January 2019. I sit cross-legged on the 1910 hardwood floors of my DC home, incense in slow ribbons curling through the morning air. My hands rest on my knees, pulse drumming in my wrists. Silence, mixed with cedar and the distant ocean sound of traffic, fills the room. I notice my breath rise and fall along my spine.

Then my inner voice arrives, clear and unhesitating, telling me: drinking alcohol is no longer serving me or my mission. The words hit with a jolt, settling into my chest like a new weight. This message feels woven into a journey that has quietly unfolded over the years.

 

By then, I had wandered far from the harrowing years of 2006, when alcohol was my only comfort. That self feels like a ghost hovering at the edge of memory. Back then, all I could think was, “Just one more drink and maybe I can breathe again or function in this society as a normal person.”

In the years since, after numerous psychedelic experiences and self-reflection, I viewed addiction in a new light. It transformed into a source of strength, without shame. I saw it as a superpower: a place where spirits, not always with my best interests in mind, could reach me, and the part of me responsible for never abandoning my vision of living a life meant for my particular soul.

 

And yet. The vision was evident once again: sobriety is the pathway.

 

Initially, I didn’t realize that sobriety required avoiding more than alcohol but included psychedelics and entheogens. This was more than giving up alcohol at parties or saying no to ceremonies. It showed up in everyday moments I never expected. Like when I moved to my new hometown and was offered the opportunity to meet the local community in prayer, but had to decline. Even this felt like a kind of loss, a small separation from communion.

 

However, life shifted unexpectedly when I met a new teacher who upheld full sobriety as essential for learning Eastern Slavic traditions and dreamwork. By July 2024, I hadn’t touched alcohol, cannabis, psychedelics, or entheogens.

 

Stone cold sober.

 

Cacao, occasional Hapé when sick, herbs, tea, and sometimes coffee—yes. I mention these because some view them as potential addictions or psychedelics; I agree.

But what I was learning, slowly and deeply in these introspective years, is that all of life is psychedelic.

 

For many, “psychedelic” means an altered state, visions, or unraveling the familiar. But what if the most ordinary days can hold that transformation and wildness?

Imagine sunlight pouring through a glass of water on your windowsill, breaking into tiny rainbows that dance over the walls. Life is like that: subtle, spectacular, layered with meaning that only stands out when you choose to see it.

 

This, to me, is living a psychedelic life: a state where perception itself becomes fluid and full of possibility, even without any substance at all.

 

This realization was not new, but now it felt embodied and a remembered psychic space I lived out as a child. Thus, the lessons of sobriety started to move beyond abstinence and into transformed perception.

 

The greatest lesson of sobriety wasn’t just abstaining. I realized everything is my fault, my responsibility, and a result of my choices. No one else to blame but myself, whether good or bad. That clarity itself became a personal ritual.

Strangely, taking full responsibility offered a lightness I didn’t expect.

 

Five years in, I began to feel a shift in my consciousness.

Psilocybin surfaced in my meditations, not as memory, but as a calm presence communicating. I sensed it was only a matter of time before I would recognize and accept the medicine when it appeared.

 

Plants and landscapes have consistently resonated with me throughout my life. Often, they beckon me on small or grand journeys that may appear insignificant initially. However, upon arrival, I realize they had no choice but to lead me there, understanding their subtle call.

 

Then, in July 2024, a new opportunity arose: I was invited to join Nirvana Retreats as an influencer and psychedelic integration coach. The offer felt heavy. I struggled for days, not because I feared the medicine, but because I had grown to love the clear honesty of sobriety. I liked facing life with nothing in between.

Still, as I turned the invitation over in my mind, doubt crept in quietly.

Was I about to betray the ground I had worked so hard to claim? If I said yes, would I be abandoning the integrity that had become my refuge?

 

There were moments when it seemed easier to walk away, to protect the simple certainty I had carved out of years of discipline. The allure of a new purpose fought with a small voice urging me to hold my line.

The eventual “yes” did not float easily to the surface; it arrived only after I sat with all the fears of murdering an identity that had taken root in my community, of not knowing who I might become if I chose differently, and how others would perceive me.

 

I was undergoing an identity transformation, learning to relax, release, and rest in ways I hadn’t permitted earlier in my sobriety journey. In hindsight, I wasn’t completely surrendering as I do now, but I was doing my best with the understanding I had.

So was a psychedelic journey really the best for me?

 

I sat with my plant allies in the garden for days. I reflected and listened to the flowers and this mountainous landscape I call home. Eventually, I said yes.

I agreed, not only because I wanted to, but because the container offered everything I cherish: Ayurvedic herbal support, body treatments, a focused inward journey, therapists for integration, and herbal allies along the way. The retreat was guided by a dedicated woman with a rich and varied lineage. What more could I really want?

 

The ceremonial weekend began with body treatments to awaken the spirit. We explored yogic philosophy, breath, and movement. A full day devoted to the journey itself. For two hours, we were comfortably blindfolded.

Ayahuasca appeared not as a challenge but as a presence that wanted me to understand she was there. She has been my ally for more than 15 years.

 

And the tears started to flow.

 

The first image that surfaced was of the countless visions I’ve had in her presence, and the grief I had carried unspoken about who I once wanted to be. The one who would sit with indigenous elders and change the world through ceremony. That version of me had quietly been mourned but never fully buried.

Because the life I chose instead, one of integration and preparation, was a lonely space. People praise this work, but few can stand its potential darkness, so not all fully enter. Most want the jungle. Most want the shaman. Very few want the long, unglamorous work of what comes after.

 

All the sorrow and disappointment came out. So did the longing, ancient and current, for someone outside myself to rescue me from pain. Once again, I realized it was my responsibility. This time, it felt gentle and freeing. I don’t have to face this alone. I need to stop asking the wrong people to carry what only I can.

I mourned the life I always wanted but hadn’t built yet. Then, through the tears, I saw it. The beauty of what I actually built. The alignment. The odd grace of a life lived in devotion to something bigger than comfort.

How blessed.

From that ceremony, I carried home a vision that has not left me:

The people I want in my life are like mountains, steady in focus, purpose, and presence.

For a moment, stand with me among them: feel the thin, brisk air against your skin, listen to the hush between wind gusts, sense the ground rising solid beneath your feet.

We stand side by side, like the distant range I see every day. We are not a single peak. The community comes to play in what we create together: rivers, rain, plants, animals, the full abundance of a living landscape moving between us.

 

I am a pillar.

 

I want pillars by my side.

 

It’s different from wanting to be an ocean, where everything begins as one, and you spend your life learning to discern your edges.

 

And yet, it’s not so different.

It depends on your view.

Are you zoomed in to find each tree in the forest?

Or zoomed out to hold the mountain range?

That question pursued me home. It still does.

 

Notably, one month before accepting that ceremony, I had already begun building a container for people asking the same question. I called it Gnosis. The timing wasn’t a coincidence. It never is.

 

I thought the ceremony was the death.

I was wrong.

Five years of identity doesn’t go quietly. It fights. It justifies. It finds new shapes to hide in. And just when I thought I had made peace with who I was , life walks in and asks me to kill her again.

This time, it felt like I might not survive it.

 

Part Two is coming.