I Turned 35, Took a Solo Trip to the Jungle, & Cried the Whole Time — In a Good Way

I just celebrated my 35th birthday. Or maybe “lamented another spin around the sun” is more accurate, since I spent the days leading up to July 11 crying. I read somewhere that 35 marked the start of midlife, and while the age range of that milestone is currently being debated on social media, it forced me to come to terms with a hard reality: I don’t know how, but I’ve maybe, possibly made it to middle age, and despite crossing countless goals off of my life’s to-do list, I’m not as happy as I thought I’d be when I arrived. Actually, I’m just not that happy generally right now.

So I did what single, millennial women do during uncomfortable, emotional in-betweens: I took a solo trip.

To be clear, when I booked my stay at the Jungala Park Hotel in Playa del Carmen, I had every intention of having a mid-thirties, flirty, and thriving vacation with a friend. Tucked deep within the Riviera Maya’s tropical jungle, the VidantaWorld resort is a luxurious escape made for fun and romance. There’s Jungala Aqua Experience — a boutique luxury water park — as well as five outdoor pools, access to a private white‑sand beach, and Cirque du Soleil's JOYA show, all onsite. But when each of the three people I invited to join me as my plus-one couldn’t make it — for very valid and logistical reasons — I realized I’d be going on this luxurious adventure on my own. 

At first, it didn’t seem ideal. How much fun can one person have at a resort that was designed to be enjoyed in pairs or groups? There wouldn’t be anyone there to laugh with after an exhilarating vertical drop through the water park’s Paradise Free Fall, or sip cocktails at a pool bar, or enjoy the hotel room-catered breakfast buffet that was on my itinerary. Even though I have done life mostly solo for the past few years, fun, I thought, was meant to be enjoyed in company, especially familiar company.

As I sipped red Chilean wine from a hammock on a balcony, staring out into the lush canopy of mature palm trees and listening to the tropical mockingbirds sing, I realized this trip would be less YA chick flick and more middle-age self-discovery. And I started to cry. Again. When the hell did that happen?

As a Cancer, I’m a helpless crier, so this moment was always going to come with dramatic tears. I could have cried about the stunning vista, or the privilege of having a job with perks like press trips, or the blessing of spending my birthday vacation with someone I love. But in that moment, my tears were tied to grief and fear — grief for a youth I felt I barely got to enjoy after spending a lifetime overworking and healing from back-to-back tragedies, and fear that I was running out of time to fall in mutual love and start a family. I cried and worked most of my first day, drying my eyes between smiles with servers at delectable beachfront dinners and small talk with the kindest concierge staff I’ve ever met.

The next day, when the rising sun peeked through the curtain of my bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling window and woke me up, I realized that while I might not be having the Girls Trip I imagined, what I probably really needed was the Eat, Pray, Love kind of trip that comes with solo travel. So I gave myself permission to feel every emotion that had been bubbling up inside of me: gratitude for the career and home I’ve built for myself, and regret for not making more time for dating and relationships. I would let myself feel the fear around the uncertainty of my future and revel in the gorgeous reality of the present moment.

I showered, cried, cleaned my face, cried again, called my mom, cried some more, and wiped my tears just in time to open the door to a chef who, minutes later, presented a table of all-I-could-eat breakfast treats, from pan dulce, fresh fruits, and parfaits to omelets, pancakes, waffles, and more. 

With a very full tummy, I wrapped up some work and headed to the Jungala Aqua Experience, where I was led to a private cabana nestled into lush foliage. I spent much of my day right there — daydreaming in a hammock and birdwatching from the plush lounge bed. I got up once to enjoy several loops around the lazy river — the longest in Latin America — laughing with guests I’d never see again when our tubes crashed, or just by myself every time I got soaked under a waterfall.

Who knows how many hours later, I returned to my trance on the outdoor bed. There, as three little birds perched on the wooden railing of my cabana, I received what felt like a spiritual message — a download, as some say: “This moment is fleeting. While you didn’t envision this as a solo trip, it might be one of the last vacations you’ll be able to take alone for a long while. Get out of your head, be present, and enjoy your life exactly as it is right now.”

A few moments later, someone from a neighboring cabana came by to flirt and buy me margaritas. I chatted, giggled, turned red, sipped, and wrote down a number I knew I’d never text. But I enjoyed it entirely for what it was — another sweet, unplanned fading moment.

The next day, I felt a little lighter. Don’t get me wrong, I still cried — but it wasn’t just fear anymore. It was a knowing that just how I created my current life, I could do the same for the life I wanted to lead next. I just had to figure out how I wanted that life to look like. While I was still figuring that part out, I knew I was ready to release despair, regret, and the victim mentality that sometimes accompanies a life of adversity, and start reimagining a different future. 

After a lake-side brunch, I spent the day at The Beach Club, a chic retreat between a sparkling infinity pool and the Caribbean sea. Under an all-white cabana that felt very White Lotus, I turned my phone off, drank sangria, and read “Women Who Run With the Wolves” by Clarissa Pinkola Estés. The book is an excavation of the untamed, intuitive nature of women that’s been buried beneath centuries of conditioning, and it felt like an answer or, maybe, an invitation. In the movies I watched as a teen, mid-life crises were represented through sports cars and romantic betrayals, reckless acts to feel something, anything, even if it came with regret. They upended the characters’ lives and relationships. That’s not my style. Maybe this isn't that. Or maybe I'm too sensible, too emotionally mature, or too Puerto Rican to disrupt my life in that way.

Maybe, for me, middle age is when I take this ache and turn it into a reckoning, into a "now what?" Maybe it looks more like living rather than just enduring. Maybe it's when I accept that gratitude and grief or joy and sorrow can co-exist, not just in seasons, but in every day, every hour, and every minute. Maybe it's when I return to my youngest and wildest self, the girl before to-do lists and major life goals, the Raquel who lived presently and without a plan. 

Several hours later, after the sun had burned my thighs red, I returned to my hotel room with my book and found a surprise inside: balloons, a pink “Happy Birthday” banner, a cake with an unlit candle, and an edible chocolate crab for Cancer season. I cried again. I had just told the concierge that morning that my birthday was coming up, and already there was a card inside my room with a note that read, “wishing you a fantastic 35th birthday and a year full of great adventure.” 

Great adventure, that’s what I wanted, and it had already started. 

That night, my last one in Mexico, I went to Cirque du Soleil JOYÀ, one of two resident Cirque shows in Latin America that pairs theatrical performance with a fine dining experience (the other is LUDÕ in VidantaWorld Nuevo Vallarta, premiering on December 12, 2025). In the audience, JOYÀ swept me into the enchanting world of a young girl who is suddenly thrust into a mystical journey alongside her eccentric grandfather, a naturalist and alchemist. Just like the grandfather in the story, the chef conjured mystery with each course. The cocktails looked like smokey potions, dishes came under glass cloches, and a delectable assortment of desserts (including vegan options) were served inside a book-shaped box. I had watched a Cirque du Soleil show before, but it didn’t come close to the experience that night. I laughed loud, ate cloudy mystery treats, and felt fully transported into a fanciful, mystical universe.

I didn’t have the Jungala Park Hotel birthday getaway with a friend that I imagined, the one with tipsy nights and rowdy laughter, but I do think I got the trip that I needed. The one of self-reflection, breakthroughs, and reconciliation. The one of silence, purpose, and surprise. And sure my eyes were open and swollen red when I made my way to the Cancún airport, but so was my heart. 

For most of the past 35 years, I lived life according to a to-do list: get good grades, go to college in New York, attend graduate school, become the editor of a magazine, write a book, and buy a house. I’ve crossed each off and many more. I’m proud of myself. Deeply. The women in my family never had the privilege to do the things I’ve done, and I’ve been able to travel all around the world while doing it. And while I'm grateful I've been following my own, self-written itinerary, and for all of the places it’s led me, I think 35 is inviting me to step outside the to-do list. 

I think there, maybe, is where the joy I’ve been searching for lies — in the “great adventure.”