. Finally, my mom came back from Sonora, reconciled with my sister Dalia, and met her grandson. With the passing of the years and some tough lessons, my mom changed her perspective and recognized how wrong she was and how her excessive control just made us more and more rebellious. Today, we laughed and joked about everything we went through."I just wanted the best for you," she said. While her intentions were good, her view of the world was misaligned with reality. By focusing her whole attention and energy on banning sex, in the end, she got what she was asking the universe for. And that's the only way we overcome our deepest fears: by facing them, we realize it's not the end of the world. __________ You know, all families have their own shadow. In my family, it was sex. But in other families, it could be sugar, comic books, or religion. Shadows are created in families from beliefs rooted in judgment, and sooner or later, the shadow will come out so we can correct our view. Each member of the family plays a role, to help unmask the belief and align with reality, and what is real? The only thing that is real, is Love, the rest is only illusions. Perhaps I had to go through all these experiences to find a better understanding of my own sexuality so I could live and express it without any guilt or shame. What a different world it would be if we could honor the power that resides in women's uterus—the infinite power of creation, the capacity to bring life into this planet, to feel joy and pleasure, to expand our creativity. Yes, ladies! The power we have between our legs! And it took me so many years and tons of mistakes to understand and respect this energy. Our body is our temple, and our sacred womb is the door to access this infinite power. If my story resonated with you or sparked something within you, please consider leaving a comment on this podcast. I would love to hear about your experiences. Here are some questions to guide your reflection, but feel free to share whatever comes to mind: What was your reaction to your first menstruation? How do you experience your period each month? Is it painful, smooth, or somewhere in between? What sexual myths did your family or community hold? How have your sexual beliefs impacted your relationships? In what ways do you connect with or use your own creative power? As Joe Dispenza says in Breaking the Habit of Being Yourself: Your beliefs are the thoughts you keep consciously or unconsciously accepting as the law in your life. Whether you are aware of them or not, they still affect your reality. So if you truly want a new personal reality, start observing all aspects of your present personality. You must pay attention to your unconscious thoughts, reflexive behaviors, and automatic emotional reactions—put them under observation to determine if they are true and whether you want to continue to endorse them with your energy. If you become more aware, you will become more attentive. If you become more attentive, you will be more conscious. If you grow to be more conscious, you will notice more. If you notice more, you have a greater ability to observe self and others, both inner and outer elements of your reality. Ultimately, the more you observe, the more you awaken from the state of the unconscious mind into conscious awareness.” Thank you for joining me on this deeply personal journey. I hope it resonates with you and encourages you to reflect on your own power and paths to self-discovery. ____________ In our Next Episode Graduating high school coincided with my 18th birthday, though I felt far from prepared for university. I was, to be honest, still quite childish. My mom stepped in with a suggestion: spend a few months with one of my aunties in Tucson, Arizona, to gain some clarity about my future. My dad wasn't thrilled about the idea, but in the end, he supported me. So, I looked into the passport requirements, secured my visa, and soon found myself flying into Arizona's arid desert landscape. Follow me on any of my channels! Spotify https://open.spotify.com/show/61ulGaGQJ8ooObRRYpkK2s?si=624a8d05b254411c Youtube Channel https://www.youtube.com/@GinaBaruch Apple Podcast https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/turn-into/id1819805436 Podbean https://www.podbean.com/wlpi/pbblog-tksuj-13da4ab Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/Turn_Into Join my Instagram group https://ig.me/j/AbYJ-AJSJMP6jYzU/ Link tree https://linktr.ee/ginabaruch
Welcome to Tucson, Arizona, where the sun is always on full blast and the American Dream is alive and well—sort of. I was moving in with my auntie Lucero, her husband, and my three cousins: Victoria, Adalberto, and Beatriz. This family wasn't just living the American Dream; they basically wrote the book on it. My aunt and uncle came here young, crossing the river with nothing but hope and a whole lot of grit. They took every job no one else wanted, the kind of jobs that make you feel like a human Roomba, but they never gave up. Years of backbreaking work and perseverance finally paid off. They got their green cards, which was like getting the keys to the kingdom. Suddenly, they had credit, my aunt opened a children’s daycare, and my uncle started his own construction business. Now they're living the high life in a nice house in the Mexican neighborhood, driving a brand-new Ford Explorer with fancy leather seats. But here’s where the story takes a turn you won’t see coming: After all that, after all the struggles and years of hard work, my aunt would be a hardcore supporter of Bush. I mean, the irony is so thick you could use it to build a wall. Even though I was grateful they received me in their home. Alright, so I was finally in Tucson, which, for me, was like Sonora with the thermostat cranked up. It was this weird hybrid of Mexican and American culture, a place where you could get a killer taco while a mariachi band covered a country song. Compared to my tiny hometown, where you could walk everywhere and know everyone's business, Tucson felt like a full-blown metropolis—New York City, but with more cacti and fewer angry taxi drivers. My dad, in a moment of parental compromise, had let me go with one major condition: I had to study English. So, my aunt enrolled me in free English classes offered by the government. The class was a real melting pot, but mostly of Latin immigrant women. Half the class was older moms, the kind who brought their own Tupperware of snacks, and the other half was young women whose life's mission was to bag an American husband. The classes themselves were... Well, let's just say they were no stand-up comedy specials. The real show was after class, during the socializing. I only made one genuine friend; the other connections were mostly superficial. We were all on different planets, and I never really found my tribe there. I just sat there, a kid in a woman's world, learning English and watching the American Dream unfold, one boring grammar lesson at a time. Victoria, my cousin, was a striking figure—tall, with a short haircut, a long torso, and a smile full of perfect teeth. Even though we were only three years apart, she looked older than me. As the oldest child, she carried the weight of her mother's expectations, and I quickly developed a soft spot for her. One day, she hit me with the question that would reveal just how different our worlds were. "What group do you belong to?" she asked. My face must have been a picture of total confusion. "What do you mean? I was in the B class—is that what you're asking?" She laughed. "No, silly! I mean the subcultures. You know, the punks, the rockers, the darks, the rappers, the cheerleaders." My mind was officially blown. "Ohhh!" I exclaimed. "I listen to everything! I like rock, but I also like pop and folk." She looked at me like I had just said the most ridiculous thing. "You have to choose one," she said, with the seriousness of a high-stakes decision. "I'm punk." she said. "What's that?" I asked. She launched into a passionate explanation: "We listen to bands like My Chemical Romance, The Ramones, and the Sex Pistols! And we wear leather jackets, ripped jeans, and chains." "HOOO!" I exclaimed, my brain trying to process this new information. The funny part was, for all her talk of DIY punk style, I never once saw her with a needle and thread. Instead, we spent most of our time—and our limited money—at the mall and fighting for bargains at Ross. I guess in America, even rebellion has to be bought on sale. This American high school system was a total shock for me. In my old Mexican school, the social hierarchy was pretty simple: you either had money or you didn't. But here, with my cousin, it was a whole new world. It took me a while to understand the Chicano teenager's desperate quest for identity. They're stuck in this weird limbo—not fully Mexican, but not fully American either. Because they don't have a defined identity, they look for one in these subcultures. It’s like they're trying to choose a team in a game they never asked to play. And all the media doesn't make it any easier. The movies, magazines, and MTV TV shows shove these rigid archetypes down their throats, creating all these expectations about how you should look, dress, and act. It's like a high-stakes, real-life version of *Mean Girls Movie, but with more social pressure and a lot less Lindsay Lohan. My cousin Victoria introduced me to Liz and Pam, two Mexican-American sisters from her high school who were both pretty amazing, but in completely different ways. Pam looked like a Russian model—tall and slender with pale skin and high cheekbones. Liz, on the other hand, was shorter, with sharp curves, tanned skin, and striking olive eyes. Their family had moved to the U.S. when the girls were babies and never looked back. After their father passed away, their mom remarried an authoritarian man. The whole family had green cards, except for Pam. I still remember how terrified she was of being deported. She refused to speak Spanish in public. Because of her situation, she was easily the most mature of the four of us. They were also into rock punk music, so pretty soon, I was listening to KAFM radio station and our weekends were filled with rock concerts, like Jimmy eat the world, Breaking Benjamin, and other bands. Ah, the good old days of our downtown adventures. I love remembering our trips. None of us had a car, so it was a solid hour-long bus ride, including a transfer, just to get there. Once we arrived, we’d start at the top of North Fourth Avenue and make our way down, doing some serious window shopping at all the vintage thrift stores. My favorite store was Hot Topic. You could find the most psychedelic boots there and all sorts of vintage dresses. Victoria and I were completely obsessed with cherries. One day I found this amazing black cherry dress with a crinoline under the skirt, and she got these killer black cherry sunglasses. If our limited budget allowed, we would always end the day with a trip to Wendy's for burgers and ice cream, Then we'd try to catch the last bus home. One night, we missed it and had to walk all the way back. As the rain poured down on us, we sang at the top of our lungs: "20, 20, 24 hours to go I wanna be sedated Nothin' to do, nowhere to go, oh I wanna be sedated..." It was a long, soaked, but very happy walk home. My sexual awakening came late —like, really late. While all my friends were losing their virginity at fifteen, I was full six years behind. So there I was at eighteen, tagging along with my cousins and their friends to parties. My first party, it completely freaked me out. Most of us were under 21, and everyone was getting high and drinking, but I quickly got the hang of it. Soon, we were a foursome of girls, diving headfirst into the great game of party seduction. I, of course, had no idea what I was doing. We were just four girls pretending to be women, stumbling our way through the awkward dance of flirting, with no real-world experience to guide us. It was a hilarious disaster, but at least we were a team. You want to hear something ridiculous? My first kiss—I honestly thought I was pregnant. How's that for a complete lack of sex education? My mom and sisters never talked to me about any of it, and the internet wasn’t as accessible like now. Today, you can find pussypedia.com, a detailed 3D vagina, along with a comprehensive list of frequently asked questions that clarify common misconceptions and misinformation about its anatomy and function. Unfortunately, I learned by trial and error. So here I was, terrified but at the same time experiencing. I set my own rules, I allowed myself to have physical contact, but never let anyone "be inside of me". I just couldn't understand why people were so obsessed with sex. I mean, I had fun, but it was never that "WOW" moment everyone talked about. It took many, many years later—and an incredibly patient French boyfriend—to show me the way. He was the one who finally taught me what an orgasm was. Turns out, I just needed someone who spoke the language of pleasure, not just the language of fear. One day a read that in an African Tribe, when a girl turns into a woman, all the women of the tribe gathered together in a circle, teaching the girl to reach her orgasm as part of her initiation. What a different perspective from the one I was raised in. And suddenly, it all made sense. Why do people get so addicted to sex, that is. I mean, my early experiences were a bust, but then I read *The Kabbalah of Sex* by Yehuda Berg. According to this book, sex is the most powerful way to experience the light of the Creator and to transform the world. He writes that during passionate lovemaking, the earth moves beneath you and spiritual worlds tremble above you. It's like tossing a small stone into a deep lake, and the ripples radiate out through the cosmos. It's some seriously deep stuff, and the book explains the science behind it all really well. The only part I take issue with is the belief that sex is only for procreation. It's one of those things where I just have a hunch a man wrote it. If a guy had to spend most of his life giving birth like a rabbit, I don't think he would have the energy to both enjoy sex *and* write the Kabbalah. I guess that's the difference between theory and reality. If you want the book's message in a nutshell, here's my take: Sex is like the 69 position—you get what you give. If you're selfish in bed, that negative energy will eventually burn you out and come back to you. But if you give someone genuine love, that's exactly what you'll get in return. Because everything you give to others, you're ultimately giving to yourself. For many years I came back to Tucson during summer vacations, but eventually, I stopped visiting. The last I heard, Pamela finally got her citizenship. At a concert, she met her boyfriend and moved to Memphis, Liz found a partner and had two beautiful children, while Victoria got plastic surgery and moved to New York to pursue a career in fashion. We all went our separate paths, but I'm grateful for the memories and the incredible moments we shared. Life is fleeting, and friends and relationships come and go. But the love you give and receive is eternal; it will always be there. ____________ In my next Episode (A phone rings.) Alo! "Gina! What are you thinking?" "About what?" I replied, a little annoyed. "About your life! Are you going to apply for university or not?" It was my father on the phone! The question hung in the air, a verbal reality check I wasn't ready for. I fell silent, my carefree life flashing before my eyes. The silence stretched on, heavy and full of unspoken expectations. "Yes," I finally answered, my voice small and hesitant. "I will come back." --- Follow me on any of my channels Spotify https://open.spotify.com/show/61ulGaGQJ8ooObRRYpkK2s?si=624a8d05b254411c Youtube Channel https://www.youtube.com/@GinaBaruch Apple Podcast https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/turn-into/id1819805436 Podbean https://www.podbean.com/wlpi/pbblog-tksuj-13da4ab Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/Turn_Into Join my Instagram group https://ig.me/j/AbYJ-AJSJMP6jYzU/ Join my weekly maling list https://www.ginabaruch.com/turnintopodcast Link tree https://linktr.ee/ginabaruch
A green sign appeared on the road, its white letters declaring, "Puebla 15 Miles." To my left, two volcanoes filled the window. One looked like a sleeping woman, the other a man on his knees. The legend of Iztaccíhuatl, a princess who died of grief believing her warrior, Popocatépetl, had fallen in battle, came to mind. When he returned victorious, he found her dead. He carried her to a mountaintop and stayed by her side, watching over her eternal sleep. Over time, they both became volcanoes. These ancient lovers, now stone witnesses, were about to see a new chapter of my life unfold. Green pines gave way to a sprawling four-lane highway, where two-story houses and a blend of colonial and modern buildings lined the road. As my dad and his wife frantically tried to figure out which lane to take, a driver laid on the horn, and black cabs with yellow awnings past us. Puebla, founded by the Spanish Empire in 1531, is the fourth-largest city in Mexico. The Franciscan evangelization left a lasting mark, as a church seems to appear on every other corner. Its economy thrives on textile and car manufacturing, with Volkswagen being a major player. The city is also a culinary paradise, famous for its “chiles en nogada” and the legendary “mole”, a rich paste of spices, including cacao and chili. Somehow, we made it. After navigating the guardhouse, we parked in front of two stark white, four-story buildings. Then a warm, smiling young lady greeted us, and gave us a tour. The building was eerily uniform, with each floor a carbon copy of the last. A communal kitchen, a dinner and TV room with a wide glass window view of the neighboring buildings and the volcano couple. The place, a university dorm, turned out to be a brand-new, sterile haven for young minds. I was the first to arrive, and my room was perfect—two twin beds, two desks, and two closets, fortunately no roommate, all mine. My dad's parting words were, "Be good, take care!" I'm pretty sure he said it with his fingers crossed. I, being the obedient daughter I was, immediately began unpacking my life's treasures: 50 pairs of shoes and 35 purses from my recent trip to Tucson. After that Herculean effort, I collapsed in the TV room, scrolling through channels, filled with a cocktail of excitement and fear. I had come to a private university on a scholarship, a feat my public-school-educated self still couldn't quite believe. I had the world at my fingertips—or at least, three career choices: Textile Design, Graphic Design, or Marketing. I chose Marketing, not because of some deep-seated passion, but because my naive 19-year-old brain thought it sounded glamorous, easy, and well-paid. My dad, who had just been released from his financial duties with my older siblings, was able to cover the portion of my tuition that the scholarship didn't. There I was, a mix of nervous and insecure, terrified that my public school background wouldn't be enough to keep me afloat. Just then, a girl called Vania sat next to me. She was beautiful, with dark hair and cinnamon eyes, and hands that had never seen a dishcloth. She was a niña bien—a "good girl" from a Catholic home, with a provider dad and a mom who drove the kids to school. We immediately hit it off, discovering we were from towns just two hours apart. Within minutes, her friend Victor showed up, and we were off to a bar. My dad hadn't even made it back to Veracruz, and his "be good, take care!" was already a distant, drunken memory. Through Victor, I met Dany Boy—a shy, freckle-faced guy who later on would become my "perdition," as I now lovingly refer to it. He was a responsible student who occasionally showed up to parties, a stark contrast to my "drink, dance, and don't look back" philosophy. The next night, sleepless with anxiety, I found myself on the dorm terrace with a group of girls. They were all from different parts of Mexico, but they all had one thing in common: expensive last names and even more expensive quinceañera presents. "I went on a Disney cruise in Europe!" one gushed. "Me too! But I flew with my whole family!" another one exclaimed. My turn came, and a sense of dread filled my stomach. How could I compete with that? My quinceañera was a trip to the port of Veracruz, a mere four hours from home. I just decided to be myself and told the truth, and to my surprise, they didn't judge me. They accepted me and loved me just the way I am, I had found my sisters. And what about the people who didn't like me, well, and just didn’t care. I returned to my room and spent the entire night staring at my seal. My alarm finally went off at 6:00 a.m., but the August air was still cold, filtering in through the window. After a hot shower, I put on a denim miniskirt, a blazer, and flip-flops. My teeth chattering, I watched as students arrived in brand-new cars—BMWs, Audis, Mercedes, and Alfa Romeos. The "poorest" drove Toyotas. The walk across the parking lot took ten minutes, but I was still late. I opened the classroom door at 7:10 a.m. to find everyone staring at me. The classroom was filled with local girls who all looked like they'd stepped out of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue. When the teacher asked us to visualize our lives in ten years, they all said the same thing: married, with kids, working and living in Puebla. I, on the other hand, said I'd be living freely with a partner, no kids, probably another city. The looks I got were priceless. It was as if I'd announced I was an alien from Mars. I also remember Isa from that class. She was a tall blonde, and her boyfriend was her male clone—the perfect Barbie and Ken couple. After graduation, Isa followed her prophesied path: a church wedding, a white dress, and a daughter. But then, her story took a turn. One day, she woke up and realized her sexual preferences had changed. She didn't want a man; she wanted a woman. I can only imagine what she endured, especially in Puebla with its strong religious influence. Yet, she found the courage to be honest with herself and make it public. I'm sure she faced scandal and criticism, but years later, she found love again and remarried, this time to a female partner. She's happy now. And I share her story because it’s a powerful reminder that we shouldn't take our future for granted or deny our capacity for change. Life is an eternal process of self-discovery, always asking, "Who am I?" By 11 a.m., the sun was high, and I was soaking it up in front of the chapel, my blazer already discarded. But beneath the warmth, my fear still lingered: would I be able to keep my scholarship? My classmates had attended bilingual or trilingual private schools with sophisticated educational systems, while my rural school teachers could barely speak proper Spanish. So what was I to do? I did what any 19-year-old would do—I decided to have fun like a rockstar. One night club every night! Mondays at Kilauea! Tuesdays at Tiki! Wednesdays at Barcelona! Thursday at The Clandestine, Fridays at Latin River, Saturdays at Worka. And Sundays? I honestly have no idea. Our nights typically began at Aleko's dorm, where I and other friends would pre-game until we were already drunk. By the time we hit the clubs, we were a walking, dancing disaster waiting to happen. Over my four years of non-stop partying, I lost count of how many guys I kissed. I tried to make a list once but I gave up after a while. I did a lot of stupid things in my early twenties, including not respecting my body, and putting myself in risky situations. I often wonder how I survived it all. If angels exist, I bet I must have had a million of them watching over me in that time. Surprisingly, I had the energy to do it all. I would party all night, show up for a 7:00 a.m. class, train with the Official Tae Kwon Do Team, and still find time to do homework, read and hang out with friends. My favorite place was the library, a three-story building with a spiral hallway, where I constantly checked out books and movies. My social circle expanded beyond the campus when a friend introduced me to Gema, a law student who invited me to join the “International Rotary Club for Youth”. We were a small group of idealistic folks trying to save the world, like organizing events to buy toys for children in need. It was incredibly fun and rewarding. I also volunteered at an orphanage, where I spent time with a kid named Bryan. Having grown up on the streets, Bryan had learned to survive and protect his heart from pain. He was only six when he was caught leading a group of child gangsters, and he had so much potential. As if my schedule wasn't already packed, I also signed up for the "International Club" at my university, where I got to play tour guide for students from all over the world. My weekends were a chaotic but fun mix of exploring art museums, getting lost in the colonial architecture of downtown Puebla, and spending lazy Sundays on the dorm couch with my roommates, watching art films and demolishing a bowl of popcorn. And then there was Dani Boy, the freckle-faced guy. We had a fiery, on-again, off-again thing for years, but he wasn’t wild enough to handle me. I'll never forget the day I was having a good cry over our latest breakup when a little voice in my head piped up, "If you had him, you wouldn't want him anymore." What?! I stopped crying instantly. That voice knew me better than I knew myself. Today, we're Facebook friends, he has a beautiful daughter, and I can clearly see why we were never a good match. So, if you're out there shedding tears over a lost love, remember: you still haven't met all of the people who are going to love you. Looking back, my university years were a wild blur of "unstoppable intensity." I was living a life that felt like a man's in a woman's body—partying hard, but also driven by an insatiable curiosity, a desire for self-education, and a passion for humanitarian causes. Unbeknownst to me, I was desperately searching for answers to the big questions: Who am I? Who am I? Am I Mexican? Am I A woman? Am I student? Am I a wife? Am I a mother? Am I a professional? Am I a body? Years later, I created a piece called "My Other Selves," a portrait of myself drawn in multiple layers of color. Each layer represents the different roles we play in society, but the core of who we are—our essence, our love—never changes. As Einstein's Law of Conservation states, energy cannot be created or destroyed; it can only be changed from one form to another. In our next Episode Discover how a new love came into my life, how my spiritual search began, and a terrible discovery in my last year of University. Follow me on any of my channels! Spotify https://open.spotify.com/show/61ulGaGQJ8ooObRRYpkK2s?si=624a8d05b254411c Youtube Channel https://www.youtube.com/@GinaBaruch Apple Podcast https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/turn-into/id1819805436 Podbean https://www.podbean.com/wlpi/pbblog-tksuj-13da4ab Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/Turn_Into Join my Instagram group https://ig.me/j/AbYJ-AJSJMP6jYzU/ Link tree https://linktr.ee/ginabaruch
I found myself at a club called Bombay, a small bamboo shack where people danced at the rhythm of new-age music. I was with my roommate, Rebeca, who looked like the twin of Gabriela Montez from "High School Musical" and had a fan club of guys following her around. And there it was, a tall guy with a perfect smile and shining eyes, the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen. He saw us, however, seemed slower than the Titanic, and the night was quickly ending. I took matters into my own hands. I walked over and introduced myself, then tried to set him up with Rebeca. "Hey, how are you doing? This is my friend Rebeca, you should meet her!" I said, trying to be the wingwoman of the year. He, however, wasn't having it. "I don’t want to hang out with your friend, I want to meet you," he said. I was completely thrown off. Rebeca, being the good sport she was, ended up with his friend, and we all were happy. He was a German exchange student named Daniel, and we spent the rest of the night talking. When he asked me if he could see me again, I felt like I was in a dream. He took my phone, and under the bright moon of Cholula, he gave me the sweetest kiss. Despite the fact that he was leaving in a few weeks, we continued dating. I remember having dinner and long conversations with him. One morning, I woke up at his place to find him fresh out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his hips, and abs that could grate cheese. He had cut up fruit for me and carried me back to bed. More than his looks, I was captivated by his genuine interest in me. He asked questions that no one else ever did. He taught me that love, respect, attention, and honesty were the most expensive gifts of all. I realized I was so busy trying to be someone else that I never appreciated my own beauty. He showed me that I was enough, just as I was, and that's a lesson that I'll never forget. "There are some men who arrive to repair." And he was one of them. As an unknown poet once wrote, And then, they make their early diagnosis. They look at you and detect you. They land in your little world like Columbus in America. But they don't conquer you. They don't plunder you. They don't fool you. They only bring love in little bottles. And they do what they have to do for you. For your soul. For your pain. For the desire you had to find something different in life. There are men who know. Even without knowing. Even without suspecting. Even without being fully aware of their importance. They know with a different wisdom. They smile with different smiles. They speak with different words. They work magic. There are men like that. I swear. I've seen them. I know them. I watch them act. From afar or up close. I admire them. I check them out as soon as they arrive. Sometimes, I get emotional with them. Because they have art in their hands. They open you up. And you don't mistrust them for a second. Because they are friends. But they aren't ordinary friends. They're strange friends. They're friends from somewhere else. They're fellow stars. They arrive. They do. They say. They look. They see. They won't always like you. They won't always love you the way you want to be loved. They won't always love them the way they want you to love them. That's something else. Something else. They will come to fulfill their destiny. They will come to make your life better for a while. To return a long-standing favor. To sign a pact. Because they are something else. Deeper. Stranger. More capable of staying inside you. Because these men will live in those places where you don't allow anyone to enter. Because you will stay inside them like a girl staring at the sea on a beach at night. There are men who come to heal women that heal Because they were born to do so. To heal those who heal. Because we are companions. Beloved. Lovers. Loving. And when two beautiful companions like these collide, get together, intertwine, and love each other in their own way, the universe celebrates. Daniel eventually went back to Germany, and we kept in touch through email. I knew I could obsess over him and try to make a long-distance relationship work, but it just didn’t feel right. It wasn't me. Instead, I chose to cherish the beautiful memory of a man who saw my light and my worth. He eventually got married and had children, and every few years, I still get an email from him sharing news about his life and family. It's been almost two decades since we met, and I am still grateful for the moment our paths crossed. Years later, I will create an Art piece called The kiss, inspired by Klimt. It's intriguing that viewers perceive the embrace as a grandmother and daughter, when my intention was to depict a couple deeply in love kissing. Perhaps the profound emotional energy I poured into the artwork resonated with that powerful familial bond. For me, the connection between a mother and child embodies one of the purest and most authentic expressions of love, but so can be the genuine love between a pet and its owner, or the sincere affection between two friends. Love speaks many languages, and a kiss is just one of them. __________ The question, "Who am I?" was a relentless ghost haunting me. I had looked for answers in libraries, clubs, and conversations, but never in a church. Maybe I would find something there, I thought. My friend Oscar, who was trying to impress a Mormon girl, invited me to his church. It was a bust—the only thing I found was a lot of bragging. Then, my classmate, Suri invited me to her Christian church. It was a small, genuine community of about 25 people who talked about God's love without trying to push me toward baptism. I liked it for a while, but my party-girl ego wasn’t ready to let go so easily. Every time I tried to stay in, my phone would ring, and my friends would have a new, unbeatable excuse. "I have no money!" I would protest. " I will pitch you the ticket!" they would counter. "I don't know how to get there!" "I will pick you up!" "I have an exam on Monday!" I would plead. "I will let you copy my answers!" they would finally exclaim. As you can see, temptation was a losing battle for me. One time, I organized a spring break trip to Puerto Escondido with six Spanish guys and six Mexican girls in a cramped van. It was a blast and a perfect disaster from the start. After throwing up five times, we finally arrived at Zipolite, a famous nude beach that was completely dead after 6 p.m. The guys were furious, wanting me to change our entire group to a party town. The current hotel refused to refund us, so we ended up crammed into two rooms at the cheapest place I could find. Then, on my first day, I lost my purse with all my money and cards. Was this a sign from the universe? "Stop!" it screamed. Of course, I didn’t see it. I have no idea how, but I managed to get free drinks and keep the party going. I was hitting rock bottom. You know it’s time for a change when you wake up with a terrible hangover, a deep sense of shame, and the feeling that you’re literally poisoning your own kidneys. But even that wasn't enough to make me stop. Not yet, anyway. ______ My final semester arrived, and I had left the dorms behind for a house with two roommates. My university, founded by the Jesuit Order, had the motto, The truth will set us free. This wasn't just a catchy phrase; it was a core part of the curriculum. Alongside classes like Macroeconomics, Math and Statistics, we were required to take a series of humanism courses. The goal was to cultivate a reflective mindset, analyzing global issues and the role of ethics in creating a more just world. At the time, these classes felt like a huge burden. I remember crying in class while watching a documentary on the Rwanda genocide and pulling my hair out writing an essay on the planet's biggest CO2 producers. But it worked. I stopped buying clothes from brands that exploited their workers. My friend Adri would laugh at my new "outfits"—blue jeans paired with a handmade skirt and a scarf crafted by an indigenous woman. Then, just a few months before graduation, I read No Logo by Naomi Klein. This book completely shattered my understanding of marketing, exposing the radical psychology behind corporate consumerism. My carefully constructed vision for my future fell apart. Did I really want to help big corporations sell more stuff? The thought of telling my dad, "Hey, sorry, I chose the wrong career, can I start over?" was laughable. So, I was left with a very big question: what was I going to do now? ___________ In retrospect, I don't regret my past decisions because they've made me who I am today. But if there's an afterlife and I get a do-over, I have a note for my younger self. First, I'd travel the world for two or three years, not rushing, but slowly. I'd try as many different crafts as I could, spend more time in nature, and learn to listen to my body. I also believe that living with a partner in my early teens would have made me grow up faster. By the time I turn 21, I would have already experienced the joys and challenges of "playing house." I think the sooner we explore our earthly desires, the sooner we're ready to answer 0bigger questions: Who am I? Why am I here? The truth is, I still don't have all the answers. At that moment, I was freaking out, about to face reality and become an adult. My dad had been waiting for this moment my whole life. It was time to change, to grow. I knew Puebla no longer fed my needs. It was time to move on, but where would I go? In our Next Episode Discover where destiny will take me. A cosmopolitan city full of life, noises, restaurants, vibrant music and countercultures. Mexico City. Spotify https://open.spotify.com/show/61ulGaGQJ8ooObRRYpkK2s?si=624a8d05b254411c Youtube Channel https://www.youtube.com/@GinaBaruch Apple Podcast https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/turn-into/id1819805436 Podbean https://www.podbean.com/wlpi/pbblog-tksuj-13da4ab Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/Turn_Into Join my Instagram group https://ig.me/j/AbYJ-AJSJMP6jYzU/ Link tree https://linktr.ee/ginabaruch
In 2009, I arrived in Mexico City with one suitcase and a head full of dreams. This city is a place where ancient history and modern life collide in a vibrant, breathless dance. It was built on the ruins of a great Aztec capital, where grand cathedrals rise beside ancient pyramids, and every cobblestone street whispers tales of empires past. The air hums with the energy of nearly nine million souls, a symphony of street vendors' calls, honking horns, and mariachi music drifting from hidden courtyards. Its landscape is a feast for the senses, with the scent of fresh-cut flowers from Xochimilco mixing with the aroma of sizzling street tacos. The city's colors are bold and brilliant: the deep pink of bougainvillea against the pale stone of colonial buildings, the fiery murals of Diego Rivera telling stories on public walls, and the golden light of the setting sun casting a spell over the vast Plaza de la Constitución. Mexico City is not just a destination; it's an experience. It’s a city of elegant art deco architecture and bustling markets. It is a place of profound beauty and deep contradictions, a city that both embraces and defies its own history, all while inviting you to lose yourself in its intoxicating rhythm. My first home was in the expensive Polanco neighborhood, to my dismay, a tiny room in what looked like a converted chicken coop. For the same price, I could have rented an entire apartment back home. I was barely affording a laundry room space. There were six women living downstairs including Paola, a smiling girl in her early twenties, who quickly became my confidante. One day, she confessed she was recently divorced. "Wait, you're only twenty-one?" I asked, completely shocked. "How old were you when you got married?" "Twelve." She replied, Holy moly! My jaw must have hit the floor. Just thinking that at that age I was playing barbies made me feel totally childish. He was my teacher since first grade, but it was until my sixth grade that we realized we were in love, she said. But, how did your parents allow that? I mean, It's illegal to marry children, I exclaimed. Well my mom was against the relationship but I was very rebellious and determined to escape with him. So at the end, she gave up and signed the permission. So why did you divorce? Because after twelve, these ladies grew so big, she said while she was touching her bubbies, that he felt disgusting about my body, so he never touched me again. That night, I went to bed asking myself why a kid has to go through some life's experiences. I tried not to judge the guy, but I honestly couldn't. It wasn't until years later that I finally understood that he, also, was deeply suffering. I fell in love with Mexico City immediately. Unlike Puebla, people here were more real—no faking. My favorite sociological sport was going through the metro, the subterranean heart. A vibrant living network of tunnels where millions of stories intersect every day and the unique calls of vendors selling everything from chewing gum to pirated DVDs. Each station is a portal to a different world, with some displaying ancient Aztec artifacts and others showcasing modern murals that burst with color. Each subway, a microcosm of the city itself. Here, a gay couple shares a passionate, undisguised kiss, their love a bold statement in the moving crowd. Just a few feet away, a man newly released from prison sets up a circus show to get money, by breaking pieces of glass on the floor with his elbow he gets his goal quickly. On the other extreme of the wagon, a poet recites beautiful verses into the air, yet the person next to them reads a newspaper with complete indifference. It is a place of raw humanity, where every story unfolds in its own way, unconcerned with the others. However, I quickly realized my sheltered life in Puebla had left me unprepared for the real world, the perfect target for every scam out there. My job search felt more like a pilgrimage, and during that time, I moved through many different places. One apartment I landed in was with two opera students. To cover the rent, we needed one more roommate, so I posted an ad online. That's how I met Norma. She was a few years older than me, and we quickly became close friends. Norma is the embodiment of patience, hard work, and resilience. Having grown up in a large family with limited resources, she began working and living on her own at a young age. Without a college degree, she started as a receptionist at Adidas Mexico. An opportunity soon arose to become the assistant to the Key Account Golf Manager, a challenge she accepted without hesitation. Before long, she was doing her boss's job—while he attended cocktail parties and took all the credit and a higher salary. For a long time, she never complained; she just worked patiently. As fate would have it, her boss moved to Puma and invited her to join his team. This time, she was offered a better position and salary. But life has a sense of humor. Her boss was fired, and she was promoted to his position. She proved that she had the skills and capacity to excel in the role, even without a formal degree. Norma taught me that success isn't defined by where you come from, but by your hard work and perseverance. She proved that with enough resilience, it is absolutely possible for women to shatter the glass ceiling. Meanwhile, my family's pressure to succeed mounted, and my dad cut my financial support, assuming I was having cocktails instead of job hunting. I was competing with millions for the same positions, and my idealistic self wanted to work for Greenpeace, while my practical side needed to eat. I was offered a position at a top marketing agency, but the salary was so low it wouldn't even cover my rent. To make it worse, my dad was calling me every day, begging me to come back to Veracruz, even offering to pay me a salary if I returned. I refused, and our argument ended with me hanging up the phone, a silence that lasted for over a year. I needed a job fast, so I took a temporary job selling insurance over the phone. I kept telling myself, "It's temporary! It's temporary!" The job sucked, but the people were amazing. I met a woman in her fifties who was one of the top sellers. She told me she was there for therapy. "I would rather be here around young people, laughing and making money, than be at home," she told me. "You don't understand. When I'm at home, he controls everything, including the money. He doesn’t give me any single coin. If the kids need a pencil, he buys it, If I need a tomato for cooking, he buys it. Sometimes I feel so impotent and angry that I throw as many milk bottles as I can at the dogs, just so he has to buy more." Her words stopped me cold. "That's why I come to sell," she concluded. "Because when I work, I forget about my own problems." One temporary month turned into six. By that time I had moved to Condesa, a vibrant neighborhood, where I lived in a tiny studio with a roommate in a crumbling, triangular building. Ana was a textile designer. She's the one who introduced me to the world of Mexican textiles and some truly thought-provoking essays. I still remember one of them. It highlighted the lack of women in many fields, especially writing, by analyzing the tragic endings of female characters in novels written by men—like Anna Karenina and even characters in the Bible. The author argued that we need more women writers to replace the guilt and shame in women's stories with joy, success, and happiness. Our neighbors were quite a cast of characters. On the first floor lived a young woman who wore a blond wig and exotic clothes every night, next to her, an eccentric old woman threw lively parties, and, on our floor an amateur actress practiced her lines. In the midst of my job hunt, I was still partying and dating two guys who smoked a lot of weed. I was never a smoker, but I would join them. One day, while smoking with one of them, I saw an intense light coming from the ceiling. A hand was reaching out to me, and as I focused, I saw a face—it was Jesus, extending his hand to me, I raised my hand and touched him. Immediately, a strong electrical current rushed through me, so powerful! it felt ten times stronger than an orgasm. By the time I came back to my body, and opened my eyes, tears were falling through my face. I immediately knew this was something different, an experience that transcended a simple high. That was one of the last times I tried weed. I continued my life without having any idea of the meaning of that encounter. By December, I was exhausted. The cold weather, the poor eating, the endless interviews—I was ready to give up. I decided that if I didn't find a job before Christmas, I would leave the city. Then, to my surprise, a company called me. It was a startup that developed a software for recruiting people—the irony wasn't lost on me. I was offered the position as Head of Marketing. The long, dark season was finally over. On New Year's Eve, my neighbor María invited my roommate and me to a party in her apartment. It was a bohemian scene filled with artists, musicians and writers. There, I met Richard, a shy writer with a peculiar sense of humor. We talked about trivial stuffs he asked me a strange question: "Do you meditate?" I laughed and told him I had tried but couldn't. Then he invited me to a group called "Laboratory," What is it about? I asked, he said, I can’t explain, you just have to experience it for yourself. It was the first Sunday of 2010. As usual, I arrived late to an ordinary home in the southern Rome neighborhood. Richard greeted me at the door with a warm smile, gesturing for me to remove my shoes and take a seat on one of the floor cushions. The morning sun, softened by the curtains, illuminated a diverse collection of images: Krishna, Jesus, Buddha, the Virgin of Guadalupe, and a host of angels. A circle of seven people sat in quiet concentration on satin cushions, their legs folded in the lotus position. In the center of the circle, a thin pad on the floor, where a person was laying. The guide, Betty, rang a small bell, and the room was filled with the ambient sounds of new-age music. I had never meditated, but I followed their lead, closing my eyes and simply existing in the moment. Images began to form behind my eyelids—not just pictures, but huge packages of data. With each one, I could perceive a complete message, a story told in an instant. After about fifteen minutes, the bell rang again, signaling the end of the session. Betty asked the person in the center if she would like to hear what we had perceived. She agreed, and one by one, we shared the visions and feelings that had come to us. When we finished, she confirmed that our perceptions had matched her experience perfectly. Now it was my turn. As I lay on the pad, the bell rang, and the new-age music was replaced by the chanting melodies of Hindu music. I resisted, afraid to be vulnerable, but I soon realized that you cannot hide from love. A powerful energy began to open my chest, breaking down my defenses until my armor was completely gone. Tears streamed down my face as my heart felt a love so pure and innocent it took my breath away. Time seemed to dissolve. When the bell rang again, I felt like I was slowly returning from a far-off place. Betty asked if I wanted to hear what the group had perceived about me. One person felt my fear of vulnerability. Another mentioned my distance from my father. Someone saw damage to my kidneys, and another had a vision of my childhood. I was in complete shock. I didn't know these people. Richard, the only one I knew, barely knew me. The session continued, and the more I engaged, the more I was able to perceive the others. As the session concluded, we were asked for a voluntary donation of 50 pesos, or about $2.50 dollars. I left with my mind buzzing, but my intuition already knew the truth: I had finally found what I had been searching for. In our Next Episode, Discover what new characters came to my life in this group and how my waking up process had a ripple effect, changing my relationships, and my perspective on life. Follow me on any of my channels Spotify https://open.spotify.com/show/61ulGaGQJ8ooObRRYpkK2s?si=624a8d05b254411c Youtube Channel https://www.youtube.com/@GinaBaruch Apple Podcast https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/turn-into/id1819805436 Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/Turn_Into Join my Instagram group https://ig.me/j/AbYJ-AJSJMP6jYzU/ Link tree https://linktr.ee/ginabaruch
Hello and welcome back to Turn Into! Last time, I told you about meeting an interesting character who introduced me to meditation. This week, let’s dive into what happened next. After that first session, my life took a wild and unexpected turn. I was stunned by how little this group knew about me, yet they seemed to see right into my past and even into my physical body. It was unbelievable, and I had to understand how this was possible. So, every Sunday, I went back to this place they called the Laboratory and practiced with the group. The leader, Bety, was this wonderful old woman with the most beautiful, motherly energy. She immediately took me under her wing and made me feel like I was part of a family. The more I went, the more I started to notice things about myself and others. I could feel and see things about the other members that I never thought were possible. They were so open and vulnerable, dedicated to their spiritual paths. This was the first time I had ever been in a group where I didn’t feel like I had to wear a mask. I could just be me, and that was a huge relief. This group was a mix of people in their 50s and people in their 20s, like me. It was clear that age had nothing to do with experience or capacity. We were all on our own unique paths. Caridad could listen to angels, Richard was into astrology, Maria was all about prayer, and Jazmin was into science. Cinthia could talk to spirits, and Mariana was able to communicate with animals. It was so much fun and so interesting! I didn't feel like a weirdo anymore; I felt like an X-Men, surrounded by all these other wonderfully strange people just like me. At first, many of the terms were confusing to me. But because my mind was a blank slate—free of preconceptions or judgment—it was easier to learn, and eventually, the ideas just started to click. As I continued with the sessions I began to feel things much more deeply. I cried more easily, but I also laughed more. The world seemed more vibrant, more alive. I started to see beauty everywhere and felt a profound sense of connection to everything and everyone around me. My first months were a radical physical and emotional detox. I had weird physical symptoms, I was crying for no reason, and in less than a month, I got rid of any relationships that didn’t align with my new frequency. I said goodbye to boyfriends addicted to weed, and even my roommate, who wasn’t mean, but we just didn't match anymore. I was changing so fast, and the universe was clearing the path. _____ One morning, I remembered a small, handwritten sign I'd seen months earlier in a window that read, "Room for Rent. Only Mrs." I wasn't sure I'd pass the "Mrs." exam, but I knew I had to try. I followed my intuition, and there it was—the house I was looking for. I rang the bell, and a smiling nun opened the door. "Do you rent rooms?" I asked. "Yes," she said with a warm smile. Sister Esther immediately pulled me inside and gave me a tour. It was a beautiful, classic old house with incredible details. On the first floor was a communal kitchen and a chapel. On the second floor were three big bedrooms, each of them with three twin beds, meant to be shared by three girls. The rent was a bargain, especially since the house was in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the city. On top of that, it included breakfast every day. But there was one catch in the fine print: girls were not allowed home after 10:30 PM. Cinderella had more flexibility than us! Even so, I always found a way to stay out when I wanted to. The most amazing thing was that the nuns never judged me for my behavior. Instead, they loved and supported me. Every night I'd come home from work, chat with them, and then go to the studio where the other girls were studying or listening to music. I would hang out with them until late at night. I made wonderful connections there, and we're still friends today. My bond with the nuns was and still is so strong that even years later, when the Mother Superior passed away, I dreamt of her. Another time, I dreamt of Sister Esther in a different house I had never seen before. There was a church on a slope, and when I called her, she told me she had been transferred to a new house in Puerto Rico and was shocked that I knew about the church on the slope. Even when we are no longer together, we are always connected. --- I kept going to the Laboratory every Sunday. In the beginning, I was freaked out. My mind was so open that I was perceiving so many things. I could hear drawers opening and closing in the next room after midnight, when actually everybody was sleeping. Bety told me not to worry about it; I was in a safe space with the nuns, and my ego was just trying to scare me from waking up. I needed to be strong and keep going. This journey wasn’t just about perceiving things about others; it was about waking up to my own life. I began to understand why I had been so distant from my father and why I had held onto so much fear. The sessions provided a safe space to confront these long-held wounds, and with each new insight, I felt lighter. One night, I was out with friends in Condesa, and it was past midnight. I was sitting on a bench while my friends waited for their taxis. A girl, who looked about 12 and was poorly dressed, caught my attention. She was with a group of other children who were selling gum on the street. Then, I saw a scene that stopped my heart. A young guy, no older than 20, was sitting with a mad look on his face. He seemed to be the leader of the group. The girl was begging him for forgiveness, and he was just pushing her away. I so badly wanted to intervene and tell her, “Hey, you don’t deserve that!” But who was I to think my intervention would solve anything? I had to accept that this was her reality and become just a witness. A profound sense of guilt struck me. I was so privileged—A spoiled brat! I had a family, an education, a job, health, friends, a safe place to sleep and What was I doing with my life? That memory still haunts me. What happened to that girl? Was I an accomplice for doing nothing? Slowly, without even trying, I reduced my alcohol consumption until one day, I had no desire to drink anymore. I knew there had been a change in my mind. Once I solved my issues with my father, my desire to drink disappeared. I can if I want to, I just don’t have the desire anymore. This was so different from how many groups treat addiction, which often focuses on avoiding the substance rather than getting to the root of the desire. __________ Every laboratory session was a different experience. It felt like there was a portal there, and through it, different masters communicated from other dimensions. It could be an acupuncture master using needles on our bodies, a Native American shaman dancing around us, a fairy, or a scientist replacing organs. The variety of masters was endless. I saw so many miracles happen. I remember one child who arrived with paralysis and began to move. I could easily see people’s past lives and also their futures. One day, Maria was concerned about her finances, and a master told me her mom had saved some money in a jacket. The next day, Maria found gold coins hidden in one of her mom's old jackets. At the time, I didn't know we were practicing telepathy, which is a capacity every human being has. If you read Lorna Byrne's book, Angels in My Hair, you will find that many of my experiences are similar to hers. The more I meditated, the more I remembered. It was like the truth was always there, and it just clicked. Sometimes, there were new guests at the Laboratory, and I could tell some of them were misaligned with reality. I would get so upset and ask the masters, “Why do you allow these people to come?” They would say, “Because you humans are lazy. You don’t want to think. We allow diversity in the Laboratory so you can practice discernment and find what is true.” I didn’t understand at the time that they were pushing me to use my intuition. How do you develop that skill? When you face two or more facts, one may be true and the other false, or perhaps they're all true or all false. The combinations are infinite. Intuition requires us to be present and to practice over and over again until we can listen to our gut and recognize the truth immediately. The Laboratory was an amazing experience. I like to think of it as the kindergarten of energy, with Bety as the master and the rest of us as her students. This group gave me the foundations of how energy works. I remember her telling me, “Gina, the Universe isn’t asking you to save someone else; the only thing it’s requesting is to be responsible for your own energy. Don't throw your flowers to the pigs.” Teachings that cost me a lot of tears and more than 10 years to learn. I also noticed the big difference between meditating alone and meditating in a group. When I meditated by myself, I became aware of my own thoughts and feelings. But in the Laboratory, we could mirror ourselves in the group and quickly identify our blind spots. We could get a deeper understanding of any topic by accessing a bigger picture. For example, imagine the topic is an elephant. Each member of the group would perceive a different part of the elephant. When we put all of our perceptions together, we could see a panoramic picture that would have taken any of us months or years to get on our own. That's the power of community, and it's not restricted to meditation groups. It could be a sports team, a business team, or a prayer group. Not everyone in the group progressed at the same speed. Some people had been there for over ten years and were still at the very beginning. I later learned not to judge; we are all on different paths, and some of us learn faster than others. The way our minds are set up plays a crucial role in how we process information, but in the end, we will all get to the same destination. The key is to keep a beginner's mindset—staying open to new ideas while constantly questioning what is real. So how did the Laboratory start? Through conversations with Bety, I learned about Christina, the group's founder. She didn't go to school, so her writing skills were very poor, but in the 1970s, she wrote two books that you can not find in a library, only by the hand of someone. The story says that at an early age, she was contacted by beings from another planet and later began her spiritual journey. She was never interested in being famous or living from her healing skills. She was an ordinary woman who had a printing business and could also be in different parts of the world at the same time. She founded the Laboratory in Mexico and had students all over the world. In one of her books, she explains the science behind energy and predicted many of the technological advances we see today, including AI, androids, clones, and hybrids. Since Christina had already passed away by the time I arrived at the Laboratory, I can't confirm what's true about her story. I can only share my personal experience of being there. The years passed quickly. It was already 2014, I had moved into an apartment with my partner, Andres, started a new job, and doubled my income. My work took me to places like Silicon Valley, Colombia, and El Salvador, while for pleasure, I traveled to New York, Chicago, London, Paris, Berlin, Peru, and Costa Rica. Life was truly good, and I have no doubt that meditation was the source of all these blessings and abundance. One day, we had a visitor at the Laboratory. It was Padma, a Mexican woman around her forties who was a member of the group for many years. Until, she met a guru, Amma, fell in love with her and followed her to India, where she became a renouncer, which is kind of a nun. Padma introduced us to Amma, and later, I met her at one of her seminars in Dallas. Amma is one of the most influential spiritual leaders in India, and she frequently tours North America, Europe, and Asia to share her wisdom and hugs. When I arrived at the hotel and finished checking in, I was immediately struck by the scene. The room was beautifully decorated with flowers, and Amma sat on a throne in her white clothes while Hindu chants played in the background. It was impressive, and I had no idea what to expect. A huge line of people was waiting to receive a hug from her. Finally, it was my turn. A woman from Amma's team held my right shoulder, another held my left arm, and they pushed me into her chest. It was so quick that I barely had time to understand what had happened. I would be lying if I said it was the most loving maternal hug I've ever felt, but I didn't judge; I just sat there and enjoyed the experience, the chants and the teachings were beautiful. I felt a bit sick around midnight, so I went to my room and fell asleep. It wasn't until the next day that something truly strange happened. I was waiting for the shuttle outside the hotel when a gentle breeze swirled toward me. It felt conscious, and time seemed to stand still. It was an eternal moment, as if the breeze had been waiting for me all along. It wrapped around me, and I felt a soft, strong energy—it was pure love. The breeze then unwrapped me, and I watched it leave, rustling some leaves in its path. It was a magical moment, and I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed it, but everyone else, glued to their phones, completely missed it. Right away, after I returned from my seminar, I dreamt with a baby, three consecutive times. It wasn't until the last dream that I asked myself, "When was my last period?" I ran to the pharmacy and bought a test. It was positive! I ran back and bought two more tests, and they were also positive. We hadn’t planned it, but I was 29, living with my partner, and we were financially stable enough to raise a child. It wasn't the end of the world, but our lifestyle and priorities changed immediately. I was only one month pregnant and already super sensitive, crying even if a fly died in front of me. After two weeks, I lost the baby spontaneously. At first, I was sad; I had already started dreaming of this life. But I soon understood that it was a sign. I wasn't ready to be a mom yet; I needed to do what I needed to do before jumping into that stage of my life. The doctor applied anesthesia and did his work. When I woke up, the first thing I thought was, "I am going to India." My partner didn’t believe me, but that same day, I bought my tickets to Delhi. What do you think of this turning point in my life? Do you think the universe was sending me a message, or was it just a coincidence? In my Next Episode Discover my arrival to Delhi, and all the adventures I had to go through in order to get into Amma’s ashram, as well as an unexpected event that will shock me! Follow me at any of my channels Spotify https://open.spotify.com/show/61ulGaGQJ8ooObRRYpkK2s?si=624a8d05b254411c Youtube Channel https://www.youtube.com/@GinaBaruch Apple Podcast https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/turn-into/id1819805436 Patreon https://www.patreon.com/c/Turn_Into Join my Instagram group https://ig.me/j/AbYJ-AJSJMP6jYzU/ Link tree https://linktr.ee/ginabaruch