Six Months of Living

A sincere update on my life since I published Doses of Reality.

Sep 22, 2024

September 22nd, 2024: Since returning from my cousin’s wedding in Tuscany, I’ve been spending my time in six ways: writing, wandering around the Alps, reading memoirs, eating, cooking, and sleeping. It’s been one of the most peaceful weeks of my life.

I fly home Wednesday and will spend two weeks in the US before heading to South America.

I’m co-hosting a retreat from October 3-6 in the Sierra Nevada. We're deep into crafting an unforgettable itinerary and fired up about what’s coming to life. We had two attendees enrolled in August, now we have seven. We’re looking for two more people to round out what is an already awesome group. Reach out ASAP if you’re interested.
I just finished
Paul Millerd
’s new book Good Work. Paul is a fellow MIT Sloan alumnus and two years ago wrote The Pathless Path after leaving behind a prestigious career to wander and craft a more meaningful life. His second book goes 10x deeper into his story and I recommend it for anyone curious about exploring alternatives to the corporate grind. As I read Good Work, I started stumbling into my own “good work.” See below 😊. In response to Paul’s question at the end of Chapter 6, writing this lit a fire in my soul.

Preface

In May I published Doses of Reality – a detailed account of my five-month psychedelic-fueled transformation. Even though it’s a ~45 minute read and felt comprehensive at the time, six months later it feels like only the first half of the story.

So many people pop LSD or magic mushrooms with friends, or go on a weekend psychedelic retreat. There is buzz around these substances in the news, books, and scientific journals. People seem to be talking about them everywhere.

Yet I’ve found most of the literature on psychedelics, also known as plant medicines, to be overly scientific and not relatable for the uninitiated reader. It doesn’t help much to hear that “57% of people who take MDMA are happier five months later.”

Nor does it help to hear a dude raving: “This shit is for real! You gotta go do it!”

What’s missing are relatable, real accounts. Not of people who’ve reached cloud nine for a day, but of people who have let go of lifelong pain, broken through fears that ruled their lives, or started to love better.

Because of the depth of this work and the walled-off places it tends to reach inside of us, sharing these stories is a courageous and risky act. At least it felt that way for me, even on this second go-around.

This is a straight-forward, much shorter account of where I’m at today. A six-month progress report. It’s meant to stand on its own, but if you haven’t yet read Doses of Reality, I suggest you start there – it goes into detail about what happened on the journeys and my life during the five-month process.

A cartoon-style image of a man sitting at a desk, writing a six-month reflection letter. The man is wearing glasses, looking focused, with a pen in his hand. The desk has an open notebook, a plant, a cup of coffee, and a calendar showing '6 months' behind him. The room has a relaxed, cozy vibe, with warm colors and soft lighting, suggesting a reflective and thoughtful moment.

The Headline: Life is good. Really fucking good.

I still sit up in bed some mornings, the cover draped over my legs, and think: Is this really my life now?

Just 10 months ago, life wasn’t really fucking good. In fact, it wasn’t good at all.

On the outside I had what most people want: a fit body, the best degrees, the most prestigious jobs, a great family, and a huge network of friends and mentors. But on the inside, it felt like I would be in a state of mental torment for the rest of my life.

Even though I was almost 30 years old, it never felt like I’d moved past the pain I felt growing up:

I watched kids make jokes in class and wondered why they weren’t paralyzed with fear about what other students might think.
I walked around my senior year of high school terrified of needing to ask someone to prom and wondering how I’d explain it to people if I didn’t go.
I didn’t think other kids wanted to hang out with me. Although I was reasonably athletic, I certainly wasn’t fun or funny. Or worth spending time with.
I was jealous of the kids whose grades sucked, who were constantly in detention, and who did drugs. At least they were expressing themselves, not totally stuck in their heads like me.

During and after college, I stuffed my pain into a remote corner of my psyche while I won poker tournaments, landed a golden ticket job at Bain, and spent an hour a day in the gym. Even though I felt connected to these pursuits, they also distracted me from the questions I didn’t have answers to: Why am I so damn self-conscious? Why don’t any of my romantic relationships last over two months? Why can’t I think for myself?

The agony and unanswered questions lingered, mostly dormant, until I quit my job at Bain in June 2022. No longer making 100-slide PowerPoint decks and flying around the country left lots of time for old pain to come back with hurricane-like force.

I woke up most mornings after tossing around in bed like a load of laundry, getting up 10-15 times per night. I’d spend the day struggling to breathe, feeling like I couldn’t get a full load of air into my lungs no matter how hard I tried. I also walked around with a near-constant headache.

I tried to deconstruct my pain by going to therapy, meditating for hundreds of hours, and filling dozens of Moleskine journals, but nothing worked. Life was getting worse by the day. I couldn’t decide what work to do or how to spend my time. I couldn’t connect with the women I dated…at least not past the fifth date. And I couldn’t find a way through these weird physical symptoms starting to destroy my body.

Most of all, I couldn’t imagine how any of this would change, ever.

When a friend introduced me to a psychedelic guide, I felt like it was my last hope.

As I type these words six months later, so much has changed yet so little has changed. I’m still the same Jeremy – I didn’t emerge from my final MDMA journey in a state of bliss absent of self-destructive thoughts and painful memories. But I did emerge with a different relationship to them.

Life is lighter. It’s more fun. I don’t feel ashamed about my past. The unanswered questions from childhood rarely cross my mind and no longer weigh me down. My Mom tells me my face looks lighter. When I smile, I can feel the edges of my lips move higher and wider than they did before.

I feel more love. And more compassion. I see how deep the roots of my own suffering ran. I understand how confusing it is to have it all working on the outside, but have so little hope on the inside. I know how it feels to be drained of vitality. What it’s like to avoid meeting new people for fear of what they’ll think of you. What it’s like to have no clue where to go, and to realize there’s no escape.

I also know it doesn’t have to be that way. That the tools exist and people can find a way through. I hold out hope, even when others have lost hope in them or they’ve lost hope in themselves. I see that there’s nothing special about me. Just that I found the right guide at the right time.

I no longer feel confused about who I am and where I’m going. On the outside it looks like I’m on the most undefined path possible. I’m in Switzerland writing an essay, and in a month I’ll be in South America. But on the inside, it feels like I’m finally on the right track. No longer existentially concerned about what other people think of me, no longer needing to appear like I have it all figured out. Somehow, I’ve never been more sure I’m right where I need to be, doing exactly what I need to be doing.

The breathing problems are gone. The headaches are gone, too. And sleep? It’s still an issue, but wakeups are down to ~2-4 times on an average night. When I can’t sleep, it's usually because I’m constantly flipping on my lamp, opening my journal, and scribbling down writing ideas I can’t risk disappearing into the night.

It’s not all roses though. I still check my email first thing in the morning. I’m still addicted to my phone. When a coaching client left last month, I wondered whether I was a shitty coach, a bad human, or both. A part of me thinks I’m an egotistical maniac for writing this stuff and hoping people read it. If you’ve read any of these newsletters, you’ve seen the insecurity I have about my writing skills.

I’m still open to romance and searching for it, but devoid of it. I’ve surrendered to the fact that my future partner will read my writing. In fact, I want her to. I need her to. If she reads this and still wants to spend time with me, I’ll know we have an awful lot to talk about. And I’ll want to hear her version of my story.

I’ve had hard conversations with people I love. I’ve spoken truths I used to keep to myself. I’ve made terrible mistakes – writing things on the internet about people without permission.

In the worst moments, I question whether I’m losing my mind. Whether this whole path – while relieving my suffering – is driving me a new kind of insane. Whether the things I saw on the journeys were worth seeing, or better off ignored.

But I hold even these struggles with more care and compassion than I did before. I see how real spiritual growth involves living in a radically new way – and that may feel crazy. It involves shitting the proverbial bed and cleaning up the mess – trusting it serves the growth of me and those around me. And it involves hurting other people at times – because even after all this work, I’m still just a flawed human doing his best.

In exchange for that? I’m finally living. I feel like a little kid, like time is on my side. Some friends told me that when they turned 30, something changed. Life got more serious, they could sense the clock ticking. For me? Not a tinge of fear. My body feels young, my heart feels like it beats slower than it did a year ago. I wake up most mornings in disbelief that life could be so fucking good. I can look back on these past six months and say I’ve felt truly alive.

Where to from here?

Poet Rumi said: “The wound is the place where the light enters you.”

For over 29 years, I ran away from my self-consciousness, self-doubt, malaise, and the sense that something was wrong with me. But as I enter my thirties, the things that haunted me are alchemizing into the message I want to share.

I’ve talked to over 50 people about my transformation. I don’t recommend psychedelic work to anyone. I don’t push people into what can be a heart-thumpingly scary journey with no clear destination. But I tell my story in whatever way feels appropriate. With some, it’s the whole thing, including the parts I held back in Doses of Reality. With others, it’s: “I’ve done some meaningful psychedelic work.”

As I have more conversations, I now think there are a hell of a lot of people just like me. Stuck on similar questions, dealing with similar pain. Even if our stories sound different, people seem to relate to my humanity. The inner battle for freedom that’s been at the forefront of consciousness likely since the dawn of humanity.

Seven people I’ve spoken with have now done journeys with the same guide. One found the root of his on-and-off anxiety. Another reached such profound depth he won’t even share the insights with me.

So many people need to hear the story of another to realize real transformation is possible. And to grasp that the tools – though still unconventional – do exist.

I have no choice but to serve as an authentic map of this territory beyond the data and cringe-worthy anecdotes of someone seeing God while on LSD. And to share openly what I encounter on my quest to be a better, less pained human.

With endless love,

Thank you to

Justin Mulvaney

and

kora kwok 🌊

for your edits on the initial draft of this piece.

Subscribe for new essays every few weeks and to follow my travel adventure:

📸 Best photo:

Leukerbad from above. I’m going to miss this place.

👋 More travel updates:

On a ~10 mile hike I met a Seventh Day Adventist pastor and we hiked for ~5 miles together. He grew up in Chile and works in Germany. I thought I’d meet interesting people on this journey, but never could have imagined coming across someone so fascinating so early on.
On a ~9 mile hike I made it to the final lookout point and saw three guys who looked to be in their mid-twenties, one wearing a yarmulke (or kippah). I asked where they were from and, as I suspected, they said Israel. I said “I’m Jewish” and they instantly opened a seat at their picnic table and invited me to join them. We chatted for ~10 minutes. It’s wild how at home I felt hanging out with them.

Thanks for reading!

1 — Leave a like. I’d be grateful if you’d consider tapping the “heart” ❤️ at the top or bottom of this page.

2 — Let’s chat. If this resonates or you want to share your thoughts, please leave a comment on this post. I’d love to hear from you and I respond to everyone!