From One-on-One to Collective Healing

It was 2021. COVID vaccines were available, but like so many others, I was navigating a heavy mix of pandemic fatigue, isolation, and deep uncertainty.

I was staying at my dear friend’s lake house in Rangeley, Maine. The setting was quiet, green, and peaceful—but I didn’t feel at peace.

My Swiss psychiatrist’s words echoed in my mind: “You have PTSD and Major Depressive Disorder. You need to take care of this before it becomes too difficult to come back from.”

I didn’t feel sad or depressed. I had maintained a calm exterior, kept working, kept helping others because that was what was required. But looking back, I can see that I had dissociated just enough to survive. I was carrying the weight of vicarious trauma.

I had tried traditional antidepressants, but they dulled my intuition and left me feeling even more disconnected—so I stopped after only a couple of months. I hadn’t been able to sleep for what felt like forever. Being on-call 24/7 had rewired my nervous system into a state of constant hypervigilance. Even when I did sleep, I’d wake up sweating and disoriented.

I wasn’t sure where my soul had gone—but it didn’t feel like it was with me.

One day, I curled up on the deep couch overlooking the lake. I held a collection of small capsules of mushrooms in my hand and thought, It’s time to try something different.

I took the capsules and laid down.

What happened next surprised me: I had the deepest, most peaceful sleep of my life. I woke up feeling like I had slept for years—refreshed and overflowing with gratitude.

The sound of water lapping on the shore, the gentle rustling of leaves—it all felt more alive. I felt more alive. When I looked at the clock, I saw that only 10 minutes had passed.

That night, as the sun set, my eyes grew heavy. I fell asleep easily—and from that night on, I could sleep again.

That was the beginning.

In the years since, I’ve deepened my relationship with psychedelics and formally studied how to integrate them into my psychotherapy practice. Microdosing in particular offered a gentle, sustained return to myself—and now, I feel called to share that with others.

If you’re curious about microdosing, or if you're someone who has quietly carried too much for too long, you’re not alone. There are ways to return. 

Yes, cultivating a relationship with the medicine is essential—and just as important is the relationship you build with yourself along the way. That relationship deepens, expands, and softens over time.

But what I’ve found to be equally powerful is the connection we share with each other. Just like the mycelium network connects beneath the surface of the earth, we too are meant to be in connection. Community is medicine.

After supporting clients one-on-one with microdosing for several years, I’ve decided to begin facilitating this work in a group setting—because healing is amplified in community. We weren’t meant to do this alone.

Soon I’ll be offering a group called Micropractice and Microdosing for Women on the Rise. Stay tuned for more details.