I took LSD for the first time when I was 14 years old—over three decades ago.
It happened at my friend’s house, the ultimate teenage boy’s dream pad.
A game room with full-size arcade machines. A pool table. Air hockey. A wet bar.
Another room with a home theater. Outside, a hot tub and a pool.
It was the perfect place for a first-time trip—and the start of a much longer journey I couldn’t have imagined at the time.
After hearing all the cautionary tales about LSD—people jumping out of windows, the idea that taking a certain dose would make you clinically insane—I had some fear and hesitation. But I also had just the right mix of curiosity, anti-establishment defiance, naïveté, and good old-fashioned peer pressure to place that tiny paper tab on my tongue.
It had a slight bitterness. Nervous laughter rippled through our small group of friends as we stood in a circle, about to step into the unknown.
As it began to take effect, I felt a warmth in my belly, a tinge of anxiety, and an almost involuntary permagrin forming at the corners of my lips.
The dose we took wasn’t enough for a full-blown, kaleidoscopic hallucinatory ride—the kind I would later experience through deeper psychedelic work. Instead, it heightened my senses, turning up the volume on subtleties I had always taken for granted. My normally shy, introverted nature gave way to a playful, somewhat innocent deviance.
I don’t remember all the details—time has blurred them—but a few moments remain vivid.
I remember we met up with another group of boys who had been drinking. The shift in energy was immediate and tangible. They carried a discordant, disjointed presence—lacking attunement, awareness, and the ability to connect in a coherent way. It felt unsafe. From the heightened perception of LSD, it registered as a lower level of intelligence. I believe my friends and I found a way to ditch them—we just didn’t like what their energy was doing to our vibe. If I recall correctly, we were pretty direct about it. Something along the lines of: We don’t like your energy. Can you leave?
Another moment stands out.
At a certain point, a friend brought up my parents' recent separation. As soon as he did, I felt the permagrin leave my face, and a heavy weight dropped into the room.
Having been in a relatively blissed-out state for hours, I knew immediately that I didn’t want to go there. I wasn’t ready.
I had always heard the term bad trip. In that moment, I understood exactly what it meant. I felt the pull into a dark place I wasn’t prepared to face.
But I also realized I had the power to redirect my attention. With intent, I shifted my focus, and my state changed almost instantly. That moment was a lesson—one of the first times I consciously understood that I had the ability to steer my experience.
Looking back now, I recognize that something opened in that moment—something that might have been worth exploring. Of course, given that I was 14 and surrounded by teenage boys who had no therapeutic skills, it probably wasn’t the right time.
Now, after years of experience with psychedelics, I see that calling something a bad trip is often a misnomer.
Psychedelics reveal what is hidden—the things we don’t want to see, don’t want to feel. Our shadows. Sometimes, the most valuable work we can do is to turn toward those places with curiosity rather than fear.
As I’ve grown—as both a psychonaut and an explorer of personal growth—I’ve learned that while self-work can be done alone, its depth is amplified with an experienced guide.
Just the presence of another person when we encounter difficulty can shift everything. Through co-regulation, our nervous system finds grounding. Places that were once closed off can open. There’s a different kind of safety when we don’t have to hold ourselves alone.
Beyond that, healing itself is relational. Whether our wounds were caused by another human or not, if they remain embedded in our body-mind, it’s often because we need connection to unravel them. We are attachment-based creatures, wired for tribe. Our healing is our own, but it is incomplete without relationship.
In psychedelic work, we talk about set and setting. Set refers to mindset, but more accurately, I would call it state—because it includes not just the mind, but the full energetic state of the body. Setting is the environment, and what feels safe is unique to each individual. For some, it’s a clinical space. For others, it’s nature.
What’s often overlooked is that it’s not just about the mindset of the person taking psychedelics—it’s also about the state of the facilitator and anyone else present. In that heightened, amplified state, everything in the psychic field becomes relevant.
As I train to facilitate these journeys, I see even more clearly how imperative it is to prepare myself to hold that space.
It’s a role I take seriously. Legally, in Oregon, we must take a non-directive approach. But I know that the quality of presence I bring will influence the depth of someone’s experience. That means showing up with a certain level of neutrality and unconditional reverence—not only for the client’s innate wisdom but for the organic intelligence within the psilocybin itself.
I believe the body knows.
The challenge, in life, in psychedelic work, and as a facilitator, is to get out of the way. To surrender. To allow something greater than the self we call I—something more capable, more conscious than the ego—to move through us.
I’ll be writing more about my experiences with psychedelics in the future, but for now, I want to leave you with a final thought on integration.
After working with these sacred allies for 30 years, I’ve come to see that they are not a panacea. They are often spoken about as if they are. And while they can be revelatory and transformational, without integration, they are incomplete.
Integration is highly personal. There is no one-size-fits-all approach.
Just know that some of the most important work with psychedelics happens after the journey.
For 2–4 weeks post-session, your brain is in a neuroplastic state. This isn’t necessarily the time for drastic life changes—quitting your job, ending a marriage, moving across the country. Integration is about curiosity. Making space for emotions. Staying embodied through breathwork, movement, yoga, meditation, and journaling. Continuing to listen. Staying vulnerable.
This is why psychedelic work pairs so well with integrative coaching, somatic tools, spiritual practice, and compassionate inquiry. It’s how we digest the experience—how we allow it to land in our daily lives.
Because a psychedelic journey, no matter how powerful, doesn’t change you.
Integration does.
Many people have profound experiences, only to fall back into unconscious habits. True transformation is often slow, gradual, and nonlinear. It pendulates.
This is why having support structures in place before the journey helps you land the plane more smoothly.
Thank you for reading.
Thank you to the all-knowing source of being that has granted me the opportunity to support others in healing.
Thank you for the sacred responsibility this bestows upon me—a responsibility that not only inspires me but demands that I continue my own shadow integration to hold these spaces.
Thank you to the mycelial teachers—not plant, not animal, but something else entirely—who carry a gift for humanity.
Thank you to the shifting tides of legislation recognizing that these substances are here to heal.
If you feel called to this work, I’m now taking intake for sessions beginning of Summer 2025.