When the Canyon Held Me

When the Canyon Held Me

I didn’t expect to cry in the water.

We were waist-deep in Barranco Barrasil, deep in the folds of the Sierra de Guara. A place carved by time, where water whispers and stone remembers. The morning sun hadn’t touched the gorge yet—only the shadows moved, slowly, like breath through a cave.

I thought this would be a day of adrenaline and canyoning photos. What I didn’t expect was to meet myself.

The water was cold—cold enough to steal the words from your mouth. My hands searched the limestone walls for grip, and with each step, something in me slowed. My senses sharpened. My body softened. I felt everything: the tension in my chest, the quiet between footsteps, the presence of something ancient around me.

Then came the drop.

A natural rock slide into a deep, dark pool. The guide turned to me and said, "Tú primero." I froze. I couldn’t see the landing. Just smooth stone, then air.

What rose inside wasn’t just fear—it was the kind of fear that knows your name. Old fear. Of surrender, of not knowing. Of letting go.

I sat on the edge, closed my eyes, and leaned into it.

The fall was short. But inside it, I found a long silence. And when I surfaced—laughing, breathless, shaking—I felt something loosen. A kind of weight that had been living in me for years.

That night, I wrote one word in my notebook: Alma.

Because that day, Barranco Barrasil didn’t test my strength.
It reminded me I’m most alive when I move with the water—not against it.