We spoke about some of the difficult experiences that shaped me, the struggles I carried into adulthood, and how partying, body image and the pursuit of “perfection” sometimes became ways of avoiding what was happening underneath.

In this episode, I share why I chose to confront my trauma through psychedelics and plant medicine and how that decision changed the direction of my life.

We explore:

• Body dysmorphia and shame

• Steroids, partying and the pressure to look perfect

• What happens when talking therapy reaches its limits

• How psychedelics became part of my healing

• The realities and risks of this work

If you’re interested in trauma, identity, mental health or the complicated paths people take towards recovery, I hope you’ll give it a listen.

Watch “Psychedelics Might Have Saved My Life” on YouTube

Also available on Apple & Spotify

I’d love to hear what resonates with you.

When I first started sitting with ayahuasca, I thought the medicine would show me pain, maybe unearth some trauma, or reveal a spiritual truth that would reorganise my life in one decisive sweep. I did not expect it to show me how much of my life had been organised around adaptation.

That has become one of the clearest threads in my own psychedelic work. I was aware that I carried pain, but I didn’t realise how much I had built a whole way of life around it. I had become so used to anticipating, adjusting myself, scanning for threats, and managing everything that I no longer recognised those behaviours as strategies; I mistook them for who I was. Apparently, it is not especially normal to watch someone’s face while you speak and try to work out in real time how your words are landing. It is exhausting, but when you have grown used to monitoring safety through other people’s reactions, it can start to feel ordinary. It sits alongside the other skills i’m great at, such as people-pleasing, defensive humour, and the effort to stay likeable enough to avoid friction.

I did not think of those things as defences at the time; instead, I saw them as my personality. But under the medicine, especially when sitting with it a few times, it became clear that much of what I called myself was also a set of adaptations.

That is the argument I want to make here. Psychedelics are not chemically different for queer people. The molecule is still the molecule nor does ayahuasca become queer because we are. Psilocybin does not suddenly develop a more nuanced understanding of shame because the person taking it is gay, trans, or queer. But psychedelic experiences may land differently when the self being altered has been shaped by minority stress, concealment, vigilance, shame, and the laborious effort to be acceptable enough to stay safe.

So the question is not whether psychedelics act on a queer brain in some special pharmacological way but rather, what happens when a psychedelic experience meets a self that has learnt, over many years, to manage visibility, safety, shame and belonging?

The Self the Medicine Meets

The medicine in any context does not meet a blank slate. It meets a person’s histories, tenderness, shame, fantasies, longings, and the parts of themselves they still cannot bear to face.

The REBUS model (Relaxed Beliefs Under Psychedelics), for example, suggests that psychedelics may relax the precision of high-level beliefs or priors, including those linked to selfhood, identity and ego, allowing information that is usually constrained by those beliefs to register more freely (Carhart-Harris & Friston, 2019). That can be a useful way of understanding why people sometimes encounter old memories, grief, shame, bodily feelings, or self-beliefs with less defensive control.

Beliefs like these do not come from nowhere. If someone has repeatedly learnt that being visible can bring judgement or rejection, thoughts such as “I need to be careful” or “I need to stay acceptable” can make sense. They may once have helped that person stay safe. This intersection is where psychedelic theory meets minority stress theory: the idea that stigma, prejudice, concealment and the expectation of rejection can become part of how a queer person learns to move through the world (Meyer, 2003). More recent psychedelic literature has begun to ask whether psychedelic-assisted therapy might help “plasticise” entrenched cognitive and behavioural patterns that are associated with minority stress (Hanshaw et al., 2024).

This may help explain why queer people sometimes describe psychedelic experiences differently. It does not mean that queer people are more evolved or spiritual. Rather, the experience may bring up shame, secrecy, body image, family, gender, religion, sex and the pressure to make yourself understandable or acceptable to others. These concerns are not theoretical; they can shape how someone behaves, relates to other people and understands themselves.

This is where mainstream psychedelic discourse can feel too clean to me. Terms such as ego dissolution, transcendence, the default mode network and relaxed priors can be useful, but they leave out the circumstances of a person’s life. A psychedelic experience does not happen separately from someone’s history or from how the world has treated them but it can also make protective habits visible—habits that previously felt so natural they were mistaken for personality.

Queer identity and psychedelics remain underexplored. Where queer people do appear in the literature, they have often been treated more as a problem to be explained than as people whose experiences might deepen our understanding of healing, identity, belonging, shame, pleasure or self-acceptance. Bartlett et al. (2024) argue that queer people have often appeared in psychedelic literature through a narrow or stigmatising lens, with less attention given to the meaningful, affirming, non-pathologising ways psychedelics may shape queer identity, healing, belonging and self-understanding. The studies that do take queer experience seriously point toward something richer: trauma healing, sexual identity integration, confidence in coming out, self-acceptance, connectedness, relief from stigma and loneliness, and a greater sense of belonging. What is missing, then, is not only more research but a fuller account of what these experiences are doing in queer lives.

Shame, Visibility and the Queer Self

Shame may feel private, but it develops through our relationships with other people. It carries the fear that something in us, if seen, will invite rejection, disgust or humiliation. For queer people, family, religion, school, medicine, dating culture, racism and expectations around gender can shape that fear. Over time, it may affect how we experience our bodies, voices, desires and relationships. Psychedelic-assisted therapy has therefore been proposed as one possible way of addressing chronic shame among queer people (Carlisle et al., 2023).

For me, shame was never just an idea; it lived in my body. I could see it in the way I looked at myself, the way I trained, how I sought anabolic steroids and the way I tried to make myself harder to reject. At the time, none of these feelings felt conscious. It just was what my unhealed mind disguised as discipline, ambition and health. However, it was never lean enough or impressive enough because no physical change could settle the fear underneath: that if I stopped improving myself, there might be nothing left to want.

Psychedelics helped me recognise that I was not simply being hard on myself; I was trying to feel safer in other people’s eyes.

This is one reason psychedelics can feel powerful in queer lives. They may change the relationship a person has with the self that shame has gathered around. In these states, shame can sometimes become visible without the usual reflex to collapse, defend, perform, or disappear. A person may begin to see not only the shame itself but also the identity they built around surviving it. That last part is important because psychedelic work can easily become another form of self-correction if it is not held carefully. People can leave a ceremony thinking they have discovered everything wrong with themselves when what they may really have encountered is the intelligence of an old survival strategy. The point is not to attack the defence, but to understand why it is needed in the first place.

The Cost of Hiding

This phenomenon may also explain why psychedelic experiences can feel so charged. If you have spent years making yourself smaller or less visible, what emerges may feel less like revelation and more like recognition. I enjoy Donald Winnicott’s (1965) words: “It is a sophisticated game of hide-and-seek in which it is joy to be hidden but a disaster not to be found.” Hiding can bring relief when being seen has carried danger, ridicule or rejection. But never being met as you are has a cost. Psychedelics can make that cost harder to ignore: the pain lies not only in what was hidden but also in how long you had to hide it and how you learnt to numb yourself along the way.

Numbing can bring relief, but it can also be destabilising. Letting go can feel good, but understanding why you needed to hold everything together can be painful. When shame, vigilance or fear of exposure have been constant, anything that quiets them can become seductive. That might include substances, sex, control, perfectionism, compulsive striving, or anything else that offers a temporary escape from self-consciousness. This is not unique to queer people, but queer life can create particular reasons for seeking that escape. Addiction belongs in this conversation because it can be an attempt to manage what feels too painful to feel, say or carry alone.

What makes psychedelic work different is that it may interrupt that cycle rather than simply feeding it. Rather than offering another way to escape yourself, they can bring you closer to what you have been avoiding. Feelings that once seemed impossible to bear may become possible to notice, name and stay with. That does not make the process easy, and it certainly does not make it universally healing, but it helps explain why the experience can feel less like escape and more like an encounter with the conditions that made escape so necessary in the first place.

The Room Is Part of the Medicine

This is where the question of safety becomes central, because the setting is not just the backdrop to the psychedelic experience; it is part of the experience itself. Psychedelic spaces often use words such as surrender, openness, trust, ego death and letting go as if they mean the same thing for everyone. They do not. Letting go requires a person to loosen control, and that is only possible when the body feels safe enough to do so. For someone accustomed to monitoring what they reveal and how they are received, surrender may feel less like freedom than exposure.

I felt this directly on one retreat. At lunch, a woman repeatedly told other participants that she did not think trans people should receive hormones through the NHS. She knew I was a queer-health author. I could not know whether her comments were aimed at me, but they changed how I felt in the group. She was there to work on herself, like everyone else. That is the uncomfortable part: people can be sincere about healing while carrying beliefs that make somebody else feel less safe. I became more alert, more guarded and more careful about what I said. In a setting where I was supposed to soften, part of me was still scanning.

A setting is shaped by more than the dosage, music, facilitators or ceremony. It is also shaped by the people in the room and what they believe. Prejudice does not remain outside the experience simply because everyone has come there to heal. If someone expresses contempt for people like you, that becomes part of what your body is responding to when you are asked to let go. For queer people, and especially for trans people, that can change the experience completely.

That does not mean everyone in a psychedelic circle must arrive perfectly healed, informed or free from prejudice because that would be impossible. But facilitators cannot create safety simply by declaring that a room is safe. They need to notice when one person’s behaviour causes another to withdraw or feel threatened, and they must be willing to intervene. Otherwise, queer people are being asked to lower their guard in a room that has done nothing to earn their trust.

You cannot ask a nervous system to soften if the space itself requires bracing. A nervous system cannot soften in a room that keeps it on alert. Safety is shaped by the people present, what they say and whether harm is acknowledged when it occurs. No setting will be perfect, but it must be honest enough that openness does not become another form of exposure.

Sara Ahmed (2021) writes, “To be heard as complaining is not to be heard.” I think of this when a queer person names prejudice or exclusion and is then treated as the problem for having mentioned it. I have seen this happen in families, institutions, wellness spaces and medicine circles. A room can call itself open or conscious while repeating the same inequalities it believes it has left behind.

Psychedelic research needs the same honesty. Inclusion means more than recruiting queer participants into studies still built around heterosexual, cisgender, white and middle-class assumptions. Researchers must also ask whether their theories, measures, preparation and integration practices can make sense of queer lives without reducing them to a category. Healing may involve sexuality, gender, race, religion, family, the body and community. If the research has no language for these parts of a person’s life, it cannot fully describe what happened to them.

So are psychedelics different for queer people?

Not in any simple pharmacological sense. The receptor is still the receptor and the brew is still the brew. The difference lies in the person entering the experience. Many queer people have learnt to hide, monitor or reshape themselves in order to feel safe. When those habits begin to loosen, what emerges may feel especially intense because it is connected to how that person survived.

This is why queer experience should not be treated as a niche concern within psychedelic research. It reminds the field that healing does not happen to a brain in isolation, a person’s history, identity and surroundings matter too. The medicine may open the door, but the room helps determine whether someone feels safe enough to walk through it.

References

Ahmed, S. (2021). Complaint! Duke University Press.

Bartlett, A., Christ, C., Martins, B., Saxberg, K., & Ching, T. H. W. (2024). The library is open: A scoping review on queer representation in psychedelic research. Frontiers in Public Health, 12, 1472559.

Carhart-Harris, R. L., & Friston, K. J. (2019). REBUS and the anarchic brain: Toward a unified model of the brain action of psychedelics. Pharmacological Reviews, 71(3), 316-344.

Carlisle, N. A., Dourron, H. M., MacCarthy, S., Zarrabi, A. J., & Hendricks, P. S. (2023). Exploring the unique therapeutic potential of psychedelics to reduce chronic shame among sexual and gender minority adults. Psychedelic Medicine, 1(4), 210-217.

Hanshaw, B. D., Fusunyan, M., Anderson, C. T. M., & Turban, J. L. (2024). Psychedelic-assisted therapy among sexual and gender minority communities. Nature Mental Health, 2(6), 636-644.

Meyer, I. H. (2003). Prejudice, social stress, and mental health in lesbian, gay, and bisexual populations: Conceptual issues and research evidence. Psychological Bulletin, 129(5), 674-697.

Winnicott, D. W. (1965). The maturational processes and the facilitating environment: Studies in the theory of emotional development. The International Psycho-Analytic Library, 64, 1-276.

Bryan Johnson’s recent livestream put one of the strongest psychedelics, Bufo, or more accurately 5-MeO-DMT, in front of a much bigger audience, and since then a few people have asked me about my experience with it. I wanted to share what it was like, both the footage and the part that's harder to show.

What is Bufo

Bufo is the name people often use for 5-MeO-DMT when it comes from the secretion of the Sonoran Desert toad, though 5-MeO-DMT also exists in synthetic form. It is known for being brief, extraordinarily intense, and genuinely difficult to put into language. The recent conversation has pushed it into mainstream wellness discourse in a way that feels worth responding to carefully because the experience is more complex, more exposing, and more tender than a lot of the coverage suggests.

The closest metaphor I have is a slingshot ride for consciousness. My awareness felt as though it had been fired out of ordinary reality, and within seconds the part of me that thinks, narrates, and tries to stay in control was simply gone. What surprised me was not only the intensity of it but also what seemed to sit underneath it—a sense of love and forgiveness so overwhelming that it dissolved barriers I had not even realised I was carrying.

Afterwards, I felt tender more than triumphant. Quiet, a little raw, and aware that something in me had been moved in a way I could not immediately organise into language. It was not just intense and then over. There was an afterglow to it, but also a vulnerability, as though the usual boundaries had thinned and had not fully come back yet.

What stayed with me was a sense of openness, relief, and perspective, but also the awareness that experiences like these are not really captured by footage alone. The visible part is often the least interesting part. What matters more is what it opens, what it softens, and what remains once ordinary consciousness returns.

It’s not the same as DMT

It also feels important to say that 5-MeO-DMT is not the same as DMT, and it is not the same as ayahuasca. People often collapse them together, but they do not feel interchangeable from the inside.

DMT is often described through visions, geometry, entities, colour, and the sense of entering another realm. Ayahuasca tends to unfold much more slowly, over hours rather than minutes, and often brings a more emotional, physical, and psychological process, something narrative, layered, and at times confrontational.

5-MeO-DMT felt very different to me. Less story, less imagery, less sense of travelling through a landscape. More like total immediacy. More like consciousness stripped of its usual reference points. Where ayahuasca can feel like a long conversation and DMT can feel like being launched into an intensely symbolic realm, 5-MeO-DMT felt closer to the dissolution of the one having the experience in the first place. That is part of what makes it so difficult to describe and part of what makes it so easily misunderstood.

This was one of my first experiences with Bufo a few years ago, shared here as a personal experience only, and it took place in a safe and legal environment. I am not prescribing, promoting, or suggesting this is right for anyone else. I am sharing it because I think experiences like these deserve honest, grounded accounts from people who have actually had them, and because the conversation happening right now could use more of those.

The Video

While I have you:

I’m reopening my clinic and taking on new clients again, so if you’ve been thinking about working together one-to-one, now is a good time to reach out. You can find details at danieloshaughnessy.com/workwithme.

I’m also honoured to be part of You Are Loved × SMOKE on Saturday 25 April at Omnibus Theatre, Clapham. After the show, I’ll be joining Monty Moncrieff MBE, Dr Alessandro Tridico, and Rosie Wilby for a panel on Connection vs Loneliness, exploring some of the harder realities facing LGBTQ+ people, including isolation, shame, survival, and what honest community conversations can actually look like. Tickets are £16 with the code YAL, and full details are at youareloved.org.uk/tour.

What I’ve noticed, again and again, is that when my stress drops even slightly, when I can breathe without my chest doing that subtle clench I barely notice anymore, the creative spark returns. I start having ideas, I feel myself opening, and I feel that itch to make something, to name something true (and to write to you!). But the spark doesn’t arrive alone. It brings uncertainty. It brings that feeling of standing at the edge of the next chapter without a script, and for someone who has used structure like a sedative, the open space can feel less like freedom and more like exposure.

My expectations have no map

I don't think people admit that achievements can be destabilising. Ambition gives you a map when you are working toward something; it tells you where to sit, what to do, and how to measure yourself, and it gives you a socially acceptable reason to be obsessed. Once you reach a destination, the map begins to fade. You are suddenly in a place where you can’t control the next step because the next step doesn’t exist yet. My expectations of myself are still high, my self-doubt is still loud, and the moment I accomplish something I’ve wanted for years, a part of me instantly panics, because now I’m somewhere unfamiliar, which has always been where my control problems start shouting.

Healing complicates this, because the more awareness you gain, the harder it is to pretend you don’t feel what you feel. The old me would have been anxious and then wrapped it neatly, shoved it in a back pocket, made a joke, opened my laptop, and told everyone I was fine. The newer me notices the strategy in real time, the tight jaw, the overthinking, the urge to perform composure, and the need to turn everything into meaning as fast as possible so I can stay ahead of it. Awareness is a gift, but it also removes your ability to bypass. You can’t un-know what you know about your own nervous system. You can’t unsee how often “being productive” is actually “being afraid, but in a socially rewarded way.

My Pen!

Over the new year, I was on an ayahuasca retreat, and at one point, the shaman took my pen away from me. I’m not being metaphorical; she literally removed it, and it landed like a gut punch. Writing is my guitar pick, my tool, my control lever. I write to trace patterns, to create meaning, to teach what I’ve learned, and if I’m being brutally honest, I can also write to numb the full intensity of what I’m carrying by converting it into language too quickly. It pairs nicely with performance healing; I can explain the process, frame it, package it, and make it coherent, and while it looks like integration, it can also be a way of not fully feeling the rawness of what’s here.

There is a line from the psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott that has always made my stomach drop because it captures the paradox perfectly: “It is a sophisticated game of hide-and-seek in which it is joy to be hidden but disaster not to be found.” I understood that long before I had language for it. Hiding can start as protection and quietly become a personality. You learn to disappear without leaving, to make yourself acceptable before you are fully known, and you call it maturity when really it is survival. The pen is part of the equation too, a way to stay hidden while still appearing brave, still appearing articulate, still appearing like someone who has it all handled. In that room, amongst the sick buckets, with the pen taken, the usual hiding place collapsed.

I hated it. I was restless, scared, and bargaining – should I go to the bathroom again before the medicine hits? It seemed as though any movement could shield me from surrender. All that resistance merged into a single sensation, which I instantly recognised: the fear that precedes a fall, like the stomach flip you experience on a rollercoaster when you know gravity is approaching but cannot predict the speed of your own descent. That is the moment when control has nothing left to offer you. Søren Kierkegaard wrote that “anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.” At first I thought he meant fear. He didn’t. He meant the strange, unsteady feeling you get when nothing is holding you in place. This is the feeling you experience when no one is directing you, when a script is absent, and when the next step is entirely up to you. I didn’t understand that line until I felt it in my body, because that’s what it is: possibility as vertigo, freedom as a wobble, and choice as too much air under your feet.

So here I am again without my psychological pen, trying to feel instead of planning. I notice myself staying at my desk even when I have nothing to do, like stillness is suspicious. I notice myself monitoring every step I take for fear of criticism, and when I really look at it, a lot of that fear still traces back to the earlier education: don’t get attacked, don’t stand out too much, and don’t give people a reason. This is why “stop caring what people think” isn’t a motivational quote for me; it’s almost funny, because a nervous system trained by threat does not respond to slogans, it responds to cues of safety, time, repetition, and the slow-lived proof that disagreement isn’t always danger. I’ve even noticed I can’t be funny in the same defensive way anymore, like the old armour doesn’t fit, and the new one hasn’t arrived.

Outsmarting Astrology

Of course, in the middle of not knowing, I still reach for control. I reach for it through productivity, self-analysis, and sometimes through the more mystical disguises too: tarot, astrology, “what does this year mean?" and “what is coming next?" If you're into Chinese metaphysics, you'll know that the Year of the Snake has just handed over to the Year of the Fire Horse, with the Lunar New Year beginning on 17 February 2026. The snake sheds, retreats, and deconstructs; the horse moves, charges, and accelerates, and I can feel why my brain loves this language: it turns uncertainty into a storyline. But I also know why I reach for it: it’s another attempt to outsmart the unknown, to write the plot before it arrives, to keep myself safe with prediction.

I cannot pre-write the next chapter of my life; I cannot guarantee I won’t be misunderstood; I cannot prevent people disagreeing, but I can choose how I meet myself when the fear rises, and I can choose not to abandon my body just because my mind wants a plan.

So I’m practising in small, unglamorous ways. Taking breaks from the desk without guilt, letting my nervous system downshift without immediately refilling the space with productivity, letting myself sit in the moment before the drop without sprinting to narrate it. Letting the healing happen without rushing to find words for it. If this year is asking anything of me, it might be this: stop performing my healing and start living it, let surprise be a teacher, not a threat, and trust that the part of me that can’t predict everything is not a problem to defeat; it’s a part to soften.

My book is now out in the world (Letting Go of Perfect, A Gay Man’s Guide to Healing from Body Dysmorphia), and I’m back in the familiar loop: self-doubt, fear, the question of whether I’ve gone too far. We are taught that confidence is attractive, that to be respected you should look certain. I’m not. When I have looked confident it was performance. Behind it is a nervous man trying to control how he is seen.

On the surface I look fine. Sober, steady, more at peace than ever. Inside, the frightened child still wobbles, still wants to please, still worries they aren’t enough. That same child checks a post, sees two likes after a week of trying to “do it right,” and feels the algorithm’s silence as personal rejection. It is humbling how quickly meaning can collapse into metrics.

I can talk about nutrition with absolute clarity, years of experience behind me, but when I write about myself, everything feels shaky. The moment it’s personal, the armour of expertise disappears. I know what I’m talking about, but it doesn’t make me immune to doubt.

Letting Go of Perfect: A Gay Man’s Guide to Healing from Body Dysmorphia is available wherever you get your books — including Bookshop.org and Amazon.

The Reality of a Book Release

Launch week is strange. I want to walk into a shop and see it there, but it isn’t. The book is an indie title, and I haven’t earned my place on the bookshelf of fame yet. Most of the week is quiet emails, polite mentions, and the slow, uncertain hope that the book will find its people.

Part of me wishes I’d written something more generic, easier to sell. But that’s not me. I don’t write to fit in; I write to make sense of what I’ve lived. And maybe that’s why it still feels strange. The old me would be stunned by what I’ve done, writing a second book, and one that feels this personal. You’d think I’d be proud, and somewhere underneath I am, but anxiety gets in the way. I’m still chasing acceptance, still wanting to please the critics, still too wired to sit in my body long enough to take in what I’ve achieved. It’s strange how celebration can feel almost shameful, like joy is something I have to earn or something I haven’t been allowed to feel before.

In the book, I’m not presenting answers, just showing what’s still raw, the scar and the wound, the growth and the ache. I’ve learned that healing isn’t something to display but something to live through.

Carl Jung wrote, “One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.” Healing, to me, is less a victory parade and more an honest audit. It is turning toward the uncomfortable parts, letting them speak, and then deciding how to live with what they say.

Redefining Confidence

Confidence, for me, is not having answers. It is staying curious while afraid. It is sharing even when the inner critic is loud. It is remembering that confidence grows from action, not the other way around.

My healing is not tidy. Some days I’m grounded; other days, I’m back in old patterns of comparison or control. I used to think healing would delete those reactions. Now I see it as noticing them without disappearing into them. I still feel the pull to over-explain myself, to be safe in other people’s eyes. I still feel the urge to hover over a reader’s shoulder and clarify every sentence. I’m learning to resist that and to let silence carry some of the meaning.

Sharing is never entirely safe. People don’t always know what to do with another person’s tenderness. Sometimes they turn away. Sometimes they project their own stories over yours. Rejection still stings. But honesty has a quiet gravity. It draws the right people closer, the ones who recognise themselves in the tremor of your voice.

I still want the algorithm to love me. I still wince at two likes. I still wonder if I should have shared less. But I keep writing because the only confidence I trust now is the kind that grows from showing up. Not the theatre of certainty. The practice of presence.

Letting Go of Perfect isn’t about fixing the body. It’s about stepping out of the trauma mindset that mistakes control for safety, and relearning the foundations of health: nourishment, rest, honesty, care.

I’m Running a Retreat

Much of what I write about comes back to regulation, the body learning it’s safe again. It’s why I’m running a nervous system reset retreat with in January 2026. Over three days we’ll explore practices that help restore balance: breathwork, guided rest, somatic movement, time in nature, and deeply nourishing food.

Book before 31st October and receive a complimentary online group integration session after the retreat. Learn more about Undō here or…

RESERVE YOUR PLACE NOW

I’m about to disappear for a well-earned two-week break, but before I go, I wanted to share the cover reveal for my book Letting Go of Perfect: A Gay Man’s Guide to Healing from Body Dysmorphia, out 21 October 2025.

Why “Let Go of Perfect”?

Perfectionism has been the engine behind much of what I have achieved. It pushed me to work harder, learn faster, and hold myself to high standards. At times, it even felt like a lifesaver, giving me a sense of control when everything else felt uncertain. But it came at a cost. Living in a state of constant self-surveillance eventually stopped being motivating and started becoming exhausting. The pressure to always get it right crept into my work, my relationships, and my body image. It left me anxious, burnt out, and more critical of myself than anyone else could ever be. That constant hum of “not enough” is what tipped me into the mental health struggles I write about in this book.

What’s the book about?

This is the book I wish I had when I was struggling most.

Body dysmorphia has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. For years, I believed that if I could fix my body, everything else would fall into place. Instead, I ended up stuck in a cycle of obsession, comparison, and self-criticism that felt impossible to break.

Working as a nutritionist and mindset coach, I saw how common it is among gay men and how rarely it gets talked about in any real depth. That silence is not harmless. Without open conversations, it is easy to believe the shame you are carrying is yours alone.

Letting Go of Perfect comes from my lived experience, lessons from plant medicine, and my professional work. It blends personal insight, practical guidance, and a call to action. I explore why body dysmorphia is so widespread in our community, how it takes root, and what it actually takes to challenge it.

Inside, you will find practical tools to shift toxic patterns and build a more respectful, sustainable relationship with your body. Topics include nutrition, mindset, movement, trauma, authenticity, stillness, and creating a supportive environment.

Thank you to everyone who has been part of this journey so far. I cannot wait for you to have this book in your hands.

You can pre-order the book here.

I’ll be back here soon. Just let me rest a bit first :-).

So I didn’t put too much thought into what was actually going to happen during the ceremony.

As expected, once the medicine took effect, my actions became automatic. I found myself apologising to people who had hurt me. These were the same individuals who had rejected, abandoned, and even abused me. I lay there under the stars, cracked open by the medicine, and the words “I’m sorry” poured out of me. It felt like surrender. It felt noble. But it was something else: my ego trying to keep me safe in the only way it knew how, by diffusing conflict, even if that meant betraying myself.

I wasn’t forgiving. I was performing forgiveness. I was still stuck in control, only now it had a spiritual costume on.

That’s the paradox psychedelics revealed to me. It wasn’t just about what happened, but also the layers I built to survive it. I thought I was healing by saying sorry. In fact, the healing only started when I finally said, “I’m angry; I’m hurt; I didn’t deserve that.” The moment wasn’t just an insight. It was finally giving me permission to feel what had been buried for so long beneath performance, perfectionism, and other people telling me what I should and shouldn’t feel.

That’s why psychedelics work. It’s not all about brain chemistry changes. They don’t “fix you”, but they can unmask you and soften the persona you have been wearing to survive, revealing a simpler truth underneath: you were always worthy of love.

Beyond the headlines about treating depression or resetting the brain, this piece explores the deeper potential of psychedelics, especially for queer people. It begins not in theory but in the moment the structures you’ve built to survive begin to soften, and what’s been hidden underneath finally gets a voice.

Control Is the First Illusion

For most of my life, I tried to be in control of everything. I tried to control how I looked, how others perceived me, how I responded to pain, and how I managed rejection. Control, for me, was synonymous with safety. I didn’t know any different. Growing up as a queer child in a dangerous world, I quickly realised that showing vulnerability could lead to consequences. So I learnt to anticipate, accommodate, and disappear.

Control became my drug. It helped me survive. But it also made joy impossible, because joy requires surrender, and I didn’t know how to do that.

Psychedelics don’t ask your permission to dismantle control. They confuse the ego, quiet the chatter of your default mode network (DMN), and create a neurological state where new connections can form, literally and metaphorically. Carhart-Harris et al. (2014) referred to these changes as “increased entropy” in the brain, a loosening of rigid mental patterns often accompanied by creative insight, emotional release, or deep internal quiet.

When control dissolves, you see what it was protecting: a wound that never got the chance to heal. The ego lays bare the part of you that shaped itself to survive, not as a caricatured villain, but as the frightened narrator.

Control isn’t the enemy. It’s a survival strategy that eventually makes your world smaller and smaller.

The Ego Doesn’t Die, It Just Gets Undone

Ego death sounds dramatic, but it’s often more tender than that. It’s the moment when the inner narrator goes quiet, the one who tells you how to behave, who to be, and what parts to hide, and simply goes still. When the mind finally has room to breathe, control dissolves.

My constant, controlled self-monitoring just paused. And into that space came something I hadn’t felt in years: peace, presence, and wholeness.

Naturally, I thought I was dying. My mind couldn’t understand how to exist without its familiar guardrails. But what was dying wasn’t me; it was the part of me that had kept me from feeling too much, too deeply, too honestly.

Psychologists now refer to this experience as ego dissolution, a temporary loosening of the self-image we usually cling to. Philosophers and mystics have long described something similar. William James, writing in 1902, spoke of “mystical states” marked by unity, transcendence, and the collapse of self-boundaries, what he called a kind of spiritual unselfing. Stanislav Grof (1985) later described it more directly as “an instant merciless destruction of all previous reference points in the life of the individual.”

But for me, it was simpler than that. It was the first time I had ever felt free.

What took its place wasn’t chaos. It was presence, peace, and a softening. I didn’t feel smaller. I felt vast, not erased but expanded.

And when the ego eventually returned, as it always does, it was quieter. It was less convinced that it had all the answers, less interested in running the show. What replaced it wasn’t passivity but presence, a soft, steady awareness of the ego as something that arises but doesn’t have to take over. That awareness stays with me now. It helps me pause before reacting. It makes space for reflexivity to occur more naturally. And in that space, I can choose something different, hopefully more in line with being at peace with myself.

Still, the DMN is only part of the picture. It’s a measurable proxy, not the full terrain. Psychedelics also open sensory gates (Vollenweider & Geyer, 2001), disrupt predictive beliefs (Carhart-Harris & Friston, 2019), and stimulate neuroplasticity (Ly et al., 2018). They invite chaos, but in a way that allows something new to emerge emotionally, somatically, and relationally.

Science captures what it can: brain maps, receptor sites, networks. But what many of us experience can’t be confined to that data. It’s what happens when you stop identifying with the narrator in your head and start listening to the part of you that never had words.

But authenticity doesn’t flood in the moment the ego loosens. It arrives slowly, through safety, through time, and through integration. It may also unfold through therapy. And for some, ego-softening can be destabilising rather than liberating, which is why psychedelic work needs to be carefully held in the right setting by people who understand how to guide someone back to themselves. Psychedelics open a door, but they don’t guarantee what lies on the other side.

I Gave Myself Away to Survive

Psychedelics helped me see something I’d never questioned: that the way I shared myself wasn’t vulnerability. It was a nervous system strategy. I wasn’t opening up to connect; I was surrendering to stay safe.

For years, I thought I was being real. I talked about my pain, admitted my fears, and told the truth before anyone could use it against me. But underneath all of it was one belief: if I give myself away, maybe I won’t be hurt.

That pattern started early. As a child, I experienced sexual abuse, which taught me to negotiate safety by relinquishing control. It wasn’t limited to physical abuse but included emotional abuse too. I learnt to disarm others by disarming myself. I learnt to appease danger by exposing myself first. I offered up too much: my trust, my boundaries, even my body. It wasn’t rebellion. It was survival.

Under ayahuasca, I saw the younger me, soft, frightened, clever. This was the part of me that had been balancing safety with self-sacrifice. I didn’t just weep for him. I recognised him. I had been dragging him through every relationship, every apology, and every performance.

Psychedelics didn’t just unmask me. They helped me stop rehearsing. I stopped being the ‘good’ queer man, palatable, smart, healed, and polite. I stopped shaping myself to survive and started asking who I was when I wasn’t trying to manage someone else’s response.

Even authenticity became suspect, because when it’s used to pre-empt rejection, it isn’t authenticity anymore. It’s self-abandonment in disguise. The medicine helped me feel the difference.

Forgiveness Happens in the Nervous System, Not the Mind

People talk about forgiveness like it’s a decision. But for many of us, especially those shaped by trauma, forgiveness often shows up long before we understand it. We say “It’s okay” when it isn’t. We let things go so we don’t get left behind. We confuse appeasement with peace.

Sometimes, that kind of forgiveness is a stress response. It’s not resolution; it’s fawning. We forgive because we don’t feel safe enough to stay angry, because conflict feels life-threatening, because we’ve learnt that harmony, even if it’s false, is safer than honesty.

But that wasn’t what happened to me.

In one ceremony, I saw a vision of my mother sick in bed, my estranged brother by her side. It wasn’t a literal future. It was a story softening. In that space, I saw him as human. I saw myself as human. I didn’t send a text. I didn’t fix the relationship. But I let go of something I’d been gripping for years. I forgave, not to appease him, but to relieve my body of the burden.

There’s growing evidence that forgiveness activates brain regions involved in empathy and affect regulation, suggesting that when it emerges from a regulated nervous system, it has real healing potential (Ricciardi et al., 2013). But when it’s forced, especially when the body is still holding fear, it can deepen stress rather than resolve it.

Psychedelics didn’t teach me how to forgive. They gave me space to feel safe enough to stop holding on. They softened my system just enough to allow possibility, not certainty or resolution, but just enough space for something new to emerge.

And sometimes, that possibility is forgiveness, not as appeasement but as unburdening, as the body saying, we don’t need to carry this weight anymore.’

Love Is What We Forgot

So many of us, especially those who are queer or carry trauma, don’t just lack love; we forget what it feels like. We forget that it can be unconditional, that it doesn’t have to be earned, chased, or proven.

In some psychedelic experiences, I felt something hold me. It wasn’t a vision. It wasn’t a person. It was a presence, loving, gentle, and steady. It told me that nothing needed to change. I just had to be.

Roland Griffiths (2008), a pioneer in psychedelic research, described this phenomenon as “a sense of open-heartedness and deep connection with others”, not a side effect but a central feature of the experience. In one study, participants who combined psilocybin with meditation and spiritual practice reported lasting increases in prosocial traits such as compassion, gratitude, and interpersonal closeness, not just as temporary emotions but as more enduring ways of relating to themselves and others.

Michael Pollan, no spiritual idealist, called it “a cascading dam break of love” (Pollan, 2018). I get it, because once it starts flowing, it doesn’t stop with you. You want to love everything, everyone, and yourself.

I didn’t trust it at first. That kind of love felt unfamiliar, almost threatening. I kept waiting for it to vanish or to reveal itself as a test. My nervous system couldn’t recognise it as safe because it had never known it as safe before. Healing meant learning to stay with that discomfort. It meant allowing love in without retreating, trembling, or running away.

Love, after all, is more than a feeling. It’s a state of emotional regulation. According to polyvagal theory, our bodies naturally seek safety through connection. When love is real, it’s not an idea; it’s a shift. Your jaw softens, your breath deepens, your guard drops.

For many queer people, especially those shaped by shame or early rejection, that shift doesn’t come easily. We learn to be on guard even in intimacy. We learn to brace for abandonment, even while being held. Psychedelics, in the right context, can disrupt that loop, not by forcing love, but by helping the body remember what it’s like to feel safe enough to receive it.

Trauma Lives in the Body — Psychedelics Set It Free

We often think of trauma as something that happened in the past, a memory, a story. But trauma doesn’t just live in the mind; it lives in the body. It shows up in breath that won’t deepen, in shoulders that won’t drop, in a jaw that never fully releases, in the urge to stay busy, to stay away, to stay small.

Bessel van der Kolk (2014) puts it plainly: “The body keeps the score.” Not as a metaphor, but in muscle tone, hormone cycles, sleep patterns, and reflexes. When your nervous system gets stuck in survival, your body lives as if the danger never ended.

That was me, always braced, always managing. I thought I was resilient, but really I was armoured. And psychedelics didn’t gently peel that away. They cracked it, with care, yes, but also with intensity.

In supported psychedelic sessions, I’ve sobbed from a depth I didn’t know existed. I’ve shaken, growled, screamed, and curled into foetal positions. It wasn’t performance. It was my body finally finishing something it never got to complete.

That’s the difference between catharsis and completion. Catharsis is explosive; completion is cellular. It’s the body saying, “We’re done.” We survived.”

Emerging research suggests psychedelics help make this possible by altering how the brain processes emotional material. Psilocybin appears to increase responsiveness in the amygdala while changing its connectivity with prefrontal regions, opening a window for safer, embodied processing of what was once overwhelming (Roseman et al., 2018).

But trauma doesn’t always feel like trauma. It can show up as restlessness, numbness, exhaustion you can’t explain, or a quiet, daily effort to hold yourself together. You may not remember it, but your body does. Over time, you don’t just carry trauma, you become it.

I once held onto pain so tightly that I didn’t realise I was also blocking pleasure. Under the medicine, I remembered joy, the joy of being in my body without armour, of singing with strangers, of laughing from my belly. That’s what trauma steals. And that’s what psychedelics can sometimes give back.

Because the body remembers. But with the right support and the right conditions, it can also relearn. Not just to release, but to receive. Not just to function, but to feel. Safety isn’t a thought. It’s a sensation. And when the body finally recognises it, healing becomes possible, not as an idea, but as a lived experience.

Queer Healing Is Revolutionary

When you grow up being told, whether implicitly or outright, that your identity is dangerous or undesirable, you learn to adapt. You tighten your voice. You shrink your gestures. You study approval like a language. You get sharp, funny, and palatable. You build a version of yourself that might be tolerated.

You learn to read the room before you enter it. You watch for criticism on the faces of people who don’t even realise they’re giving it. And when you see it, you adjust before anyone even has to ask.

That’s not just psychological. It’s also physiological. Shame becomes posture. Hypervigilance becomes your baseline. Softness becomes risk.

For queer people, psychedelics can interrupt that loop. Not by erasing the pain, but by offering something most of us have never felt: a moment of safety that doesn’t ask us to perform for it.

I’ve sat in ceremonies with queer men who met their inner child and wept, not because they were broken, but because they finally recognised the part of themselves they’d exiled to survive. I’ve seen people reclaim their queerness, not as a site of struggle but as a source of wisdom, something sacred, a signal that they were never the problem.

In his 2024 dissertation, John Charles Sanders documented how ayahuasca ceremonies helped gay men confront and release internalised homophobia. Participants described shedding layers of Catholic guilt, letting go of gender-based shame, and reconnecting with parts of themselves they had long disowned. These changes weren’t just cognitive; they were embodied. Several participants reported an increase in self-worth, self-love, and the felt understanding that they were “supposed to be the person [they] were born into”. These weren’t abstract shifts. They were somatic, relational, and sustained over time.

That’s what makes queer healing revolutionary. Not because it’s dramatic but because it’s rare. Because it restores something that should never have been taken in the first place.

Integration Is the Real Work

It’s important not to romanticise this work. Psychedelic healing isn’t inherently safe. It isn’t automatically sacred. And it’s not equally accessible.

Access is shaped by privilege, economic, racial, geographic, and spiritual. For some, these medicines are part of ancestral knowledge. For others, they’re clinical interventions. And for many, they remain out of reach altogether. Even in ‘healing spaces’, harm can be reproduced, subtly, systemically, or explicitly.

Healing isn’t always psychedelic. It isn’t always ceremonial. It isn’t universal.

But when it lands, when it’s done with care, cultural humility, and integration, it can be transformative.

Because the ceremony isn’t the healing. Integration is.

It’s what you do after the visions, the tears, and the breakthroughs. Can you carry what you touched into your everyday life? Can you shift how you speak to yourself, how you hold boundaries, how you soften?

For me, integration meant unlearning the need to perform. It meant changing how I trained, how I rested, and how I listened. It meant therapy. It meant saying no. It meant letting my softness stay.

Without integration, the medicine fades like a dream. With it, the experience becomes a compass, not something you visit once, but something you live from.

Many Ways of Knowing — Science, Spirit, and the Self

Western science tells us that psychedelics work by binding to serotonin 5-HT2A receptors, disrupting the default mode network, and enhancing neural plasticity. These are important discoveries. But they don’t explain what happens when you feel your grandmother’s presence in a ceremony or when you forgive someone who never asked.

That’s where other ways of knowing matter: Indigenous knowledge, embodied wisdom, and relational healing. Thinkers like Basarab Nicolescu (2002), writing in the field of transdisciplinary philosophy, argue that no single system of knowledge, whether scientific, spiritual, or symbolic, can fully account for human experience. Instead, he calls for an approach that honours the coexistence of multiple realities and ways of knowing.

Not the brain scan. Not the prayer. Not the poem. But maybe all three, together.

In psychedelic spaces, that complexity is unavoidable. You might meet your inner child and a jaguar spirit in the same hour. You might process intergenerational trauma and feel God’s breath on your cheek. You might cry, laugh, puke, and pray. None of that would show up on a brain scan.

Psychedelics don’t just work on the mind. They work on meaning.

Coming Home to Ourselves

Psychedelics don’t give you answers. They unravel the grip you had on the wrong questions.

They don’t erase your pain. They loosen it, just enough to look at it, to breathe into it, to finally touch what you spent years avoiding.

They show you how the stories you’ve told yourself, “I’m not enough, I’m too much, I’m hard to love", were never yours. They were inherited. From culture, from family, from fear, and maybe from survival.

In those moments of ego-softening, when the body unclenches and the old narratives go quiet, something else can emerge. Not just insight, but compassion. Not just awareness, but embodiment. You don’t just know your trauma. You feel its tenderness. You cradle it like a child.

And for queer people, whose identities were shaped in response to rejection, that moment is seismic. You realise your queerness was never the wound; it was the brilliance that kept shining beneath the hurt.

This is where all the threads come together: trauma, ego, control, body, and love. Integration isn’t a checklist. It’s a way of living from what you remembered when the noise dropped away. It’s how you speak to yourself on the Monday morning after the ceremony, when everything looks the same, but you are not.

Psychedelics don’t save you. But they show you what becomes possible when you stop running. When the armour drops. When the nervous system says, “We’re safe now.”

And in that space, you don’t become someone new. You remember who you were before you had to become someone else to survive.

Final Reflection: Love Isn’t Earned. It’s Remembered.

Psychedelics didn’t give me love. They helped me remember it.

They didn’t fix me. They helped me feel the parts I’d disowned.

They didn’t replace therapy. They deepened it.

They didn’t erase trauma. They loosened its grip.

Most of all, they helped me stop trying so hard to be loveable and start living like I already am.

Because I am.

So are you.

References:

Carhart-Harris, R. L., Muthukumaraswamy, S., Roseman, L., Kaelen, M., Droog, W., Murphy, K., & Nutt, D. J. (2014). The entropic brain: A theory of conscious states informed by neuroimaging research with psychedelic drugs. Frontiers in Human Neuroscience, 8, 20.
https://doi.org/10.3389/fnhum.2014.00020

Carhart-Harris, R. L., & Friston, K. J. (2019). REBUS and the Anarchic Brain: Toward a Unified Model of the Brain Action of Psychedelics. Pharmacological Reviews, 71(3), 316–344.
https://doi.org/10.1124/pr.118.017160

James, W. (1902). The Varieties of Religious Experience: A Study in Human Nature. Longmans, Green & Co.

Griffiths, R. R. (2008). Johns Hopkins Psilocybin Studies and the Religious Experience: An Interview with Roland Griffiths, Ph.D. MAPS Bulletin, Winter 2008. Retrieved from https://maps.org/news/bulletin/johns-hopkins-psilocybin-studies-and-the-religious-experience-an-interview-with-roland-griffiths-ph-d/

Grof, S. (1985). The Adventure of Self-Discovery: Dimensions of Consciousness and New Perspectives in Psychotherapy and Inner Exploration. Albany: State University of New York Press. (p. 30)

Ly, C., Greb, A. C., Cameron, L. P., Wong, J. M., Barragan, E. V., Wilson, P. C., ... & Olson, D. E. (2018). Psychedelics Promote Structural and Functional Neural Plasticity. Cell Reports, 23(11), 3170–3182.
https://doi.org/10.1016/j.celrep.2018.05.022

Nicolescu, B. (2002). Manifesto of Transdisciplinarity. SUNY Press.

Pollan, M. (2018). How to Change Your Mind: What the New Science of Psychedelics Teaches Us About Consciousness, Dying, Addiction, Depression, and Transcendence. Penguin Press.

Ricciardi, E., Rota, G., Sani, L., Gentili, C., Gaglianese, A., Guazzelli, M., & Pietrini, P. (2013). How the brain heals emotional wounds: The functional neuroanatomy of forgiveness. Frontiers in Human Neuroscience, 7, 839.
https://doi.org/10.3389/fnhum.2013.00839

Roseman, L., Demetriou, L., Wall, M. B., Nutt, D. J., & Carhart-Harris, R. L. (2018). Increased amygdala responses to emotional faces after psilocybin for treatment-resistant depression. Neuropharmacology, 142, 263–269. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.neuropharm.2017.12.041

Sanders, John (2024). The Effect of Ayahuasca on Gay Mens Experience of Internalized Heterosexism and Internalized Homophobia. figshare. Thesis. https://doi.org/10.6084/m9.figshare.26082397.v1

Vollenweider, F. X., & Geyer, M. A. (2001). A systems model of altered consciousness: Integrating natural and drug-induced psychoses. Brain Research Bulletin, 56(5), 495–507.
https://doi.org/10.1016/S0361-9230(01)00646-3

It’s been a short while since the last time I posted. Part of this is due to the usual busyness of life, work tasks, and editing my upcoming book (Letting Go of Perfect, A Gay Men’s Guide to Healing from Body Dysmorphia), but also I have been processing a lot from the last Ayahuasca retreat I went to over the New Year period.

I gifted myself the retreat as a reward for completing a year sober from alcohol. Something that has been one of the most enduring journey’s I have had in this incarnation. What the summation of such a tumultuous year has been unlocking the ability to sit with my feelings in their raw state, however painful they may be. Perhaps it was the ‘pre-reading’ material in order to deal with 4 ayahuasca ceremonies, kambo and bufo over the 6-day period.

Not only am I back to reality, I find myself almost forgetting the embrace of Mother Ayahuasca as it broke down some very sealed walls in order to heal my constitution to perhaps aid me further in healing but also lighten the load from the baggage I have been carrying all my life.

Before I begin, I best offer a disclaimer that this post may find some of you unsettled, shocked or jumping to think I’m not in a calm headspace to be writing such things. However, taking a month after the retreat for things to settle, observing my feelings and making an informed choice to share with you the inner workings of my mind and experience, I’m able to do so with a calm and grounded mindset. However, if you find yourself easily triggered, it might be a good idea to close this browser tab.

Many of us walk through life carrying the invisible weight of the trauma they can’t remember. Some may sense a gap in their personal history or others, and was in my case build up patterns of anxiety, hypervigilance or behaviours that don’t offer a clear explanation of their roots. In psychological terms, this can be described as repressed trauma or dissociated memory—a process where the mind “blacks out” essentially to certain experiences to protect itself from overwhelming distress. However, whilst this can be a short-term protective defence mechanism, burying traumatic events can silently shape our way of being, emotions, relationships and overall well-being. The concept has its roots in early psychoanalytic theory—Sigmund Freud famously proposed that pushing traumatic memories out of conscious awareness serves as a defence mechanism. Although the details and interpretations have evolved since Freud, modern research continues to explore how and why the mind can shield us from experiences deemed too painful to face directly.

When Stress Affects How We Form Memories

High stress can disrupt the brain’s ability to encode and store memories effectively. Chronic or intense stress can damage the hippocampus—the part of the brain critical for forming new, explicit (or “declarative”) memories (Bremner 2006). Stress hormones (like cortisol) rise, chemical imbalances occur, and the growth of new brain cells is suppressed, leading the hippocampus to become less able to record experiences in a clear, coherent way. As a result, memories of traumatic events might be fragmented or feel out of reach. This neurological perspective helps us understand why some painful experiences remain buried—or only partially recalled—until the mind and body feel safe enough to revisit them.

The capacity of substances like ayahuasca and psilocybin to uncover repressed trauma has garnered increasing scientific and clinical interest. Research on psychedelic-assisted therapy suggests that these substances may reduce the activity in certain areas of the brain (such as the default mode network), potentially loosening rigid thought patterns and allowing emotional processing to unfold in new ways. In that altered state, a person may come face-to-face with memories and feelings that have long remained in the shadows (Carhart-Harris & Goodwin, 2017).

The power of ayahuasca lies in its role as a teacher. It seems to know exactly what you can handle and delivers it at the right time. I’ve had a few recent experiences with the medicine that didn’t yield significant insights, but I can hypothesise that this latest ceremony came when it felt right to reveal something I had compartmentalised—a small, locked box in my mind. It didn’t simply overwhelm me with information; instead, it eased me in, recognising my default response to traumatic situations is to apologise. It guided me toward experiencing emotions like anger and hatred—feelings I’ve previously associated with guilt and found difficult to embrace. Only then did the medicine help me recall childhood sexual abuse, which I had long suppressed.

I once thought that comprehending the events in my life would break me, but to my astonishment, the opposite has occurred. I’m not angry or sad; instead, I feel profoundly released and lighter as I gain clarity about who I am. My abusers, albeit 6 ft under, no longer hold power over me because naming the trauma has allowed me to reclaim my sense of self. I’m not saying here that I have the solution to my troubles; I’ve inherited a wired nervous system, feelings of mistrust and fear of intimacy, just as Jennifer Freyd (1996) explains in Betrayal Trauma: The Logic of Forgetting Childhood Abuse, Unresolved trauma often plays out in our closest bonds, triggering abandonment issues, mistrust, or fear of intimacy if those early wounds remain unhealed. Recognising how my protective instincts—formed in childhood—were affecting my adult relationships can be both sobering and empowering; I can use this to guide me to be conscious of my thoughts, feelings and behaviours in relationships. I also feel I’m in a good place to share it now, which can reduce the feelings of shame and isolation around it.

What About Trauma and Health?

I’m a big believer that addressing trauma is crucial for physical health. As a nutritionist, this has been my main frustration for the past few years because I’ve seen vast improvements in my own health since I began facing my trauma head-on. A large-scale meta-analysis demonstrated that individuals with multiple Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) are more prone to health-damaging behaviours—such as smoking, excessive alcohol use, and physical inactivity—and have a higher risk of chronic illnesses like cardiovascular disease (Hughes et al. 2017). These findings illustrate how early trauma can derail both physiological development and coping strategies, ultimately undermining overall well-being and longevity.

Yet in the broader pursuit of a long, healthy life, trauma is often overlooked or minimised because it’s subjective and doesn’t neatly align with conventional testing biomarkers—even though its impact can be deleterious. It’s also not something you can simply “biohack” with a pill or measure precisely with the latest health gadget. In many ways, it represents the less glamorous aspect of well-being—an ongoing, sometimes messy process that doesn't always align with the capitalist definition of "health."

Am I making it up?

That was my first reaction when these memories surfaced—surely I must be wrong; I’m the problem. I have to balance it with this being a trauma response and for what some critics call, it is possible that it is possible for memories to become distorted or even implanted over time, which is why many experts emphasise approaching memory work carefully. (Laney & Loftus, 2005). However, for me, it serves as a crucial component, aiding in comprehending my current circumstances and facilitating the process of healing.

This process underscores a key principle in trauma healing: just as our minds naturally compartmentalise overwhelming experiences for self-preservation, certain therapeutic (or entheogenic) approaches can help us reintegrate them when we’re ready. It’s not about forcing every locked box in your mind open. Rather, it’s about creating a safe, supportive space—whether through therapy, mindfulness, or psychedelic ceremony—where deeply buried feelings can emerge and be re-examined with compassion. I’m grateful to have a trusted therapist by my side, guiding me through unpacking and integrating these revelations in a way that feels both healing and sustainable.

Trauma healing is deeply personal, and uncovering repressed memories can be overwhelming. If you’re considering exploring past trauma—whether through therapy, psychedelics, or other methods—please ensure you have psychological support from a qualified professional.

Thank you for taking the time to read this piece! If it resonated with you, I'd greatly appreciate a 'Like'. Your likes play a significant role in enhancing the visibility of my work through the Substack algorithm. Your support means a lot. Thank you!

References:

Bremner, J. D. (2006). Traumatic stress: Effects on the brain. Dialogues in Clinical Neuroscience, 8(4), 445–461. https://doi.org/10.31887/DCNS.2006.8.4/jbremner

Carhart-Harris, R. L., & Goodwin, G. M. (2017). The therapeutic potential of psychedelic drugs: past, present, and future. Neuropsychopharmacology, 42(11), 2105–2113.

Freyd, J. J. (1996). Betrayal Trauma: The Logic of Forgetting Childhood Abuse. Harvard University Press.

Hughes, K., Bellis, M.A., Hardcastle, K.A., Sethi, D., Butchart, A., Mikton, C., Jones, L. and Dunne, M.P., 2017. The effect of multiple adverse childhood experiences on health: a systematic review and meta-analysis. The Lancet public health, 2(8), pp.e356-e366.

Laney, C. and Loftus, E.F., 2005. Traumatic memories are not necessarily accurate memories. The Canadian Journal of Psychiatry, 50(13), pp.823-828.

The example I led with is that I should be feeling elated that my first draft of my second book has been submitted to the publisher. It’s the culmination of months of relentless effort, and it should be a milestone to celebrate and finally exhale. But instead, I find myself paralysed by burnout, particularly with the inability to tell anyone or reach out for help.

Rather than take time to recharge and catch my breath, I’m stuck in limbo—completely burnt out, pretending everything is fine. I go through the motions, carrying on with my daily patterns, dissociating in the process, and burying my emotions as if they’re something to be avoided rather than felt. My days become a series of tick-box exercises, counting down the hours until I can finally rest.

Inside Voice: Don’t tell people you’re burnt out. They’ll think you’re weak and incapable, like you’re crumbling under pressure. Scarcity is just around the corner—you can’t afford to slip up. Keep the mask on. Show strength. People need to see the perfect version of you, not this.

What is Vulnerability?

Vulnerability is often packaged as this grand revelation—the moment you “take off the mask” and let people see the real you. It’s become a cultural currency, a concept reduced to social media hashtags and perfectly curated “authentic” moments. But that version of vulnerability is performative—it has a beginning, middle, and end, tied up neatly for an audience. It doesn’t capture what vulnerability actually feels like: raw, messy, and terrifying.

If you’re a gay man into self-help, you’ve probably read The Velvet Rage by Alan Downs, or perhaps you know it’s what Brené Brown is celebrated for.

Vulnerability carries layers of complexity that often go unspoken. For some, it’s not just about letting down a mask—it’s about dismantling years of learnt concealment. We’ve spent our lives mastering the art of survival. We hid parts of ourselves to fit in, to feel safe, to protect what felt sacred. Our sexuality. Our emotions. Even the way we express joy or pain. This performance of resilience and strength, often born out of necessity, makes the act of letting the mask slip feel foreign, if not impossible.

At its root, vulnerability is tied to shame. Society has conditioned many gay men to believe that being authentic—being too much or too real—might lead to rejection, ridicule, or worse. Even in environments where we should feel safe, we may find ourselves scanning for subtle signs of judgement or disapproval, questioning whether we can truly let our guard down. And when we do, there’s often a fear that our vulnerability will be misunderstood or dismissed as weakness, neediness or an attempt to seek validation.

Then there’s the pressure to overcompensate. To be perfect. To create a life so polished on the outside—successful career, ideal body, curated relationships—that no one can question whether we belong. Vulnerability, in that context, doesn’t just feel risky—it can feel like the unravelling of a carefully constructed identity.

And then there’s the cultural message that we should embody a kind of polished strength, wrapped up in hyper-independence and productivity. Admitting burnout, asking for help, or exposing our emotional struggles can feel like a betrayal of that image, as though showing cracks in the facade confirms old insecurities or harmful stereotypes.

This is where vulnerability—the act that promises connection and healing—becomes fraught. For many of us, it feels like a gamble we’re not sure we can afford to take.

Inside Voice: What’s the point of saying this? You’ll just sound weak or self-indulgent. Not everyone will understand—what if they roll their eyes, thinking, “Here he goes again”? Maybe it’s better to keep this to yourself.

I don’t want people to pity me; I just want to be heard. I want someone to see the cracks without trying to fill them, to sit with me in the mess without rushing to clean it up. But how do I ask for that? How do I explain that being heard isn’t about fixing; it’s about connection? What if they can’t give me that either? What if they just leave?

True Vulnerability Is Presence

But what does it mean to be truly vulnerable, beyond just “taking off the mask”? Is it simply about sharing our pain, or does it go deeper?

True vulnerability isn’t a one-time reveal of our weaknesses or a moment of catharsis. It’s an ongoing commitment to share the messy, unpolished parts of ourselves—what we feel, what we need, what we fear—and choosing to lean into these exposed truths instead of running away, even if it carries the risk of real hurt and rejection.

When I reflect on my struggle with vulnerability, I recognise a deeper pattern: I don’t just avoid it—I dissociate from it. Vulnerability requires presence, a kind of awareness I often shy away from when life feels overwhelming. Dissociation feels like a survival tactic, a way to shield myself from discomfort by temporarily disconnecting from it. But in doing so, I also disconnect from the things that matter most: my emotions, my needs, and the opportunity for real connection. Worse, becoming more self-aware. I know i’m doing this more but I can’t stop it.

The more I push, the more I tune out the signals my body is sending me. I dissociate not just from my emotions but from the physical reality of what I need—rest, nourishment, stillness. My body shows me this in subtle and not-so-subtle ways: exhaustion, skin problems, tension, and eventually the hollow ache of burnout.

Inside Voice: One of the saddest aspects of the trauma I’ve experienced is the loneliness it creates. I can read people too well—the flick of an eye, a sigh, the subtle tightening of a jaw. I’ve seen my vulnerability make others uncomfortable, watched them retreat, and felt the sting of pity when they didn’t know how to respond. It’s exhausting to carry this awareness, to know they’d rather I stay silent. “Oh, he’s off again.” I imagine them thinking as I swallow what I really need to say. It just seems too much of a cost to be truly vulnerable.

What Vulnerability Truly Asks of Us

Vulnerability isn’t about perfection or radical openness—it’s about showing up. It asks us to let go of the need to control every perception, to allow others to see us as we are: messy, imperfect, and human.

For me, this practice feels deeply counterintuitive. Vulnerability asks me to trust—trust that I won’t be rejected, trust that others can handle my truth, and, most challenging of all, trust that I am enough even in my messiest moments.

It’s not an intellectual act. It’s not something you can “decide” to do. It’s a daily choice, one that demands courage, self-compassion, and an understanding that even when we stumble, vulnerability is still worth it. Surprisingly, when we lean into vulnerability, it doesn’t leave us feeling weaker—it leaves us feeling lighter. There’s a quiet liberation in not having to hold everything together, in knowing we can be seen and accepted as we are.

It creates space for authenticity, for showing up in a way that feels true rather than curated. It strips away the exhausting layers of pretence, replacing them with a calm that comes from knowing we don’t have to perform to belong. Anxiety starts to lessen when we stop second-guessing ourselves, and connection begins to deepen when others meet us not with judgement but with understanding.

Vulnerability, though messy and uncomfortable, brings us closer to the version of ourselves we’ve always been searching for—the one that feels whole, enough, and real.

How We Begin to Practice Vulnerability

If vulnerability feels daunting, it’s because it is. But like any practice, it starts small. Vulnerability isn’t about leaping into radical openness; it’s about taking measured steps towards connection, with ourselves and others. Here’s what I’ve learnt—and am still learning—about what this looks like in practice:

1. Start with Yourself: Before we can be vulnerable with others, we need to be honest with ourselves. This means tuning into what we’re feeling and allowing ourselves to sit with it, even when it’s uncomfortable. It’s about noticing the ways we numb or distract ourselves and gently choosing to stay present instead.

2. Create Safe Spaces: Vulnerability thrives in environments of trust. Whether it’s a trusted friend, a therapist, or even a practice like journaling, find spaces where you can explore your emotions without fear of judgement.

3. Challenge the Inner Critic: The voice that says, “You’re too much” or “You’ll be judged,” is often the loudest barrier to vulnerability. Recognising this voice—and gently questioning it—is an important step towards letting ourselves be seen.

4. Share Small Truths: Vulnerability doesn’t have to mean exposing everything at once. Start with small truths—sharing that you’re feeling overwhelmed, admitting when you need help—and build from there. Each act of openness strengthens the muscle for more.

5. Lean into Discomfort: Vulnerability is uncomfortable—it’s supposed to be. But instead of seeing discomfort as a sign that something’s wrong, try seeing it as a sign of growth. It’s in the discomfort that connection becomes possible.

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The Reality of Healing

When we first embark on a healing journey, the idea of self-improvement is often enticing. We imagine ourselves stepping into a new phase of life, letting go of past hurts, and becoming the best version of ourselves. However, the reality is much grittier. Healing often feels like I’m drowning in emotional chaos. There have been nights when I’ve questioned if I’m really healing at all or just sinking deeper into pain. Some days, I can’t see a way out, and I wonder if all this struggle is worth it. It’s not just about feeling sad or angry; sometimes, it’s a nebulous kind of pain that doesn’t fit neatly into a label like anxiety or depression. It’s simply pain—and you can’t avoid it forever.

What can be particularly confusing is that this pain might not even be linked to specific thoughts or memories. Sometimes, it’s the body’s way of releasing old trauma and tension that’s been stored for years. The pain you feel may be the physical manifestation of emotional wounds finally surfacing to leave your body. It’s as though the body has been holding onto these hurts, and now, in the healing process, they come up for release. This is not always easy to understand in the moment, but recognising it as part of the healing process can make it slightly easier to bear. This is often what happens during conscious connected breathwork, where the body accesses deep trauma and begins to release it. Though intense, this technique is a powerful tool for letting go of long-held emotional tension.

The Hidden Teachers in Healing

As we go deeper into the healing journey, we often find ourselves confronted with truths that are difficult to face. These truths can arise from within, during introspective practices like meditation or breathwork, but sometimes, external tools—such as psychedelics—can help accelerate this process. Psychedelics, in my experience, are particularly powerful in acting as teachers. They bring forward emotions and patterns that need healing, shining a spotlight on the areas you may be unaware of or have avoided for years.

While it can be brutal to face these hidden parts of yourself, psychedelics have a way of balancing the harshness with an underlying sense of softness. The process isn’t designed to break you, but to help you grow. These experiences, much like other forms of deep healing, offer a chance to break free from old patterns and open new pathways for emotional and spiritual development.

Psychedelics show you what needs to be seen, but like any other tool, the real work begins after the insights. The healing journey still requires immense effort to integrate these lessons and apply them in daily life.

The Ego's Sabotage

One of the hardest parts of healing is dealing with the ego, which will do everything it can to sabotage your progress. It’s like having an avoidant bad devil on your shoulder, whispering in your ear that you’re not capable of healing, that it’s too hard, or that you don’t deserve to feel better. The ego thrives on keeping you stuck in familiar patterns, no matter how unhealthy they may be. It will try to convince you that the discomfort of healing isn’t worth it and that retreating back to old coping mechanisms is safer.

This internal sabotage is a part of the healing process you have to put up with. The ego will resist change because change represents the unknown, and the ego loves to stay in control. You’ll find yourself wanting to give up or go back to your old ways of coping, and the voice in your head will try to convince you that you can’t heal. But it’s important to remember that this is just the ego’s fear talking. The truth is, the more you push through and sit with the discomfort, the weaker that voice becomes.

Letting Go and Loss

Letting go has been one of the hardest parts for me. There have been people I thought would always be in my life, but as I started healing, it became clear we were on different paths. It hurt deeply to let them go, and even now, I catch myself missing them. But I’ve come to realise that holding on would have only kept me stuck. Part of healing involves letting go—not just of people, but of old habits and outdated ways of thinking. You may lose friends or drift away from those who once seemed integral to your life. This, too, is painful. Not everyone will understand your journey, especially if your methods of healing are unconventional. Your growth might make some people feel threatened, as it can mirror their own unresolved issues. When you hold up a mirror to your pain, it sometimes reflects back onto others in ways that make them uncomfortable, leading them to dismiss your journey entirely. It can feel like a profound loss, but ultimately, letting go is necessary for your own healing.

Healing Isn't Linear

Healing isn’t a straightforward, linear process. There will be days when you feel worse than you did before. For me, it’s not uncommon to feel like I’ve regressed, but the difference now is that I’ve learnt to sit with those feelings rather than running from them. I allow the emotions to have their space, to say what they need to say, even if it’s uncomfortable.

Healing takes time and consistent effort. You won’t see results overnight, and the progress can often feel painfully slow. The key is to keep moving forward, even when it feels like nothing is changing. The insights you gain along the way can guide you, but it’s up to you to integrate those lessons into your daily life, step by step.

The Need for Rest

While it’s important to embrace the hard work that healing requires, it’s equally crucial to allow yourself moments of rest. You wouldn’t train your body intensely at the gym every day without taking breaks to recover, and the same goes for emotional healing. There will be days when it feels like too much, when you need to step back and breathe. That’s not failure; it’s self-preservation.

Healing can’t be forced or rushed, even though the discomfort may tempt you to try. As difficult as it is, letting the process unfold in its own time is essential for lasting transformation.

Ultimately, healing is about learning to coexist with the pain and the beauty of your journey. Recognising that growth hurts but also frees you. You may not always feel like you’re making progress, but every time you allow yourself to sit with those uncomfortable feelings, you’re strengthening your emotional muscles. I’m still learning to live in a more honest, authentic way. There are days when I get it right and days when I don’t. But I’m learning to be kinder to myself, to accept that healing isn’t about perfection—it’s about showing up for myself, even when it’s hard, even when I don’t want to.

The real work of healing happens in those uncomfortable moments when everything feels too raw, too real. It’s messy, non-linear, and often downright painful. The more you face the discomfort, the more you expand your capacity to hold space for all parts of yourself—the parts that are healing and the parts that are still hurting. And with that, you move forward, little by little, towards a place of greater peace. 

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Seeking answers, I went for a celiac test with my GP, hoping, in a strangely distorted way, that it would come back positive. I thought that finally I'd have a clear answer to what’s wrong with me and could craft a detailed plan to fix it. But when the results were negative, I told myself, “it’s just gluten sensitivity." It felt like a consolation prize—not quite celiac, but something to work with. From then on, I decided to eliminate gluten from my diet entirely. That was in 2014, back when I was new to the nutrition world, naively taking everything at face value without much questioning of my thoughts or processes.

In the industry I work in, gluten is frequently viewed with caution, and its removal is commonly recommended as a general approach for many gut health concerns—and even for various chronic health conditions. For some, it works wonders, but what's rarely considered is the psychological impact of telling someone that gluten is bad for them or the full scope of what gut healing truly entails. The body isn't just a machine that responds to dietary changes in isolation; it's a complex interplay of mind and body.

I can cut gluten out for weeks and feel the benefits—I feel lighter, less bloated, and even more energised, but the reality is that my diet then becomes lower in grains and higher in vegetables. I end up putting more thought into my meals rather than just grabbing a sandwich on the go. I start buying gluten-free products, which often have an eerie longevity, sometimes looking fresher after three weeks than when I bought them. But they often lack the fibre of their wheat-based counterparts, and there’s always a nagging feeling that something is missing.

When I go to the supermarket, I scrutinise every label, meticulously checking for any trace of gluten. I think I’m doing wonders for my health, but then I walk past a bakery and catch a whiff of freshly baked bread. I reason with myself that a little gluten won’t hurt—after all, it's high quality, and I'll savour every bite. Of course, I devour it within seconds, and then guilt rushes in. That’s it, I think; my immune system is going to hate me forever for that.

But nothing happens, and I start to think maybe I can have a bit more gluten. I gradually add it back into my diet, feeling more at ease when dining out and even getting a small thrill from telling waiters I have no allergies while reasoning with my ego again. But then the bloating and wind begin, and I panic—ahh, it's the gluten causing issues again! I need to cut it back. And so the cycle continues without considering that perhaps I’m eating more fibre or more convenience food without chewing properly.

When my gut is in disrepair, I turn to probiotics and tell myself that’s enough. I gauge the success of my diet by the state of my skin—if it's calm and free from psoriasis or eczema, I feel I'm on the right track. But when it flares, the guilt returns. I blame the croissant or rye bread I indulged in, rather than considering the stress I'm under, the way I push my body like a machine with exercise, or the chaotic state of my sleep. What I really need is to rest and de-stress—not just a bit of meditation here and there, but a true break from the busyness in my head. It's funny, though—when I adopt a "fuck-it" attitude and just eat what I like, my symptoms often disappear. But that's too easy, isn’t it? Or perhaps not—I just can't meticulously control this.

I’m not saying that gluten isn’t a factor in health issues, and, for some, it is an essential part of healing, but there's a complex interplay between emotions and the restriction of certain foods. The setbacks and feelings of failure are rarely considered when gluten removal is advised. Eliminating gluten is an easy control mechanism to improve someone’s health, but it’s far scarier to confront pain and trauma and be truly honest with yourself about what’s best for you. For me, it's about being honest with myself about why I'm running myself into the ground with stress and finding the courage to confront and change that truth.

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I wouldn’t be writing this if I hadn’t pursued an MSc in Transdisciplinary Practice and embarked on a personal journey that included the transformative use of psychedelics. These experiences have been instrumental in expanding my consciousness and providing new ways of understanding the world. They have empowered me with the agency to critically evaluate my work and the industry as a whole.

Through this journey, I aimed to advance my thinking about what true health means, take a holistic view of the nutrition industry, and attempt to understand the collective essence of well-being. As I delved deeper, I encountered several challenges within the industry that have led me to reassess my role and the broader landscape of nutrition, ultimately prompting me to share my reflections and insights.

The Prevalence of Negativity in the Industry

I guess every industry has its infighting, but I think the nutrition industry sets a fairly high bar. You see, there are three main camps: nutritionists, dieticians, and nutritional therapists. In a nutshell, each camp believes their ethos around health is correct and dismisses the others. This division fosters a competitive and often hostile environment where collaboration is rare. Instead of working together towards a common goal of improving public health, practitioners are often caught up in defending their own methodologies and discrediting others.

This lack of unity not only undermines the credibility of the profession but also creates a pervasive sense of inadequacy among practitioners. When each camp receives constant criticism from the others, it creates a sense of inferiority within the community. This internal conflict can have significant knock-on effects, leading to burnout, diminished job satisfaction, and a reluctance to innovate or adopt new practices.

Furthermore, this infighting affects clients as well. They are often left confused and distrustful, bombarded with conflicting advice from different types of professionals. Instead of receiving comprehensive, cohesive guidance, clients may feel torn between differing opinions, which can hinder their progress towards better health. The lack of a unified front in the industry can erode trust and make it difficult for clients to know who to believe or which advice to follow.

Obsession with Pathways and Functional Testing

As I delved further into the functional medicine world, it became apparent that the more complex you could get with a client, the healthier they were presumed to be. Every CPD seminar focused on an in-depth examination of the biochemical pathways associated with various conditions and the numerous functional tests that could be applied in a clinical setting. What I found difficult with this approach was the fixation on controlling variables, which often overshadowed holistic health approaches.

Some practitioners see it as an opportunity to showcase their expertise by prescribing numerous health tests, which may or may not be entirely relevant for the client. I do believe in the value of functional testing, but it needs to be used in the right context and with discernment. For instance, if there is a specific issue at hand, running a lot of tests might not be beneficial, as the results could be influenced by that particular issue. This approach can also influence clients, leading them to focus on drilling down into biochemical pathways rather than addressing the root causes of their health problems. Ironically, the desire to control every variable can itself be a potential cause of health issues.

Moreover, this obsession with pathways and testing can create an overwhelming and stressful experience for clients. They might feel bombarded with information and tests, leading to anxiety and confusion rather than clarity and empowerment. It also places a financial burden on clients, as functional tests can be expensive, and not all clients can afford them. This financial strain can deter people from seeking help or continuing with their health journey.

Science Doesn’t Have All the Answers

Nutritional science, while invaluable, doesn’t always provide clear or definitive solutions for health issues. Not all studies are of high quality, and many interventions are designed for specific populations, which may not be universally applicable. Sometimes, a lot of fuss is made about a particular supplement or strain of bacteria based on minimal evidence. Despite the lack of strong scientific backing, marketers and influencers frequently hype up these products. This can lead to confusion and misplaced trust in remedies that may not deliver the promised benefits.

Moreover, science cannot measure everything that impacts health in a laboratory setting. Elements such as love, mindset, and trauma play crucial roles in an individual’s well-being but are often overlooked in quantitative clinical research. These factors can profoundly influence health outcomes, yet they remain largely intangible and difficult to quantify. If it can’t be measured, it’s often ignored. 

This gap in scientific measurement points to the limitations of relying solely on empirical data and underscores the need for a more holistic approach to health that considers qualitative data: the emotional and psychological dimensions of well-being. 

The Power of Food is Overlooked: Capitalism and Health Products

In our modern world, the commercialisation of health products often overshadows the fundamental power of whole, nutritious food. The market is flooded with supplements, health drinks, and superfoods that promise quick fixes and miraculous health benefits. While these products can be convenient, they frequently detract from the more profound and enduring benefits of consuming whole foods.

Whole foods provide the right mix of synergistic nutrients that our bodies need to function optimally. These nutrients work together in ways that isolated supplements or processed health products simply cannot replicate. For instance, a fresh apple offers a complex blend of vitamins, fibre, and antioxidants that interact beneficially within the body, promoting overall health in ways a vitamin pill cannot.

However, the allure of taking a pill or sprinkling a so-called superfood powder into a smoothie is strong. It seems easier and quicker than the more involved process of adopting a healthy diet, cutting out processed foods, and committing to regular, balanced meals. The convenience of these products can be appealing to those who feel they lack the time or energy to focus on their nutrition.

Aggressive marketing strategies that position these products as essential elements of a healthy lifestyle are further fueling this trend. The promise of quick, effortless health gains through a simple purchase is enticing, but it often leads to a superficial approach to health. People may end up relying on these products without making the necessary lifestyle changes that lead to lasting health improvements. This is capitalism at its finest.

Neglecting Trauma’s Impact on Health and Longevity

The profound impact of trauma on overall health and longevity is often overlooked in the industry. Trauma is a deeply sensitive and subjective experience that cannot be easily measured or quantified in a laboratory setting. Yet, its effects are far-reaching and significant, influencing both mental and physical health in ways that are often ignored in conventional health approaches.

Imagine all your childhood trauma taking up space in your body, influencing your stress responses, eating behaviours, and overall well-being. Despite this, the industry frequently focuses on the latest supplements or health trends that may extend lifespan by a mere percentage point in a controlled lab environment. This approach neglects the more substantial, though less tangible, impact of unresolved or unconscious trauma on a person’s health.

Trauma can manifest in various physical symptoms, including chronic pain, digestive issues, and immune dysfunction. These symptoms are often treated in isolation without addressing their root cause. Supplements and trendy health products might offer temporary relief or marginal improvements, but they do not address the underlying emotional and psychological wounds that significantly impact health.

Moreover, the connection between mental health and nutrition is often overlooked. Mental health significantly influences eating behaviours and overall health, yet it is rarely addressed in nutritional consultations. Poor mental health can lead to disordered eating patterns, while good mental health can enhance dietary adherence and overall wellness. Trauma, in particular, can deeply influence eating habits and stress responses, further complicating efforts to achieve optimal health through diet alone.

The Dark Side of Wellness Trends

Popular wellness trends often come with a dark side, including the spread of misinformation and the promotion of unhealthy behaviours. While these trends promise quick health benefits, they can lead to extreme and obsessive behaviours. One such behaviour is orthorexia nervosa—an unhealthy fixation on eating only “pure” foods. This obsession can become all-consuming, where the individual spends excessive amounts of time planning, purchasing, and preparing meals they deem healthy, often to the detriment of their social life and mental health. The rigid dietary restrictions can result in nutritional deficiencies as vital nutrients from a varied diet are excluded.

Misinformation is rampant, with influencers and unqualified individuals promoting fad diets and unproven supplements. These trends can divert attention from balanced, evidence-based dietary practices and create unrealistic expectations. Instead of fostering genuine well-being, they often lead to stress, confusion, and unhealthy habits that can undermine overall health. People may become fixated on achieving an idealised version of health portrayed online, leading to perpetual dissatisfaction and unhealthy behaviours in their quest for perfection.

My hope in writing this is to create more awareness of the pitfalls of the industry, which may help practitioners or individuals consider a more holistic and integrative approach to health.

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As I turned 40 last week, I thought about what advice would have been invaluable to my younger self. Life has a way of teaching us through experiences, but there are moments when a few words of wisdom can make all the difference. Here are 40 lessons I've learned over the years as a result of hardships, triumphs, and significant personal growth.

1. Being human means making mistakes. Don’t beat yourself up; just learn from them.

2. Don’t take everything so seriously.

3. Forgive, and most importantly, forgive yourself.

4. Stop worrying about 80% of things that will never happen.

5. It all seems to work out in the end.

6. Let go, especially of others who don’t stand by you.

7. Nothing is easy to achieve. You have to work hard.

8. Let people hate you; it means you’re getting noticed.

9. Being hard on yourself isn’t working; try another way.

10. Self-love is a daily practice.

11. Stand up for yourself. People will respect you more if they hear your growl.

12. Enjoy being different; being the same as everybody else is boring.

13. Rest and slow down. The best ideas come to you then.

14. Embrace difficulty.

15. Don’t believe everything you think.

16. The voice in your head is that of a scared and lazy child, not wanting to move out of its comfort zone. Treat it with kindness and discipline.

17. Question your thoughts.

18. Respect your body. It listens when you say negative things about yourself.

19. You get further in life if you’re vulnerable.

20. Ask for help when you need it.

21. Focus on progress, not perfection.

22. Learn to say no. Your time and energy are valuable.

23. Celebrate your achievements, no matter how small.

24. Take risks.

25. Allow yourself to learn, especially from others.

26. Respect boundaries.

27. Nourish your body.

28. Be grateful.

29. Trust yourself, especially your instincts.

30. Invest in your mental health.

31. Don’t be afraid to fail.

32. Be proud of yourself wholeheartedly.

33. Be honest, especially with yourself.

34. Cherish your loved ones.

35. Relinquish your self-importance.

36. Sit in silence more often. You are your greatest teacher.

37. Listen more than you speak.

38. Stay humble.

39. Don’t compare yourself to others.

40. Allow yourself to be loved.

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People often ask why I choose to prod my trauma with a stick when I appear reasonably well on the outside. The truth is, looking well doesn’t necessarily mean I am well. Many of us are adept at hiding our inner turmoil behind a façade of normalcy, convincing others—and sometimes even ourselves—that everything is fine. Yet, beneath the surface, unresolved trauma lingers, influencing our behaviours, thoughts, and overall well-being. While I have come a long way and feel I’m in a good place in my life, I know there is still a lot of trauma buried deep, which I know is still manifesting in subtle ways. This unresolved trauma can affect my physical health, relationships, and overall sense of peace. By actively confronting and addressing these deep-seated issues, I aim to achieve true healing and well-being rather than simply maintaining an illusion of wellness.

Our bodies often carry the burden of our unprocessed emotions, leading to a variety of health problems that seem to have no clear cause, such as chronic pain, digestive issues, headaches, and a weakened immune system. This somatisation of trauma highlights the deep connection between our mental and physical health, underscoring the importance of addressing trauma to achieve overall wellness and longevity.

For years, I mastered the art of sidestepping my trauma, rationalising that if I seemed okay and functional, the impact of my past couldn’t be that significant. However, this mindset ignores the insidious nature of trauma. It doesn’t just vanish with time; instead, it embeds itself deep within, manifesting in various forms such as anxiety, stress, and physical ailments. Prodding my trauma isn’t about seeking to relive the pain but about acknowledging its existence and addressing it head-on to truly heal and for it to become part of me, integrated into my story rather than hidden away.

My Recent Ayahuasca Experience

Although I’m willing to work on my issues, I tend to downplay the impact of my past experiences, rationalising that since it was a long time ago and I’m okay now, it wasn’t that bad. In moments of stress, I tend to fawn and rapidly distance myself from any feelings that arise from my past pain. I never let myself sit with the discomfort, always creating logical narratives to excuse others' behaviour and peppering it with the idea that I was meant to experience this pain to learn and develop my soul. The intention behind my weekend with Ayahuasca was to confront my pain directly and sit with it.

My previous ayahuasca experiences were tumultuous yet manageable as the medicine guided my healing journey. This time was different—I had to do the hard work myself, slowly weaving through the pain like an anaconda without reaching any resolution. This was poison to my anxious, anticipating brain, craving a deep spiritual experience to kickstart the next decade of my life on a high note.

I received the medicine I needed, not what I wanted.

The first realisation was to slow down. Telling someone with chronic anxiety and stress to slow down is futile; I had to be tricked into it. The medicine showed me an image of myself bedridden with cancer. The symbolic message was clear: slow down or be forced to. Treat yourself as if you need to heal… a good wake up call nonetheless.

Next, my stomach burned with a warm fire sensation. I wanted to purge, but nothing came out, signifying that my trauma was lodged in my body. It reminded me of years of abuse, excessive partying, steroid use, and the sexual trauma I endured. Each significant trauma degraded my self-worth further, becoming a form of masochism. In the moment, I knew it was harming my soul, a soul I believed was worthless due to years of torment and pain. These self-destructive behaviours were not just tools for numbing; they were a respite from a life filled with closed doors and rejection.

Sitting with this pain was uncomfortable; I was squirming. The purpose of the medicine was to make me finally sit with my pain and release it into the fire. It felt as though I shed layers of unresolved trauma, hoping to leave it behind to move forward.

During the ceremony, I had insights into how much I had disrespected my body over the years. The burning sensation in my stomach symbolised the physical manifestation of the trauma I had been holding. Each wave of discomfort reminded me of the abuse and self-harm I had inflicted upon myself, with the realisation that my chronic skin disorder has been concurrent with trauma patterns. This connection underscored the deep link between my emotional wounds and physical ailments, highlighting the need to address my inner pain to heal both my mind and body.

Gentle Healing

I also realised that I had been heavy-handed with my healing process, often opting for higher doses of psychedelics to push my consciousness to its limits and continually seeking deeper experiences through intense breathwork techniques. This relentless pursuit of profound healing experiences was, in itself, a form of self-punishment. The message I received was clear: I needed to embrace embodiment and be gentler with my body in the healing process. It was time to rest, integrate, and honour my body’s need for gentleness and care rather than constantly pushing it to extremes.

This session was different from my previous ayahuasca experiences, where medicine took the lead. This time, I had to confront and navigate the pain myself, which was both excruciating and liberating. The medicine taught me that my body and soul deserved healing and respect, not punishment. This session forced me to acknowledge the trauma stored in my body and the importance of releasing it to move forward in my healing journey.

Presently, I feel lighter, as if a heavy burden had been lifted. The process was far from over and coming back into the real world has been met with challenges, for which I’m choosing to be compassionate with myself.

I decided to share my experience with others to offer a moment of reflection for those who feel the weight of the world on their shoulders or are frantically trying to find a root cause for their symptoms with no avail. By sharing my journey, I hope to provide insight and encouragement to anyone struggling with unresolved trauma or chronic issues that seem insurmountable. It is my aim that, through understanding my path to healing, others might find solace and inspiration to confront their own pain, seek the help they need, and begin their own journey towards true well-being and self-acceptance.

If you found this post insightful or helpful, please give it a like! Thank you for reading and being a part of this journey.

A lot of my stress in life is created around the hindsight of what I could have done better in a situation, notably why I didn’t say anything or stand up for myself. If I think about it, it’s never about my anger towards the person; it's more anger towards myself for not being better and standing my ground. I’m forever hard on myself for my moments of paralysis. As the trauma relives in my mind, I can feel the dry mouth and racing heart rate symptoms as an inner voice is screaming, “Say something!” In the face of significant traumas, my default response has often been to do nothing, to remain inert and compliant— fawn. This non-response stems from an overwhelming sense of fear and helplessness.

Understanding the Fawn Response

Traumatic experiences can have profound effects on the psyche, often resulting in various stress responses. Among these, the "fawn" response is less discussed yet crucial to understand. The fawn response is a stress reaction where an individual copes by pleasing or appeasing others to avoid conflict, danger, or further trauma. This response is part of the fight, flight, freeze, or fawn (4Fs) typology of trauma responses. While fight and flight are more proactive responses to danger, freeze and fawn are more passive.

The fawn response involves suppressing one's own needs and emotions to pacify the perceived threat, often leading to a pattern of codependency, people-pleasing behaviour, and a chronic state of hypervigilance. This reaction is rooted in the desire to ensure safety by seeking to please the aggressor, which can be a survival mechanism in abusive or highly stressful situations.

Media Influence and the Fawn Response

The overwhelming influx of media coverage, public opinions, and political discourse can exacerbate feelings of helplessness and fear, reinforcing the fawn response. Major terror events around the world have left physical and emotional scars on survivors and witnesses, while also inducing widespread public outcry. The sheer scale of these tragedies overwhelms our collective consciousness, often resulting in a societal freeze where individuals feel powerless and unable to act. During such times, the fawn response can become more pronounced. The need to maintain peace, avoid conflict, and ensure personal safety becomes paramount, often leading to behaviours such as agreeing with dominant narratives, avoiding controversial discussions, and exhibiting heightened compliance.

The societal pressure to take a stance, coupled with personal trauma, often results in emotional paralysis. This collective retreat into passivity, while a natural coping mechanism, can perpetuate feelings of guilt and shame for not having responded more actively or assertively.

Healing and Moving Forward

Understanding the fawn response is a critical step towards healing. Recognising that this response is a survival mechanism rather than a character flaw can alleviate some of the guilt and shame associated with inaction. It is essential to acknowledge and validate these feelings, offering oneself compassion and understanding.

Therapeutic approaches such as trauma-informed therapy, mindfulness, and self-compassion practices can help address the underlying fears and emotions associated with the fawn response. By gradually building a sense of safety and self-worth, individuals can learn to assert their needs and boundaries, moving from a state of appeasement to one of empowerment.

The fawn response is a complex and often misunderstood reaction to significant trauma. It is a natural survival mechanism that can have lasting impacts on mental health and well-being. By understanding and addressing this response, individuals can begin to heal and reclaim their sense of agency and self-worth.

Reference: Lupien, S., Juster, R., Raymond, C., & Marin, M. (2018). The effects of chronic stress on the human brain: From neurotoxicity, to vulnerability, to opportunity. Frontiers in Neuroendocrinology, 49, 91-105. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.yfrne.2018.02.001.

As the guilt rose, my healthy habits declined—I ordered more takeaways and did less breathwork or meditation. This only exacerbated the problem. Thankfully, I no longer drink, as that would have been another crutch for me. Instead, I tried to elevate my productivity by drinking more coffee and adding extra lion’s mane for its potential cognitive-enhancing effects (1). However, the extra caffeine significantly added to my overwhelm, causing energy spikes and dips that led to wanting naps straight after breakfast, and not being able to concentrate on tasks.As a consequence, my confidence in my writing waned, and I became very self-critical, losing the spark and turning my posts from something I wanted to do into something I felt I had to do.

Rather than plough on, as I usually would, I made a drastic decision to have a weekend free from solid food, caffeine, and my phone. I’m not sure when I last went a whole day without my phone—it’s usually the first thing I reach for upon waking (I know it’s bad), accompanied by my morning coffee while casually browsing Instagram or doing some life admin.

The Juice Cleanse

With my background in running wellness retreats, I'm an advocate of juice cleanses—not for detoxification, as I believe in a healthy diet and supplying the liver with the nutrients needed for the liver to do its job effectively. What I find beneficial about juice cleanses is the pause they enforce, a moment often overlooked in discussions about fasting. When you stop putting things in your mouth, you confront your feelings rather than numb them. This can be challenging, especially if you are good at sweeping emotions under the carpet, or you're wired to seek dopamine through reward-based activities.

During the cleanse, I noticed a clarity of mind that I hadn't felt in a long time. My senses seemed sharper, and my thoughts were more focused. The absence of solid food forced me to confront my emotional hunger, which was far more significant than my physical hunger. It was a humbling experience that reminded me of the importance of mindful eating, living and resting.

Caffeine

The thought of giving up caffeine was harder than the reality. The voice in my head would insist, “But you will be tired,” whenever I considered it. While coffee has documented health benefits (2), my intuition told me it was contributing to my energy slumps throughout the day. The additional adrenaline and cortisol weren't helping either. Giving up caffeine was tough—not only did I battle with my ego, but I also felt drained, albeit briefly. Decaffeinated coffee doesn't have the same bite, and I've noticed I no longer gravitate towards the coffee machine upon waking - perhaps because i’m actually awake and clear-headed.

In the absence of caffeine, my energy levels became more stable. The initial withdrawal was challenging, with headaches and a sense of lethargy, but after a few days, I felt a more natural, sustained energy. This allowed me to better tune in to my body's natural rhythms and needs, rather than relying on external stimulants.

Phone

This was by far the most interesting aspect. I missed the connectivity we're all used to now. Going without my phone induced feelings of boredom, a luxury these days in a world full of technology. I noticed my fear of leaving the house without my phone and our reliance on technology—even to the point where I couldn’t unlock my bike, which left me frustrated. I also noticed my anger when people walked towards me while using their phones, narrowly missing my path. Walking through the park on a sunny day and seeing everyone on their phones, even in restaurants, made me wonder if there will be warnings on phones in the future, similar to cigarettes.

This digital detox made me acutely aware of how much time I spent on my phone and how it affected my interactions with the world. Without it, I found myself more present and engaged in my surroundings. I rediscovered simple joys like reading a book, taking a walk, or having an uninterrupted conversation. If anything, going without my phone made me more conscious of mindless scrolling, encouraging me to put my phone down when it's time to focus on the moment.

The circuit breaker allowed me to pause and realise that I rush through tasks without actually enjoying the process. Particularly now, as I am in the midst of writing another book, it's imperative that it’s not just a task to complete but a piece of me that I can give to the world, hoping it stands out as more than an ornament on the shelf.

Conclusion

The three-day cleanse and digital detox were transformative. I learned that sometimes, stepping back and taking a break from our usual routines can offer profound insights and rejuvenation. It reminded me of the importance of slowing down and being present. This experience has inspired me to integrate these pauses more regularly into my life, ensuring that I maintain my creativity and well-being. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, I highly recommend giving yourself the gift of a break—it might be just what you need to reconnect with yourself and reignite your passion.

1. Docherty, S., Doughty, F. L., & Smith, E. F. (2023). The Acute and Chronic Effects of Lion’s Mane Mushroom Supplementation on Cognitive Function, Stress and Mood in Young Adults: A Double-Blind, Parallel Groups, Pilot Study. Nutrients, 15(22), 4842.

2. Gökcen, B. B., & Şanlier, N. (2019). Coffee consumption and disease correlations. Critical reviews in food science and nutrition, 59(2), 336-348.

The announcement of my book deal on social media was met with heartwarming support. It's both humbling and uplifting to know that there are people out there who root for me, cheer on my successes and accept me for who I truly am.

My path to healing has been anything but straightforward. Along the way, I faced numerous challenges; doors were shut in all walks of life, which sometimes made the journey feel even more isolating. Interestingly, it was through these unconventional methods of healing, away from traditional paths, that I found my voice. I learned to channel the intense urge to complain into a force for self-expression and connection, recognising the silent battles many of us face.

Throughout this journey, I've been fortunate to encounter incredible teachers who I'm eternally grateful to—some who offered nothing more than a silent presence, providing a space for me to rest my weary mind as it worked through layers of deeply ingrained trauma.

Gratitude

Gratitude, for me, represents a profound recognition of the support and silent strength offered by others, playing an indispensable role in navigating and healing from personal trauma.

Gratitude is more than a feeling; it's a transformative experience that shifts our focus from what's missing to what's abundantly present. It nurtures the soul, mends the heart, and renews the mind, making it essential in the journey of healing. Each psychedelic experience I encounter consistently reinforces this perspective, leaving me eternally grateful for the people in my everyday life who contribute to my growth. It helps us appreciate both past and present influences, anchoring us in a positivity that fosters both mental and emotional well-being.

Mindfulness Exercise:

Let's take a moment to close our eyes. Imagine entering an elevator and descending several floors. As the doors open, you find yourself in a beautiful garden—your personal sanctuary. Walk towards your favourite meditation spot and take a seat. 

Take a deep breath in, and as you exhale, bring to mind the person that immediately comes to mind when you say the word “gratitude.”. Hold onto that image as you breathe slowly and deeply. With each inhale, absorb all the warmth, support, and kindness they have extended towards you; with each exhale, release your deep appreciation back to them.

Allow yourself to fully immerse yourself in the feelings of gratitude. What emotions are surfacing? Remain in this state as long as you need, fully experiencing gratitude in the present moment.

When you feel ready, gently open your eyes. Grab your journal and let the pen flow freely, capturing every word that naturally emerges from your consciousness. Write about this experience, detailing the emotions and insights that arose during your meditation.

Thank you for taking the time to read this piece! If it resonated with you, I'd greatly appreciate a 'Like'. Your likes play a significant role in enhancing the visibility of my work through the Substack algorithm. Your support means a lot. Thank you!

There are friends from our past with whom we once shared deep connections—perhaps those forged in the throes of shared struggles. These relationships, while significant at the time, may no longer serve us as we evolve. The challenge lies not in erasing these bonds but in recognising when they have fulfilled their purpose in our lives.

The Complexity of Emotional Bonds

Acknowledging the good times with these friends is essential. It allows us to cushion the sting of parting by honouring the role these individuals played in our journeys. Yet, it’s crucial to permit ourselves to truly feel the pain of separation. I often find myself rationalising conflicts or disagreements, crafting logical structures around emotional chaos. These mental gymnastics, while protective, prevents me from confronting the genuine hurt and acknowledging the mutual pain involved.

Reflecting on these dynamics, I realise that many arguments that seem pivotal now will likely fade into insignificance over time. On our deathbeds, the petty grievances that once tormented us will appear trivial and inconsequential, a stark contrast to the intense emotions they once provoked.

Growth, Change, and Resistance

As we grow and heal, our evolving selves might seem alien to those who knew us before. Friends who were comfortable around our unhealed personas may find the new boundaries and the changes in our behaviour unsettling. This shift can lead to grief on both sides—they mourn the person we were, and we mourn the loss of ease in our interaction.

This transformation often stirs ego clashes, with past traumas dictating defensive responses. A shaman once shared with me that in his village, disputes were resolved by having the parties involved drink ayahuasca together, facing their issues head-on in a shared hallucinogenic journey. While we can’t all resolve our conflicts through such means, this approach highlights the value of confronting discomfort and exploring deeper resolutions.

The Role of Guilt in Letting Go

As we step away from past relationships, guilt often emerges as a poignant companion. When we initiate the separation, the guilt of leaving behind someone who once shared our struggles and victories can make this emotion particularly strong. The feeling of guilt is a natural reflection of our empathy and the value we place on these relationships. It prompts us to question our decisions: Are we being selfish? Are we betraying old loyalties by moving forward?

Engaging with this guilt requires deep introspection. It's important to understand that feeling guilty does not necessarily mean we have done something wrong. Instead, it highlights our capacity for compassion and signifies the internal conflict between our need for self-preservation and our desire to not cause pain to others. Acknowledging this can be a transformative experience, allowing us to learn a great deal about our boundaries and the extent to which we have entangled our well-being with the approval of others.

To navigate through this guilt, we must reassess our self-worth and the motivations behind our choices. Are we prioritising our mental health and growth, or are we sacrificing our peace to avoid upsetting someone else? This guilt, while uncomfortable, can catalyse a pivotal shift in how we view our personal journey and relationships. By confronting and processing these feelings, we make space for healthier connections that respect both our needs and those of the people around us. Ultimately, letting go is an act of profound courage and self-love, allowing us to align more closely with our truest selves and the life we aspire to lead.

Embracing Conflict and Reconciliation

I’ve learned that mastering the discomfort of conflict is not about achieving a perfect track record of harmonious interactions but rather about navigating these turbulent waters with honesty and courage. It's okay to harbour conflicting feelings of love and resentment towards someone; these emotions are not mutually exclusive. The societal taboo around 'hate' complicates our relationship with anger, often leading to shame. Yet, it's a natural response in the spectrum of human emotions when relationships falter.

Real growth occurs in relationships that challenge us—those that encourage us to confront and resolve differences rather than sweeping them under the rug. We tend to be forgiving of strangers for minor transgressions while holding loved ones to impossibly high standards. Recognising our own role in conflicts, admitting where we have caused hurt, and offering a sincere apology can be far more challenging than a casual 'sorry' to a stranger.

Hypervigilance in New Relationships

Entering new relationships can often trigger a state of hypervigilance, particularly for those who have experienced tumultuous partings in the past. This heightened state of alertness is characterised by an acute sensitivity to the smallest cues, driven by a fear of repeating past hurts or facing similar fallouts. Individuals may find themselves meticulously analysing every word, gesture, and action, anxious to decode potential signs of conflict or rejection. While this vigilance is a protective mechanism aimed at safeguarding against emotional pain, it can paradoxically strain the budding relationship, clouding a genuine connection with shadows of doubt and preemptive defence. Embracing this challenge involves acknowledging these fears, understanding their roots, and consciously striving to trust anew, allowing the relationship the genuine space it needs to flourish.

Conclusion

The act of letting go is not merely a physical separation but an emotional and spiritual journey. It involves acknowledging the past, confronting the pain of the present, and embracing the growth that comes with change. As we continue on our personal paths, the ability to let go with grace and understanding can transform what feels like an end into a meaningful new beginning. Remember, the best people in your life are those who will not only rejoice with you but will also stand and face life’s complexities by your side. In this way, letting go becomes not just a necessity but a significant step towards our own well-being and self-discovery.

It’s not simply about fear of being late. City life, constant connectivity, and remote work have embedded in our collective consciousness the notion that busyness is a virtue. The idea of waiting a week for a postal reply now seems archaic. We have become addicted to the rush of rushing, often feeling uneasy during moments of calm.

This pattern has dominated my life for years, manifesting physically as restlessness when idle and emotionally as guilt during relaxation. Perhaps these feelings are tied to deep-seated fears of inadequacy or a drive to prove myself. However, my curiosity about the neurobiological roots of this behaviour led me to explore the role of dopamine—a neurotransmitter that might explain this compulsion.

Dopamine and Rushing

Dopamine, often dubbed the “feel-good” neurotransmitter, is crucial for pleasure and motivation. It compels us towards actions that ensure survival, such as eating and procreating, and rewards completed tasks with a surge of satisfaction. Modern life has tweaked this system: now, simple acts like checking emails or finishing presentations trigger dopamine releases, perpetuating a cycle of task completion and fleeting pleasure. This biochemical process can forge a habit of relentless rushing as we seek the next dopamine 'hit' from our accomplishments.

Insights from Genetics

My interest in understanding my behavioural tendencies led me to undergo genetic testing with Lifecode GX. The results were revealing: imbalances in my dopamine pathways, particularly in receptor binding and breakdown, suggest that, in essence, my dopamine is hanging around in the background and I'm not making much use of it. This would probably explain why I get a buzz from completing tasks and could explain my addiction to rushing.

However, genetics isn't destiny. Environmental factors—stress, diet, lifestyle, mindset and trauma—profoundly influence these genetic predispositions. Acknowledging this interplay is crucial as I explore interventions.

Strategies for Change

Aware of my genetic makeup and its impacts, I'm adopting strategies to cultivate a more balanced pace of life:

Limiting Stress: Cortisol, a hormone released in times of stress, seems to be draining my genetic potential. This means being aware of my stress but also limiting things that can add to my cortisol load—not overdoing the caffeine or not doing too much high-intensity exercise—sigh.

Mindfulness Practices: I've committed to at least 30 minutes of breathwork or meditation daily. Despite my ego’s resistance—preferring the familiar rush and control—this practice helps me centre and slow down.

Time Management: Learning to prioritise tasks effectively, say no, and set boundaries has been transformative. Embracing the discomfort of not always being busy is a challenging but necessary adjustment.

Seeking Joy in Slowness: Integrating activities like reading before bed or taking mindful walks, regardless of the weather, has enriched my life. These activities, enjoyable and inherently slow, are vital for retraining my brain to appreciate being present.

Conclusion

Recognising and addressing the addiction to rushing is more than just doing less—it's about reshaping what we do and how we do it to ensure it's meaningful and mindful. In a world that prizes speed, choosing slowness is a radical act that can significantly enhance our mental and physical health. It’s not an easy journey, but it is a rewarding one that allows us to truly experience and enjoy life's moments.

For those interested in learning more about genetics and the mind, I’m speaking at the Lifecode GX ‘Nutrigenomics Master Practitioner: Genes in Mind’ event - 10-24th May 2024. For more details, please see here: https://www.crowdcast.io/c/lgxmind.

The aftermath of not holding my ground wasn't always immediately evident. Yet, the consequences—persistent anxiety, mental replays of arguments, and a harsh self-judgment—were unmistakable and far-reaching. In witnessing others set boundaries and speak their minds freely, I couldn't help but feel a mixture of envy and admiration. These individuals seemed to possess the kind of resilience and self-assurance I longed for.

My journey into self-inquiry, particularly through my explorations within the psychedelic realm, magnified the importance of confronting this challenge. It was as though the universe had selected this specific issue from my personal "trauma filing cabinet" for me to address. In my reflections, I observed the paralysis that enveloped me in moments of conflict, trying to understand the impact on my body and psyche. The reasons for my hesitance were clear yet complex: the fear of upsetting others, losing control of their reactions, and the daunting possibility of being disliked.

However, a turning point arrived. I found myself in a scenario where setting boundaries was not just necessary but imperative. The process was far from seamless; the decision to assert myself led to discomfort and disapproval from the other party. The familiar flood of negative thoughts ensued—predictions of social and professional doom. Yet, this time, something shifted. Instead of succumbing to the spiral of fear and self-doubt, I chose to sit with the discomfort and acknowledge it without allowing it to define me. This marked a significant departure from my usual response, a step towards detaching from the incessant, critical voice within.

The aftermath was filled with mixed emotions, including a sense of loss for not extending the proverbial olive branch. However, the discomfort I felt was a necessary sacrifice for the sake of mental clarity and emotional autonomy. This experience prompted me to contemplate how different my past might have been had I possessed the courage to stand up for myself earlier. Yet, I also recognised that without these struggles, I wouldn't have achieved the same level of self-awareness.

Standing up for oneself is indeed a double-edged sword. It requires confronting not just the immediate fear of conflict or disapproval but also the deeper, more insidious fears that lie beneath our surface. As I continue to navigate this path, I am learning that the strength to assert myself comes not from avoiding discomfort but from embracing it. This process, though painful, is essential for forging resilience, establishing boundaries, and ultimately finding peace within oneself.