Why I Stopped Going to Tulum, Mexico

Cenote Tulum, Mexico circa 2013

A love letter, and a goodbye.

I first went to Tulum in 1999. It was a magical spiritual vortex—before I even knew what spirituality really meant. Walking through the gates of Maya Tulum, I felt something shift inside me. A calm washed over my body. It was the perfect antidote to the fast-paced, hyper-productive life I was living in Los Angeles.

Back then, there were maybe five hotels on the beach, and they were all simple, eco-chic before eco-chic was a thing. The electricity shut off at 7pm, so at night you lit candles or used a flashlight to find the bathroom. The rooms were more like rustic palapas—walls made of sticks and clay, beds draped with mosquito nets, no A/C (and we didn’t need it with the ocean breeze coming straight through the open-air design). It felt like time slowed down.

Our days were spent walking the deserted white sand beaches, swimming naked in turquoise water, lounging in hammocks with paperbacks (this was pre-Blackberry era, mind you). We did Mayan mud baths with real healers and ate organic food grown on-site or sourced locally. And when we craved a little action, we’d drive into the tiny town—just one dirt road with a handful of restaurants—and laugh with the waiters while we tried to order tacos with our very limited Spanish. It was real Mexico. It was also my first experience in another country outside the U.S., and it cracked me open in the best way. A few hippies sold silver jewelry by the roadside, and it all just… worked. It was pure magic.

The Secret Paradise

Tulum became our secret escape. We started coming 2–3 times a year. Nobody knew about it—Cancun was the tourist hub, and Playa del Carmen was starting to catch the overflow. But we breezed right past both, straight to our slice of unadulterated decompression. We knew the staff at Maya Tulum by name. Our favorite rooms were waiting with extra towels and cold beers in the fridge.

We brought high-profile friends who needed a break from being recognized. In Tulum, they could drink tequila at lunch, laugh until our stomachs hurt, and be completely anonymous. We visited the Tulum ruins and were the only ones there. Can you imagine that now? Today, they boast about a million visitors a year.

We drove the beach road through jungle where monkeys and toucans still lived wild. We scuba-dived in cenotes with no one else in sight. We wandered into ejidos (little towns) where locals had never seen foreigners. You could walk onto the beach through any gap in the jungle—no signs, no wristbands, no rules. The only sounds were wind, waves, and birdsong.

The Tipping Point

I went back in 2012 on a girls’ trip. It had grown—more hotels, more development—but the magic was still there. The air still held that familiar exhale. And I was happy to see the economy growing for local families. Yes, there were more tourists, but it still had a pulse, a rhythm that said “you’re on sacred land.” Bird watchers mingled with families and healers. It was still pleasant.

But by 2016, everything had changed.

Tulum had exploded.

The beach was now mostly private, blocked by $600 USD per night hotels requiring day passes (often $50 or more, not even going toward your purchases). Also dont get me wrong I'm ok with paying for quality and exclusivity in some locations- but only when it's worth it and it's not my beloved Tulum.

The once peaceful beach road was jammed with tourists on bikes, motorcycles, and taxis. Garbage trucks rumbled past yoga studios. Boutique shops and Instagram cafés replaced handmade jewelry stalls. And the Sian Ka'an reserve—once sacred and protected—was now being carved up for luxury homes, despite environmental regulations.

It wasn’t just the landscape that changed. The town got a two-way highway. Reggaeton blasted from cafés at 10am (and I love reggaeton, but not with my morning coffee). The population had quadrupled: tourists, workers from other parts of Mexico, and digital nomads perched in cafés with MacBooks. The energy was fast, crowded, overstimulating.

The Dark Underbelly

I ended up living part-time in Tulum for about four years. That’s when the rose-colored glasses really came off.

I met the fake healer who turned out to be one of the darkest chapters of my life (you can read about that on my blog). And I began to see the cracks beneath the curated “conscious” lifestyle.

Eco-hotels that claimed sustainability are dumping raw sewage into cenotes. (Yes, studies found cocaine and amphetamines in the water—what goes in the toilet ends up in the freshwater we all rely on.) Roughly 80% of homes, businesses, and hotels still don’t have proper waste treatment systems. The natural wonders that once felt sacred were now crowded, commercialized, and fenced off with plastic wristbands.

There was a new EDM festival every week, with influencers preaching about their “connection to nature” while creating mountains of trash. Drug dealers supply the demands of the party scene. Flashing lights, loud music, and unconscious consumption in the name of spiritual awakening. The animals must be thrilled.

Healers became “brands,” charging outrageous prices for inauthentic ceremonies. A $12 bottle of wine now cost $200 USD. Dollars were widely accepted—at the worst possible exchange rate. Taxis? A 2-kilometer ride could cost 1,200 pesos ($60). That’s more expensive than an Uber to LAX.

Once, my friends dragged me to a nightclub (not my thing, but I went with the flow). Armed soldiers with masks and rifles blocked the bathroom entrance. It was terrifying. Gone were the moonlite barefoot walks on the beach. All I could feel was tension and fear.

And don’t get me started on the influencers—posing in full Louis Vuitton outfits (yes, long sleeves, hat, belt, shoes) in 98-degree heat and it wasn't a Vuitton photo shoot. You can’t make this stuff up.

A Vortex of Light… and Shadow

I still believe the Yucatán Peninsula is a spiritual vortex. There’s real magic in this land. But with that light comes heavy energy too. Places like Sedona, Rishikesh, Goa—sacred lands often attract the ego dressed as enlightenment. Tulum became a hotspot for that kind of shadow.

I’m not here to trash Quintana Roo as a whole—there are still quiet, beautiful places to connect with nature and local culture. But I won’t be going back to Tulum.

Why I Chose Yucatán

The beautiful thing about the state of Yucatán is its quiet energy. It doesn’t scream for your attention—it invites you to listen. The land feels grounded. The people are kind. The food is made with love. The traditions are rich and intact. There’s space to breathe, to connect deeply, to just… be.

It’s still magical, but not in a performative way.

Yucatán is for those who are ready to heal—not to perform their healing for an audience. It’s for people who want the real thing. You won’t find fake shamans with a ring light, but you might find a grandmother who offers you a blessing under a ceiba tree. And that, to me, is everything.