I'm writing from a small casita in the Sacred Valley of Peru, tucked between Urubamba and Pisac. Kids are playing next door. The mountains rise directly in front of me. Behind the house, I hear a waterfall that never stops.
This is my third time here in four years.
There's something about these lands, I keep telling people.
Simplicity - not by choice, but by necessity.
Abundance - not of money or convenience or luxury, but of laughter and joy and a oneness.
A rootedness and connection to something most of us back home yearn for on a regular basis but find hard to come by.
It's been five days since we arrived in the sacred valley. The first couple days were needed to acclimatize to the 3,000-meter elevation. Lots of rest, chewing coca leaves, minimal eating. The last few days have been more exploring - stepping out of our comfortable little nook, bit by bit.
And I remember why I come here every year looking for refuge.
The days here are 24 hours, just like back home. Except here, they feel more spacious.
I wake up earlier, with the sun. Have my morning tea, meditate with tarot, spend some time with tobacco. Then my beloved and I get together for quality time. Both of us feel and look healthy and happy. This is her first time here. She's already told me a few times that she understands why I come. She's feeling the softness of the people, the power of these lands. "I'm feeling happy," she says. And she looks it - radiant in a way that has nothing to do with doing anything.
Around noon, we head out for some random adventure. Collective buses, different parts of the valley, meeting locals, finding another part of nature to get lost in.
Every day feels full and of purpose, although I wouldn't say I'm actively doing anything that would be considered "moving the needle" towards a purpose.
And that's the thing here.
These people aren't thinking their way to a life of purpose. The men aren't "conscious." The women are simple. But the way they live, purpose is embedded.
During the day, the men work hard. The women tend to their simple homes. The kids go to school. The stray dogs everywhere do their stray dog things.
In the evening, everyone gets together. They hop on the collectivo just like us. They go for food or to the market or just to ride around town. They greet each other - even strangers. Not many people on their phones (although that seems to be changing with the younger generation). There are more laughters and conversations between strangers here in a week than I've heard in six months back home.
These people aren't rich. This is one of the poorer countries on a continent that's already poor.
Yet they seem content.
They look at each other in the eyes. They check in with each other. They help each other. They gather together. They live multigenerationally - grandparents to parents to kids. They probably don't even have the concept of purpose, because they're just living it.
I watch their faces - wrinkled by age and the troubles of this life. But their smiles, their eyes, still so active and curious. Still so alive.
And that's what makes reconciling my life back home and here tricky.
As a purpose and initiation guide, I help people find their true essence. I help them realize that their purpose isn't something they do, but who they naturally are. It's good work. I'm good at it.
But honestly? What I do would be irrelevant if we lived in a society that lived in reverence with nature and spirit - instead of one where the primary focus is survival.
These people here aren't seeking meaning in their lives through weekend retreats and coaching programs. The meaning is in how they live. With their family. The way they play with their kids and tend to their elders. The way they greet strangers on the bus. The way they work hard during the day and gather in the evening.
Purpose isn't something they seek. It's embedded in the fabric of their days.
Back home, despite all the conveniences on offer, there's more addiction, homelessness, grief, hopelessness, and a general sense of just getting through another day. We're busy keeping up with politics, fighting each other over the next -ism or transition, while losing touch with what it means to be human.
We've sacrificed our humanness for convenience, automation, safety.
In the name of creating safety and security, we've learned more about fear and self-protection. Which closes us off to our neighbors. To our friends. To strangers on the bus who might otherwise become friends.
But that's antithesis to life.
A life lived in fear is merely counting the days. A life lived on the edge - open, connected, rooted in something larger than survival - that's a life that's actually full.
So I keep coming here, hoping to learn from these lands. To get inspiration. To remember.
Back home, I wake up and every day feels like a chore. Here, it feels organic. I wake up feeling happy, recalling my dreams with more ease. My body comes more alive than it does at home. My mind slows down. My heart stops questioning.
When my friends back home ask why I keep coming to a place that's poor, out of touch, in a continent most travelers skip, I don't fully know how to answer them.
How do you share that there's a place where purpose isn't something you find - it's something you embody, simply by living close to the earth, close to each other, close to what it means to be human?
How do you explain that the people here, without any of our advantages, softly touched but not overtaken by modernity, have something we're desperately trying to remember?
Here's what I'm learning, listening to this waterfall, watching my beloved soften, seeing those wrinkled faces with alive eyes:
Purpose isn't out there to be found. It's not in your business plan or your mission statement or your carefully crafted offer.
Purpose is what happens when you stop trying to protect yourself from life and start living in it.
It's waking with the sun. It's greeting strangers. It's gathering in the evening. It's tending to elders and playing with kids and working hard and resting fully. It's looking people in the eyes. It's living multigenerationally, rooted in land and connection and something larger than your individual survival.
It's choosing aliveness over safety. Edge over comfort. Connection over self-protection.
Most of us in the West live in a world where we've traded our humanness for security. And then we spend thousands of dollars trying to buy back what we gave away - through retreats, workshops, coaching, medicine ceremonies.
We're trying to find our purpose when really, we're trying to find our way back to being human.
The Quechua families here don't have a word for purpose. They don't need one.
They're already living it.
What have you sacrificed in the name of safety? What would it look like to choose aliveness instead?
Ish
P.S. I have space for two in 1:1 coaching for the rest of the year.
This work isn't about finding your purpose. It's about remembering how to be human again - how to show up authentically, love openly, and lean into life instead of protecting yourself from it.
If you're tired of the chore. If you're ready to stop seeking and start embodying. If you want to reclaim the aliveness you've traded for safety - I can help you.
But only if you're ready to help yourself.
P.P.S. I am also running my Men's Rites retreat in Peru next year. It's a chance for you to get up close and experience some of the magic of these lands. The page is up and accepting applications. Special deal for my existing 1:1 clients.
