Sunburns, Cenotes & DJ Numbers: My Flashpack Birthday in Mexico

If you ever needed a reminder that the universe has a sense of humour, try turning 37 while sipping tequila in a hammock strung up in the Mexican jungle. Honestly, babe—this trip had it all: turtles, tequila, a love triangle I didn’t sign up for, and an impromptu flirt with a DJ on a sandy dancefloor under the stars. My social battery is fried, my suitcase smells faintly of salt and sunscreen, and I’ve never felt more alive—or more sunburnt.

It all kicked off with a solo night in Cancun—me, my thoughts, and a room service margarita I absolutely didn’t share. I laid out my swimsuits like options for a new personality, journaled in bed, and scrolled through old photos trying to remember who I’d been this time last year. The next day I met up with my Flashpack group, which, as always, was a perfect cocktail of “Could Be Bestie,” “Secretly a Travel Blogger,” and “Please Don’t Sit Next to Me.” Thankfully, I clicked straight away with an Aussie girl and her guy mate—funny, warm, slightly feral. My people.

We rolled into Tulum, where I celebrated my birthday with sushi (divine), spicy margaritas, and the world’s most chaotic round of “truth or dare” over dinner. There was a sparkler in my dessert and a serenade from our waiter, who clearly moonlighted as a lounge singer. Honestly, there was something weirdly poetic about blowing out candles in a country I’d only just landed in, surrounded by strangers who didn’t yet know my sun sign or my favourite karaoke song. It was perfect. A fresh page. Like the universe had finally decided I deserved a soundtrack and a spotlight—but I played it cool, obviously.

Then came Akumal Bay, murky water and all. Turtles everywhere, gliding like zen little old men, completely unfazed by us snorkelling clumsily in their realm. I nearly swallowed seawater laughing at myself, fins flapping uselessly while one particularly sassy turtle looked me up and down. Afterwards, we wandered through Tulum’s clifftop ruins, which were crawling with lizards and full of hot air and ghost stories. Someone in the group kept trying to summon the ancient spirits with a singing bowl. Bless them.

But the real magic happened deep in the jungle. We stayed in a local Mayan village, PacChen, where we swam in cenotes by moonlight, zip-lined over treetops, and got slightly too comfortable in hammock tents. One night, tequila in hand, I had the distinct misfortune of being jumped on by a very drunk American man during a group hammock moment. I told him off politely but firmly. It was awkward. It was also very on-brand for this trip. Later, I found myself whispering into the darkness with another girl from the group, swapping life stories like we’d known each other for years. It was one of those fleeting, deep moments you only ever seem to get when you’re far from home and slightly tipsy.

We met monkeys at the Punta Laguna reserve—mischievous, clever, and vastly more evolved than a few of the men on this tour. I named one Francisco and tried to get him to take a selfie with me. He declined, but not before stealing a snack out of someone’s backpack.

In Valladolid, things slowed down for a beat—pastel walls, quiet streets, strong coffee. I wandered the market alone, bought a pair of earrings shaped like pineapples, and sat outside a café with no signal and no agenda. It was bliss. But that calm didn’t last long. During a VW tour of Merida, the American girl who had a thing for Hammock Man accused me of stealing “her man.” I let her know—with grace, and perhaps the chill of a woman who’s seen it all—that he was very much hers. We made up over tequila. Naturally. We even shared churros the next day, like nothing ever happened.

Then came the classics: Chichén Itzá, towering and majestic in the heat, where I took a hundred photos and still couldn’t capture its magic. Celestún flamingos, pink and unbothered, preening like they knew we were watching. And one chaotic moment when a woman jumped into a mangrove pool right after a caiman crocodile slid in. There was screaming. There was splashing. No one died, but I nearly choked on my coconut water.

Our final stops: the vibrant Hoctún cemetery, full of colour, reverence, and a sense of peace that hit me unexpectedly. Then, Holbox—a beachy, boho dream where the roads are made of sand and everyone drives little golf buggies. I danced barefoot on a rooftop, flirted outrageously with a DJ who looked like he belonged in a perfume ad, tripped over a beach bag full of glowsticks, and stared at the stars until everything made sense and nothing mattered.

After that, I retreated to the unapologetically extra all-inclusive resort, Breathless, for some solo downtime. It was all swim-up bars, sun-soaked loungers, and conversations with strangers who I’ll never speak to again. I read trashy novels by the pool, wore a different bikini every day, and ordered room service like I was royalty. Blissful. But by the final night, I was done. Socially spent. Ready for routine, silence, and oat milk lattes that don’t come with a side of “So where are you from?”

Mindset: You Can Miss Someone and Still Need Space

I tried not to message Bodhi while I was away, but… we’ve been talking. A lot. I missed him. I missed his ridiculous flatmates (even Marketing Matt, god help me). And I’m still deeply unsure about meeting his parents later this month. But here’s what I’m learning: it’s okay to miss people and still take the space you need. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.

Travelling solo in a group is wild—you’re constantly surrounded, but still carving out space for yourself. And it reminded me that I don’t need anyone to validate my joy, or explain it, or hold it for me. I can hold it myself. You can want love and still prioritise peace. You can crave connection and still choose yourself first.

Style: Hammock Core & Holbox Energy

Outfit MVPs: wide-brim hats, linen wrap dresses, that one bikini that makes you feel like you could start a beach cult, and a pair of ancient Birkenstocks that are now half sand, half sole. Also: floaty cotton co-ords, giant tortoiseshell sunglasses, and a handwoven basket bag I carried like it was designer. I went full coastal cowgirl, and I have zero regrets.

And yes—I wore five anklets at once. Chaos. Iconic. Utterly me.

Beauty & Wellness: Jungle Glow-Up

I was dewy the entire time, but it wasn’t from skincare—it was the humidity and my refusal to use powder. I embraced jungle glow, frizzy hair, and minimal makeup. It felt like unhooking a bra after a long day of being polite. I used a face mist until the bottle gave up and my curls went rogue in the best way.

Also: sleeping in a hammock? Surprisingly amazing for my back. I felt like I’d unlocked a new form of yoga. And while tequila may not be a certified wellness elixir, I’m convinced it cured at least one existential spiral.

Pop Culture & Trends

• Junglecore is now a vibe, and I am its reluctant ambassador.

• Everyone on the trip was reading Colleen Hoover or Shantaram—I brought poetry. It felt smug. It was.

• TikTok is obsessed with “rot girl spring” and honestly, same. Let me be sunburnt and unbothered.

• Cowgirl boots are having a moment. Again. I might actually follow through this time.

• Still haven’t watched the no-talking Netflix dating show. But it lives rent-free in my group chat.

• “Soft girl gone rogue” energy is in. I’m living proof.

The Month Ahead: Return, Reflect, Regroup

Now that I’m back, it’s time to unpack both the suitcase and the feelings. April’s going to be about grounding again, preparing to meet Bodhi’s parents (send help), and maybe finding ways to bring that Mexico freedom into my everyday life.

I want to keep dancing barefoot in my kitchen. I want to wear perfume to bed. I want to say yes to things that scare me just a little bit. I want to honour the softness and the sass, the joy and the journaling.

More open-air dancing. Less apologising for needing space.

Sophie x