The first time I truly heard the didgeridoo, it wasn’t just sound—it was a feeling. It was early morning after an ayahuasca ceremony. One of the helpers picked up the instrument, and as the deep, humming resonance filled the room, something stirred in me. It bypassed the thinking mind. It reached somewhere ancient, cellular. I felt it in my bones, in my breath, in my soul.

I didn’t know exactly what had happened—only that something in me had shifted.

So I bought a didgeridoo.

With no background in music and no formal plan, I began to learn. It was awkward at first. No sound would come. My breath felt clumsy. My lips resisted.

But something sacred was unfolding beneath the surface: I was being initiated into a new relationship with sound, presence, and energy.

Since then, the didgeridoo has become a profound part of my work in sacred medicine ceremonies. It’s not just an instrument—it’s an ally. Its vibration clears stagnant energy. Its rhythm deepens the trance. It speaks to the body in a way that words cannot. I’ve seen it carry people through dimensions, into their grief, into their power, into silence.