Held by the Sea, Fed by the Sun

(From the series: Pilgrimage to the In-Between: Travels Through Soul and Soil)

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I didn’t come to Cancún to sightsee.
I didn’t come to visit ruins or bustling markets.
I came because I was empty.

After a long winter in Pennsylvania—both literal and spiritual—I flew south to meet the sun. The trip was a gift from my sister and her family, an all-expenses-paid offering I didn’t know how much I needed until I arrived. I’d been burned out, overextended, under-receiving. My sister was navigating heartbreak and betrayal. We both needed something we couldn’t name.

So we came to Cancún—and we didn’t leave the hotel.
Not once.
And that was the medicine.

We stayed at the JW Marriott, our rooms facing the sea. At night, the waves grew louder and more alive, echoing with the pulse of something ancient. The lights from Hotel Row shimmered on the dark water like stars that had descended just to float for a while. By day, the Caribbean shifted into impossible colors—lavender, pink, creamsicle blue—like the sky had melted into the water and decided to stay.

And I listened.
I laid beneath the sun for hours, slathered in layers and layers of organic sunscreen, letting the heat soften something that had long been frozen. There is something sacred about going near the equator after surviving winter in the north. The way your bones begin to believe again. The way your spirit lifts. The way your creativity, long-buried beneath snow and sorrow, begins to stir.

My sister and I laughed and cried, sang 80s songs poorly, and scooped seashells with our feet. We ate gnocchi and tiramisu and drank mango smoothies and sparkling water. We made fun of each other like kids again. We took silly photos to embarrass each other. And through it all, the sea never stopped singing to us.

But what I’ll never forget is how I was served.
A waiter picked up a napkin I dropped and gently replaced it. I almost cried.

I, a healer who’s spent years listening, witnessing, holding—didn’t know how to let myself be held.
I folded my towels before housekeeping arrived. I made the bed each morning. I kept my room pristine, afraid of being too much, even in a space designed for rest. I didn’t know what it meant to receive without guilt.

And in that receiving, something stirred.
I began to wonder what it might feel like to live in greater balance—to let myself be cared for, not just relied upon. To receive with the same grace I so often offer others.

At the same time, I couldn’t help but notice—every person who served us was Mexican.
I wondered: how many had stayed here as guests? How many had received the kind of care they gave?
It didn’t take away from the kindness, or the beauty. But it did leave something unsettled in me—an awareness that lingered.

Because reclaiming my right to rest also asks me to acknowledge the unseen hands that make rest possible—the ones I didn’t see in the lounge chairs beside me, only in uniform. It made me think about all the years I overgave and undervalued my own work, believing rest had to be earned through exhaustion. Here I was, finally receiving what had long felt inaccessible—care, service, luxury—but still aware that those caring for me may not have had the chance to receive the same. That realization stayed with me. It made the rest feel both sacred and sobering.

It also made it clear why I wasn’t craving activity or adventure. I didn’t need to go anywhere to find what I was seeking.

I didn’t leave the hotel.
I didn’t need to.
Because I didn’t come for landmarks.
I came to soften—and to be met by the sun, by the salt, by the service and the silence, and by something deep inside of me that, for the first time in a long time, finally felt safe enough to rest.