My Chaotic Path with Spirituality: My Mongolian Experience of Shamanism
It’s hard to believe that barely a year before this experience, I had left behind the system, the comforts of modern life, and most importantly, my PhD in mathematics and mechanics. My mind was, at that time, deeply rational and anchored in logic.
Coming from a family where my mother practiced spiritualism, I had grown up amidst contrasting influences. On one hand, my upbringing exposed me to the metaphysical world of faith and divine connection; on the other hand, my rigorous academic background as a mathematical engineer fostered a pragmatic, evidence-based mindset. The journey from that life to shamanism was not something I sought. Yet, it found me.
This first chapter of my chaotic spiritual path begins in Mongolia. Unlike the tourist-driven shamanic ceremonies that some travelers seek out, this experience was authentic, unplanned, and deeply personal. It was offered to me by a close friend who, witnessing my despair at being unable to stay in the country I had grown to love, invited me to attend a family shamanic ceremony.
Shamanic Ceremony in Mongolia
Yet, I had tried to stay in the Mongolian steppes for the rest of my life. When I faced administrative difficulties and had to leave Mongolia, I was taken to consult a shaman—my friend's mother. Two days before my departure, I attended an authentic family ceremony, which was undoubtedly shamanic. At the time, I had no spiritual knowledge beyond my natural faith.
I remember we drove for several hours from the capital to a desolate, snowy location. There, we found two yurts and a stable. One of the yurts was specifically for the shamanic ceremony. This wasn’t a tourist attraction—it was a natural and regular ceremony for the family. The purpose, in this case, was for a woman who was struggling with her violent, alcoholic sister and her somewhat arrogant daughter. She regularly called upon the ancient spirits through hours of ceremonies to seek advice from the family’s ancestors, to consult their wisdom.
It was incredibly impressive to me. I sat in a corner and didn’t move for 4 or 5 hours during the ceremony. First, the shaman donned her traditional costume, cleansing herself with vodka. Her face was covered by fringes, made partly of fabric and metal. Then, she began to strike the sacred drum to the rhythm of a heartbeat. Her son was present to receive and translate the spirits’ messages. He spoke Mongolian, but it was an ancient dialect that few young people today would understand—the old Mongolian language of the spirits.
As the drumbeat resonated and grew faster, her body began to jolt and fell forward. At that moment, her body was inhabited by a spirit. The 50-year-old woman’s body was now carrying a spirit that was 600, 700, or 800 years old. The elderly spirit struggled to sit upright, coughing and muttering in its ancient dialect. The spirits immediately demanded tobacco and vodka—a small remnant of their earthly vices.
Her son began asking the questions his mother had prepared beforehand about her sister and cousins. The spirit took its time and gradually addressed the woman’s concerns, offering advice for her sister and reminding her of the family responsibilities she carried on her shoulders. Then another spirit arrived, and another, and finally one more—all with the same demands for tobacco and vodka.
Hours passed, and the spirits became aware of my presence. One of the grandfathers asked what I was doing there. My presence was explained: I loved Mongolia but was unable to stay due to administrative restrictions. Why couldn’t I remain in this country I loved so much? The spirit explained that even though my mother had passed away, she and my father were still worried about me. I had left them when I was young, and they still saw me as their little girl. The spirit told me I had to return to my homeland to show my parents that I was grown now.
Although I found it hard to believe, I did as the spirit asked. Upon leaving the yurt, I sprinkled three drops of milk to the south and sent a prayer to the universe. When the ceremony ended—when the woman’s body returned to her and the spirits returned to their dimension—she removed her costume and ran outside to vomit. It was explained to me that the spirits had truly inhabited her body, which had smoked the tobacco and consumed all the vodka. She wasn’t drunk; she was just exhausted.
It was astonishing. I felt incredibly fortunate to have witnessed an authentic, almost domestic shamanic ceremony, one that this family regularly used to address their contemporary problems of alcoholism and unemployment. I left with my heart full of faith. But despite this, it would take me another seven years before I set foot in France again.
This experience in Mongolia left a profound mark on me. It highlighted the strength of two extremes within me: the rational, scientific perspective honed by years of academic mathematics, and the metaphysical, intuitive connection nurtured by authentic shamanism. These two polarities are not in opposition but seem to complement each other in my chaotic spiritual path.
This chapter is only the beginning of a three-part series that will explore my chaotic path with spirituality. Next week, I’ll share my shamanic and spiritual experiences in Spain—a time marked by both powerful revelations and moments of betrayal and judgment. Finally, I’ll conclude the series with my current spiritual encounters in Latin America. This continent, so rich in spirituality, has been challenging me to deeply reflect on the themes of faith and divinity, both of which remain intimate and vital aspects of my life.
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