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Reclaim Your Soul, Serenity, and Sisterhood Through the Healing Medicine of the Grandmothers
By Robyn Moreno
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The alchemy for real personal transformation lies in digging up your own medicine and tools. Your ancestors, with all their struggles, strength, and resilience, are your greatest guides.
Anyone scrolling through Robyn Moreno’s social media and seeing her with her adorable kids and taking the stage at empowerment conferences would have thought she had it all together. But the truth behind her well-curated pics was that Robyn was burnt out: in the midst of a full-on, midlife meltdown caused by that all-too-familiar working mom tightrope walk coupled with painful family drama.
To save her soul, sanity, and family, Robyn quit her manic #mommyboss existence, and set out on a 260-day spiritual journey based on an ancient Mexica (Aztec) calendar, studying the medicine of her Mexican grandmothers: curanderismo. She learned about sustos—soul losses—and ser—your true essence. She reconnected with family she hadn’t spoken to in ages, and learned fantastical stories about her great-grandmother, Mama Natalia, who was a curandera. She took cooking lessons with a tough but tender-hearted Mexican chef and found community, and joy, in hiking. She had dramatic moments with her sisters, her mom, her husband, and herself. And finally, she went into the jungle of Belize and found healing in the most unexpected way.
Reckoning with the hidden stories and aspects of her family and her Mexican American culture that were transforming and heartbreaking brought Robyn to an unshakable understanding of who she is and how she fits into this world. And, by looking to her past to decide which traditions, which medicines, to pass on to her daughters—and which to leave behind—she began to root into the person she was meant to be.
Some names and details have been changed out of consideration for friends and loved ones. Sacred practices have been shared with permission from my maestras and ancestors. Curanderismo means “a way of healing” in Spanish and broadly describes the varied healing practices used throughout Latin America. In this book, when I refer to Curanderismo, I am referring to the traditional medicine of Mexico because as a Mexican American from the Southwest, that is the tradition I grew up with and practice.
Though this book shares teachings from Curanderismo, it does not initiate you as a curandera. If you’re interested in the beautiful medicine of Curanderismo, take the time to study with a teacher who is knowledgeable and integrous. More than anything, this is a book about spiritual reclamation, and I hope it inspires you to rediscover, learn about, and practice medicine from your own sacred lineage.
Tlaalahui, tlapetzcahui in tlalticpac (It is slippery, it is slick on the earth).
“You’re so rooted!” gushed Roma, a bubbly energy healer—and hairstylist—from Seattle. Her business card promised, “Healing from Hair to Heart!”
“Yeah, you’re the only one here that’s actually in your body,” echoed her sister, Antonette, a laid-back wildlife biologist/curandera who was leading our retreat in Belize.
Our group had just finished an intense meditation where we journeyed down into a cave (real) to ride a jaguar (imagined) to help us break through mental and spiritual blocks. I was feeling a lot after flying on my fictitious jaguar, but grounded wasn’t topping the charts. So when these spiritual hermanas zeroed in on my rootedness, I stopped and looked at them curiously—because for most of my life I have felt really unanchored.
As a Gemini, I have a natural airiness that I like to think of as easygoing but can present as dreamy or forgetful. And because busy can be a default mode, I’ve been called a tormenta and a spinning top since I was always whirling and moving. But if we are really going to get into it—which is why we’re here, right?—the truth is I’ve also had my fair share of life trauma, which had unleashed a wrecking ball right through my emotional foundation.
So to say I was working on getting rooted was an understatement. I had been healing, purging, praying, rooting, and retrieving for the past 240 days as if my life depended on it—because, well, it had. Just one year before arriving in this remote farm in Western Belize with these soulful sisters and a circle of curanderas, I’d had a full-on midlife meltdown.
For the most part, it was that familiar working-mom tightrope walk of trying to do it all that so many of my comadres around the world face. Most of the rom-com elements were there:
• Charmingly scattered mom who runs maniacally to catch the commuter train after dropping off her adorable kids at day care
• The handsome, supportive hubby who’s starting to lose his stoic cool after one too many nights waiting for wifey to come home from yet another work dinner
• Climactic work scenes (Deadlines! Firings! Bad press! High-stakes deals!)
• The relatable sense that no matter what our endearingly scrappy heroine does, she is still—spectacularly—failing at everything
But the circumstances, the pressure, and the consequences made it all feel deeper—and darker—than the usual Bad Moms comedy. Like that time I received an urgent call from my mom in the middle of a meeting to inform me that my older sister, Lety, had set out on a cross-country road trip with her dog. It seemed that in the midst of a crystal meth high she’d heard the president of the United States tell her through the television that her poodle, Jack, had been chosen for presidential dog duty—and he was to report for service immediately to an airbase in Nevada.
(Although listening to this lunacy—during a work meeting, no less—might seem startling, the sad truth is we’d become numb to Lety’s erratic behavior caused by her decade-long drug use, so much so that even her more shocking episodes had lost their sting.)
So back in that conference room, I sat unsure whether to call the cops yet again on Lety or maybe just send her—and special pup agent Jack—a letter of congratulations. In the end, I became so distracted with work, all I could do was mentally wish her and Jack a bon voyage!
There was also that other memorable time I hid in the bathroom during our work Christmas party so I could watch my older daughter’s preschool holiday recital via FaceTime. I had chosen work over family—again—so there I sat on the toilet watching Lucia sweetly sing “Let It Snow,” feeling guilty as I gulped a glass of white wine that I was balancing on the toilet paper dispenser, wondering what I was doing with my life.
So many signs, and so many slips, and yet I kept running forcefully right through them all—until that night I ended up on the floor.
I had been co-organizing an important leadership conference for the media company I ran, and because budgets were limited, we all took on an overwhelming amount of extra work with me acting as producer, host, and emcee all at once. Our small, but mighty, team busted our asses, and the event was a rousing success. We had somehow pulled it off—again. High on a stage in front of a crowd of three hundred people, I closed the conference by giving an inspiring speech.
After I got off the stage and took a train ride back to my riverfront town in the Hudson Valley of New York, I met up with a group of friends at a beautiful waterside restaurant to celebrate and decompress with many crisp bottles of Sancerre. It was a festive and well-deserved revelry, and after holding it together for everyone else, all I wanted was to drink myself silly and just fall apart.
Which is just what I did five hours and three bars later, when I drunkenly fell off my stool trying to take a group selfie and smashed my nose on a table. I blurrily remember people looking down at me: friends, my husband, and even my daughters, because somewhere in the merriment I had convinced my husband, Lars, and our kids to join me.
Recognizing that that was the end of the party, we quickly left and went home, and I faintly remember sloppily hugging the girls good night before I staggered to our bed and passed out.
The next morning, I woke up with a pounding headache and crusted blood on the front of the beautiful boho dress I was still wearing from the day before. It wasn’t even my own dress; I had borrowed it for the event. Panicked, I took it off and ran it under cold water. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” I kept saying to myself like a mantra to calm the rising horror in my chest as I watched rusty blood spiral down the drain.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” I repeated as I reached into the cabinet to grab some aspirin and put on fresh clothes, leaving last night’s shame in a heap on the floor.
I had mostly convinced myself by the time I came downstairs to my family eating breakfast at our kitchen island, the streaming sun helping to erase all evidence of mess and disorder from the night before.
I unsteadily poured myself a steaming cup of coffee and sat down. As I ate fresh waffles with a gash on my nose, I relaxed with the hopeful thought that this all might turn out to be a really funny story I could share one day with my fellow stressed and stretched moms over happy hour—when something in my younger daughter’s, Astrid’s, hair caught my eye.
It was blood.
Caked pink on her front baby tendril like some horrific hair dye.
Either in the commotion at the bar or during our clumsy, drunken good-night cuddles, I had bled onto my baby from the cut on my nose. And as I stared at my youngest and her pink streak while she stared sweetly back at me, I had a thought as firm as the kitchen counter I was gripping on to: “I’m not okay.”
The Aztecs called the world “slippery slick.”
They believed the world was an unstable place, a place where you could trip and fall, either from your poor judgments or from the inherent slipperiness of life. In the Florentine Codex, an account of Aztec life compiled by the Franciscan missionary Bernardino de Sahagún, a mother warns her daughter, “The Earth is not a place of contentment… it is a place of joy with fatigue, of joy with pain.”
This concept might be new to you, but I bet it feels familiar. We are happily walking along in our lives when—bam!—curveballs come from every corner. We lose our jobs, loved ones betray us, and we surprise ourselves with our weaknesses, our ugly anger, our scary ability to hurt and be hurt. We’ve all experienced the world’s slickness in our own different ways: it’s our friend who senselessly cheats on her loving husband, the neighbor who’s abusing Adderall to keep up with her busy life, or the cousin who’s overdrawn her account because of the shopping addiction she just can’t seem to quit.
Slippery slick is that “Fuck! Here we go again”–ness that heaves you over the edge of a cliff, propelled by your own internal pain, broken promises—or other outside forces, like, say, a global pandemic that strikes out of nowhere and drop-kicks all of our perfectly laid out and sweat-drenched dreams right into the dirt.
Yup, the world is slippery, all right. Yet as gruesome as that kitchen moment was for me, when fear and shame kept pummeling me in waves, I grasped on to something rooted deep within me.
I didn’t know what it was called then. I just felt its pulsing, hopeful signal sent from somewhere ancient and far below that whispered there could be another way: another way to work, another way to mother, another way to walk on this slippery slick path.
So clinging on to that life raft of a possibility, I began to Get Rooted.
I have always been a spiritual seeker, lighting candles to La Virgen de Guadalupe while simultaneously studying Eastern religions and philosophies. In my thirties, I became a yoga teacher and life coach. My shelves are lined with self-help books with wisdom from women I love and admire—from Iyanla Vanzant to Brené Brown. But something in that kitchen moment screamed out an urgent SOS, and mercifully something closer to home answered back.
In that Cosmic Big Brother way that you might just think, “My kid is growing out of her shorts,” and suddenly ads for Target start popping up everywhere, I started to see messages, and people, and books all centered around Curanderismo—a Mesoamerican earth-based healing practice that utilizes energetic cleansings, herbs, heart-to-heart conversations, touch, prayer, and much more to help balance your emotions, spirit, and body.
A year prior, my cousin Patty, who was studying to be a curandera, had asked one of her instructors to come to New York to teach a small group of people, including me, the basic art and science of Curanderismo. Even though I was dizzy with the stresses of work and home, something unclenched in me during the session. I had felt at home with the teachings and the tools because my great-grandmother had been a practicing curandera.
Now I began to feel that call coming from deep inside: “Can I heal whatever is going on with my family by learning the medicine of my grandmothers?” I wondered.
And with that guiding question in mind, I set out.
Eventually I resigned from my job and began to study Curanderismo with a sixty-five-year-old chingona—badass—reverend. Among the many things she taught me, including some stellar Spanish curse words, was the concept of Ser: your true essence, the whole and unbreakable you.
When I emerged from my journey nearly nine months later, staring down my forty-sixth birthday—the age my father was when he died—I can honestly say that I was reborn. Traumas had been healed, my Ser, and life purpose, reclaimed.
I got rooted.
And now, as a coach and curandera, I help myself and others get—and stay—rooted; healing isn’t a destination so much as a lifelong remembering, where we release, reclaim, and root back—again and again.
And getting rooted is not a journey we walk alone. I believe in collective healing because I have been healed, and cradled, and nurtured back to root by my circle. The group of people who saw me flat on that floor are also the same ones who extended their hands to pick me up. It is in circle, in community, and in connection that we root. Those are the ways of the ancestors. Those are the ways we need now.
Getting rooted means living the life you’re meant to live while letting go of who you think you should be. Getting rooted means making your own map instead of following the one that society gave you. Getting rooted means finding your way home to that holy place of peace where you can receive, and retrieve, your gifts because you got rooted into trusting yourself.
If you’re struggling, like so many of us, repeating the same patterns, feeling painfully anxious, woefully stuck, and finding that the same well-worn ways we try to handle our lives just aren’t working anymore, then I share my own story here in the hopes that you might see a sliver of yourself reflected back in these pages and know that you are not alone. My 260-day healing journey is broken up into five parts—the east, north, west, south, and center—because I was guided by each direction to find my way home. I also offer you some of the tools I’ve collected in my medicine bag to help you feel lifted and steadied until you find yourself rooted and ready to walk again on this all-too-short, slippery slick thing we call life.
The book you hold in your hands is my ofrenda to you. It is an invitation to call your power back. It’s a beacon to find your way home. And it’s a reminder to get rooted and reclaim what has always been yours.
The East: Here’s to Your New Beginning
Where Do We Go from Here?
Finding Your Way with the Five Directions
I arrived in Mexico spent, stunned, and sun deprived after quitting my big job only a few weeks prior. Something had changed in me after “the kitchen incident.” That low, emotionally hungover feeling I’d had that day had stayed with me the next and the next—and for the first time in my life, I couldn’t seem to snap myself out of it. Ever since that frightening moment when I saw my own blood in my daughter’s hair, I kept asking myself, “What are you bleeding for?”
The truth was I had been wounded for a while. Or at least since my dad died of pancreatic cancer when I was just thirteen. One summer he was swimming with me and my three sisters in the Guadalupe River under the blazing Texas sun, and the next summer he was gone—slipping away, and under, as we watched helplessly—taking with him our family’s stability, our wholeness, and his wisdom of how this slippery slick world worked.
My father was our gravity, and without him, my mom, my three sisters, and I all flew apart. My mom, who was widowed at just forty with four daughters and two businesses to take care of, drowned her grief in working constantly, getting a new boyfriend, and picking up a chain-smoking habit. My oldest sister, Lety, who was nineteen when my father died, was summoned from New York City back home to San Antonio to help run my dad’s ballroom. As she traded her dreams for duty, her partying steadily grew from weed to coke to crystal meth, which would eventually wipe away everything she loved and held dear as swiftly and destructively as a giant hand sweeping everything off the table. My little sister Veronica, who was always the sweetest and cutest of us, became a pregnant cheerleader at sixteen. She did her best to raise my gentle nephew Jacob, but her life got too hard too fast for such a little girl, and the years that followed would be uneven ones marred with episodes of mental illness and multiple failed marriages. My baby sister, Paloma, was just seven when our dad left our lives, and though we all did our best to raise her, she spent a lot of time alone eating Domino’s pizza and wishing for a different life. So at nineteen, the same age Lety was summoned home, Paloma bought a one-way ticket to New York City and never came back.
And me. I was the pretty classic people-pleasing middle kid. I was the easy baby, the smiling sister. This likable persona became cemented after my dad died because as my sisters acted out for the attention and love they needed, I just didn’t dare bring my mom any more grief. Things in our blown-apart family became even more unstable when we moved into a brand-new home our father designed for us on his deathbed. It was a dying present for my mom, who always wanted a bigger house than the one-story, one-bathroom one we grew up in, but the change of schools and culture further added to our instability.
At my new richer, and whiter, school, I was lost—a nobody in an endless sea of blonde. Luckily, I found my footing when a history teacher recruited me for the debate team. I loved politics and current events, something I inherited from my father, who was a government major and into the Chicano movement of the 1960s and 1970s. And I especially liked our assistant coach, who was encouraging and quietly covered my costs for competing in out-of-town tournaments when I told her I couldn’t afford to go.
After high school, I attended the University of Texas at Austin, where I missed my dad’s counsel and support more than ever. He’d been the one who helped me craft my campaign speech when I ran for student council. He nurtured my intelligence and enrolled us both in after-school computer courses, where we had precious time together to chat and eat dill pickles and chamoy. I yearned for my father so much in those college years and hated that I couldn’t share all that I was learning in Mexican American history or ask advice on whether to major in broadcast journalism or political science. But I found a way to manage my pain. Austin was a party college town, and here my drinking caught fire.
Unsurprisingly, I dropped out after two years with failing grades and three majors. I had learned how to survive but not how to sustain. A guidance counselor told me I needed to be inspired and encouraged me to use my time away from school to travel. I spent a few meandering years working as a hotel concierge, cocktail waitressing in Las Vegas, experimenting with a lot of drugs, and basically being a ’90s slacker. I finally found my motivation to go back to school one day after I had to wait on a table of bitchy girls I went to high school with. We chatted as I took their drink order, and they told me all about how they had graduated from not only college but now law school and were all engaged. I smiled back and fake laughed standing there in my waiter’s uniform. But instead of delivering the drinks they ordered, I took off my apron, told my manager I had to leave immediately, and walked out the door. When I got in my car, I turned on the ignition, blasted the radio, and drove straight to UT Austin to enroll in the upcoming fall semester. I felt my dad with me that day. I knew in my heart I was ready for my next level.
I graduated university the following year and was in my college bookstore trying to figure out jobs when my eyes locked on something I’d never seen before: a beautiful brown-skinned Latina on the cover of a magazine. I loved women’s fashion magazines, but I never saw women with anything close to my ethnic background on their covers or in their pages. Seeing a young Jennifer Lopez under the bold title Latina on the magazine cover instantly allowed me to imagine a more glamorous, confident, self-possessed version of me. Flipping through the glossy pages, I saw stories that celebrated my culture in ways I had never, ever seen growing up: a magazine written by Latinas for Latinas. I began to dream a new dream. I knew immediately that this was where I would work.
I bought a one-way ticket from Austin to New York City, crashed with my little sister Paloma, who was already living there, wrote my résumé, and decided to hand deliver it to the magazine’s offices. I was shaking with excitement as I walked into a gigantic high-rise building in the heart of Times Square and up to their glass door.
A girl walked out and almost ran me over as I stood clutching my résumé. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I want a job!” I blurted out.
Not sure what to do with this eager stranger on the doorstep, she summoned another woman, who again asked, “Can I help you?” Turns out they needed a fact-checker, and less than an hour after walking into the offices, I was offered a job starting the following Monday. Even after years of working my way up the ranks in the media industry, that day still stands as one of the best experiences of my life—one that would eventually lead me back to the magazine as editor in chief almost twenty years later.
To me, we were never just a magazine or a media company—we were a mission. I was doing this for all the other young women who, like me, might be inspired to dream a bigger dream. Our founder’s motto was “You can’t be what you can’t see,” and it was our mission to tell the stories about Latinas that were not being told anywhere else. Our job was to show the world the talent, ingenuity, and diversity we knew existed within our community, and I knew our content and vision was needed more than ever to lead this next generation of Latinx women toward the economic and social empowerment that we deserved—and that was far overdue.
Although running the magazine was my dream job, it was one that was slowly killing me because things had changed drastically in the publishing landscape. Print media was already in free fall, with beloved magazines closing left and right. But as a small, independent company, we felt the changes faster and deeper. Layoffs began to happen on the regular, with even loyal long-term employees being let go. Yet I had run into that burning building thinking, “We can save this!”
Hard work and enduring optimism have always been my signature traits—in many ways, my survival skills. So along with our talented team, we doubled down: redefining our mission, shifting from a print to digital model, growing our e-commerce site, launching events, and debuting our first-ever digital issue featuring a gorgeous Afro-Latina.
After three grueling years at the magazine, I was proud of what we had achieved, but it came at a cost. I was working long hours seven days a week, and my hectic work and travel schedule kept me away from my young family. Even when I was home, I wasn’t “there”; instead I was constantly checking emails, scanning headlines for breaking news, or just obsessing. Even though we had made amazing strides, we were still in such financial jeopardy that the New York Post reported on our travails, including paying our staff and freelancers late. I felt the walls closing in on us.
Back at home, my three sisters and our mother were suffering through their own near collapses—some far more dire. We were all dealing, or not dealing, with the stresses of life by self-soothing with drugs, alcohol, food, and overwork. My older sister, Lety, who was finally in recovery after years of crystal meth abuse, fought with our mom constantly and threatened to go back to using again. Veronica, who had moved back in with my mom, lost primary custody of her younger son when she missed her court hearing. It was a blow that severely affected her fragile self-esteem and mental health—and it was painful to watch. My youngest sister, Paloma, had her shit together careerwise, but she felt lost in her personal life as her friends passed her by in the marriage and baby race—a race she didn’t even know if she wanted to be in. In the midst of all of this, my beloved stepbrother Adrian killed himself, leaving a wife and two kids and all of us heartbroken and wondering why. And after years of struggling to raise four daughters by herself after my father died, my mother was leaning back into her well-worn habits of ignoring and enabling.
I have always been a fast-moving free spirit. But lately I had begun to question why I was moving so fast and whether my spirit was free—or just fleeing.
During one vital conference call with clients, which I had to take at home because of its late timing, five-year-old Lucia started wailing from a raging toothache. Guilt sank fangs into my confidence: How had I missed that? Was she overdue for a dentist’s appointment? I put the call on mute, trying to listen to the corporate bigwigs who might infuse us with much-needed capital while I ran to the medicine cabinet to get baby aspirin. We were out—another ball I’d dropped. I waved frantically at Lars, who jumped in to help so I could get back to the call, but I had missed a major moment. “Robyn?” someone said, all of them waiting for me to answer a question I hadn’t heard.
“I’m sorry,” I said, running to a quieter room, even as I wanted to run toward Lucia’s cries. “Can you repeat that?”
They did. I didn’t have the answer.
It wasn’t entirely my fault; it turned out someone hadn’t sent a file—and I’d missed that too. But the damage was done. The ad reps were spooked, and my colleagues were fuming. While this one deal wouldn’t put the company under, the stress of it had kept me drowning for far too long. And I had to come up for air.
- “Robyn’s courage to no longer ignore but face the issues of endless burnout and exhaustion in her life with ancestral healing tools and practices is inspiring. The ancient wisdom shared in Get Rooted intertwined with her personal story is beautiful, powerful, and useful to anyone who is ready for deep transformation."—Yung Pueblo, New York Times bestselling author
- “Robyn Moreno writes a ‘must read’ you will wish you had long ago. After the inevitable curveballs, disappointments and betrayals of life, there is nothing wiser than going back to ancient wisdom and practices to find our voice, our worth and our center, in order to finally ‘Get Rooted.’ It’s our ‘Eat, Pray, Love.’”—Nely Galán, New York Times bestselling author of Self Made: Becoming Empowered, Self -Reliant, and Rich in Every Way
- “Get Rooted is a powerful, dynamic, and inspiring narrative that nurtures our modern-day lost souls and reconnects us with the medicine of our grandmothers. Warm and witty and ever so real, Robyn Moreno offers us a myriad of healing opportunities we may have forgotten or even never thought possible for ourselves.” —Xochitl Gonzalez, New York Times bestselling author of Olga Dies Dreaming
- “A beautiful read, rich with intimate stories that will inspire you to reclaim your roots and discover your magic.”—Sheleana Aiyana, founder of Rising Woman, and author of Becoming the One
- “Get Rooted is a breathtaking, courageous and compelling journey of what it takes to heal our wounds. Robyn Moreno powerfully offers us an honest look at how we can move generational pain into wisdom. In a time where we may find ourselves disoriented, this is a must read for all people - a spark of light that will guide you home to the love that you are.”—Asha Frost, Indigenous Medicine Woman, author of You Are the Medicine: 13 Moons of Indigenous Wisdom, Ancestral Connection, and Animal Spirit Guidance
- “I would like to thank Robyn for truly reclaiming and educating us on our ancestor’s contributions to traditional medicine and suggestions of remembering our ancestor’s holistic healing of mind, body, and spirit.”—Dr. Eliseo Torres, professor of Curanderismo at the University of New Mexico and author of Curanderismo: The Art of Traditional Medicine Without Borders and Curandero: A Life in Mexican Folk Healing
- “I love this book. I love the question that Robyn Moreno asked and answered in her own life: Am I acting from susto or ser--from a loss of soul, or from my essence, my truth? And I love how she uses stories from her own life, and from the richness of her lineage, and from the methods of Curanderismo--the medicine of her Mexican grandmothers--to give us a roadmap to ask and answer that essential question for ourselves.” —Elizabeth Lesser, cofounder Omega Institute, New York Times author of bestselling books including Broken Open: How Difficult Times Can Help Us Grow and Cassandra Speaks: When Women Are the Storytellers the Human Story Changes
- “This book is a gift from las abuelas. A modern yet ancient book that carries wisdom to last generations to come. If you are looking for a soul nourishing read this is it!” —Christine Gutierrez, bestselling author of I Am Diosa
- “Sometimes we have to go backward in order to leap forward. This book is a powerful guide of remembrance, reclamation, and renewal. Robyn’s story of healing through accessing the medicine of her lineage reminds us all that the truest healing isn’t something we’re separate from. It’s as close as our own DNA, our own breath, and the people we inherited it all from.”—Kate Northrup, bestselling author of Do Less
- "Through personal anecdotes and pained introspection, the author maintains a frank and open disposition that readers will find stirring. The result is a restorative testament to family and heritage." —Publishers Weekly
- "With honesty, humor and insight, Robyn Moreno shares her personal healing journey, a process guided and informed by her ancestral medicine. Moreno introduces us to the practices of curanderismo and distills them into simple and accessible exercises to support anyone’s healing journey. Get Rooted is an excellent addition to the growing canon of books about curanderismo written by Latinx women. I highly recommend this book!"—Atava Garcia Swiecicki, MA, author of The Curanderx Toolkit: Reclaiming Ancestral Latinx Plant Medicine and Rituals for Healing
- "Robyn brilliantly reclaims our ancestral medicines and shares her inspirational journey of how they helped her to reclaim herself. Her willingness to be raw and vulnerable is soul medicine that is shared with the reader. The guided meditations and limpia rites are also a beautiful way to decompress and journey into our own healing work. I absolutely love this book!”—Erika Buenaflor, MA, JD, author of Cleansing Rites of Curanderismo and Veneration Rites of Curanderismo
- On Sale
- Jun 6, 2023
- Page Count
- 288 pages
- Hachette Go