I dissolve into weightlessness in the arms of therapist Daniel Acatl, founder of Meyaj Wellness, as he floats my body above the translucent waters of the Bacalar Lagoon in southern Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula. With my eyes closed and a clip secured around my nose, he guides me through a series of slow, spiraling motions in the freshwater sanctuary, gently submerging and lifting me in rhythmic waves. Acatl never takes his hands off me, always gripping either my wrists, ankles, knees, or back, allowing me to feel held and secure enough to completely let go. At times, he softly cradles me into his arms like a child; at others, he takes my hands in his and flies me through the water in expansive swirls. But the tenderest moments come when he places one hand beneath my head and the other at the small of my back, slowly guiding my upper body beneath the water—this is when I truly melt into the experience.
It’s only minutes into the ceremony, and I feel completely safe with him, as he always knows when to bring me back to air at the perfect moment. Though I’m aware of reality and in my body (and completely sober, may I add), what unfolds truly feels like a psychedelic journey: light fractals of the blazing sun dance above my eyelids, tension melts from my limbs, and my body feels limitless. It’s a practice of complete and total surrender and one that sends ripples of pleasure and bliss and euphoria through my body. Though many describe Janzu as a rebirth experience, for me it feels like a step beyond that—a return to my truest form, an aquatic liberation dance into the innate essence of who I am.
I’m fortunate to be guided by Acatl, one of the leading practitioners in southern Mexico who specializes in Janzu ceremonies. The water-based practice is native to the region and was first developed in the 1990s by Mexican healer Juan Villatoro. As a participant in my friend Amalia Moscoso’s inner child transformation retreat at Kokoro Mio, a boutique hotel tucked into the jungle just outside Xul-Ha, the southernmost point of the lagoon, I was privy to a session with Acatl as part of the programming. (He leads the hotel’s wellness offerings, guiding guests not only through Janzu, but also temezcal sweat lodge ceremonies and fire circle rituals.) Given Janzu’s profound effect on me, I delved deeper into the therapeutic form with Acatl to understand why exactly it’s so powerful.
“Water therapy has the power to restructure cellular memory through constant friction and ion exchange, providing improved blood flow and deep lymphatic drainage,” says Acatl. “It helps reduce inflammation in the body and muscles and relieves pain. But what makes Janzu a particularly powerful form of water therapy is its profound emotional and subconscious release of trauma and fear, and why it’s considered a rebirth therapy.”
Janzu varies significantly from other similar forms of aquatic meditation such as Ai Chi, a method developed in Japan that combines slow flow water movements and elements of Tai Chi and Qi Gong to promote relaxation, and Wai Chi, a method inspired by Hawaiian Hula and oceanic movement with the means to connect to the water as a spirit, as it not only relaxes the receiver but it also recreates the safety and fluidity of the womb. The result is a step beyond wellness into a type of regression therapy that offers a window into the participants’ purest selves, which can sometimes prompt them to recall memories or sensations of who they were at birth. Though for me it was very much a pleasure ride to glide through the water safely held in Acatl’s hands, for many, Janzu is a deeply confronting and emotional experience.
Acatl also believes the therapy is particularly powerful in Bacalar, as the lagoon holds a unique and ancient energy source due to its presence of stromatolites: the oldest living organisms on Earth, dating back over three billion years and believed to have played a vital role in shaping Earth’s early atmosphere.
Though very much associated with Bacalar and the lagoon’s natural healing properties, the interest in Janzu is now quietly proliferating throughout southern Mexico and beyond, particularly in coastal wellness hubs such as Tulum and Baja California Sur. Hotels like Nomadé Tulum, Chablé Yucatan, and Hotel El Ganzo in San Jose del Cabo now offer the therapy to guests as part of their wellness programing, and even some retreats and hotels in parts of Spain and Portugal are beginning to offer Janzu, too, particularly in regions visited by spiritual seekers drawn to the practice’s blend of somatic therapy and spiritual release.
As with most aspects of life, I believe timing is never random, and my Janzu experience proved particularly serendipitous. Five months earlier, I had walked away from the life I’d built in Mexico City over the course of eight years: I sold everything I owned, gave up my apartment, and retreated to my desert bungalow in Todos Santos for a reset. I barely talked to anyone, and my days were filled with writing a novel and playing beach volleyball at sunset. I needed to discover who I truly was, to experience the most feral part of myself that was dying to burst forth, one that existed beneath the scaffolding of societal norms and expectations. It was a relief not to get dressed and polished and ready every day to appeal to beauty standards, to take a break from constantly striving to achieve another career milestone. It was in this stillness where I met the woman I really am—the realest, rawest version of myself. I grew to not only like her, but to love her.
This trip to Bacalar marked my first real step toward reengaging with the world, before returning to Mexico City and life as usual, but with this newfound freedom inside me. My Janzu experience came at the perfect time and delivered exactly what its philosophy promises: a return to something ancient and tender, where complete surrender becomes not just possible, but inevitable.
At the end of my Janzu experience, Acatl guided me to the shore of the lagoon and held me in his arms, my back to his chest, our cheeks pressed together, my face tilted toward the sun. It was the completion of the womb ceremony, like a mother cradling a newborn. Suspended in that sliver of time and space, I felt held by something larger than either of us—as if he had become a vessel for something divine, channeling it through himself and into me. I melted into what mystics might call oblivion. But to me, it simply felt like coming home.
