*names and identifying specifics in Indigestories are changed to protect the privacy of loved ones. 

After a wild series of events, friends kept repeating the same question:

Is someone doing brujeria on you? 

It’s a long story beginning here, with a seemingly harmless visit to help a friend. The series of events that followed became progressively intense, escalating to near death. This is a real-life cautionary tale. If you heal, help, or support others, learn from my mistakes and my wisdom, protect yourself, even if you’re coming from a space of pure love.

CLEARING LAYLA’S HEX

When I found out Layla hadn’t eaten in three days, I knew I had to be there. Carrying my sahumador y canasta de freshly harvested yerbas, I walk past random bits of iron scattered across her porch. Layla puts her phone down, standing in front of her couch as we hug the longest embrace in our seven year friendship. She sheds regal tears bending into my arms. It reminded me of her birthday at a salsa club a couple years back. She held me tight that time too: 

“I have no one”.

There were a ton of people there. But I knew she meant no one stronger than her to lean on when life gets hard. The curse of the strong one is that everyone leans on you, but who do YOU lean on when you need falling apart? That night, I promised myself I’d show up when Layla needs big sis LOVE. Swaying my body to Hector Lavoe, margarita in hand, I didn’t imagine things could turn out like this. 

I get Layla’s tired bones into her clawfoot tub filled with potent herbal waters. I pray over every inch of their body with love, slapping yerbas rhythmically, steam dripping to the beat of my cantos. 

Con humo, I cleanse their home, jewelry, and pets. Every corner is cleared. But every time I turn my back, the caca energy comes right back. I cleanse again and again and again. Until finally, it works. As soon as I’m done with her sobada, Layla gets an important call. The issues causing her distress are under control. It’s over. Layla looks different, feels different, and we celebrate with pho. 

On the way out, I ask Layla for some of the iron scattered on the porch for my son who’s a metal worker. He was just asking me to buy him some iron rebar to melt down, so this is perfect! Our friends line up to carry the iron to the trunk of my SUV. Pulling up to my house, I’m famished. I haven’t felt this tired from energy work in years. My older sons contentedly unpack my trunk for me while I recover from LA traffic. Remember this moment, because the subsequent series of events in my home would all point back to this day.

JAZMIN’S EXCORCISM

Two months later, my Indigenous Bodywork Apprentices gather around the fire on my deck, practicing calling the spirit back. 

Like a giant orgy, women undulate, moan, and affirm each other. I’m in a circle of powerful healers blooming- releasing lifetimes of trauma under the canopy of collective wailing, laughing, sobbing, shouting, humming.

As I’m rubbing my student’s womb, holding space for her to release, Jazmin comes from behind me, channeling a grandmother. She says the perfect thing to help my student release shame and embrace sensuality. I have been Jazmin’s teacher since 2013, but I have never seen her look so empowered in spirit work.

We come back to our bodies, ground ourselves, and close the circle. But Jazmin is on a good one. Instead of winding down, she begins channeling her father. Folks are saying goodbye when Jazmin says some dark things. Her voice changes with each spirit she channels. She loses her grip on her own essence, allowing the spirits to take her over. In between characters, she begs me for it to stop.

I didn’t sign up for this, Panque! Nope, Panque, I don’t want this!

Make it stop! Noooo…

Talking Jazmin down isn’t working. I relight the sage. She dodges the smoke and in a raspy, high pitched voice, snaps:

GET THAT AWAY FROM ME!

Then 

It’s hot, it’s so hot, I’m hot, I’m burning.

A friend and I are trying to help Jazmin as she walks into my living room. Here, a mischievous little voice comes through:

Vanessa’s coming tomorrow. Haw haw haw. YEAH. Vanessa… We’ll see you tomorrow Vanessa. Yeah… see you.

Vanessa is the pregnant mama who volunteered to be worked on by my students. Does this little spirit have plans for Vanessa’s belly? An ominous feeling washes over me. This has to END. NOW. I help Jazmin to her knees and put an ice cube in her hand:

When this ice is done melting, they’ll be gone. Say this with me: 

When the ice melts, you’ll be gone. I don’t give you permission to be here. This is my body. When this ice melts, you’ll be gone. When this ice melts, you’ll be gone. 

Jazmin places the ice on the sandstone in my potted tree as she toggles between reclaiming her body, breaking into voices, and begging me to rescue her.

Is it melted? Oh, is it melted yet, Pānquetzani?