Why I Didn’t Become a Psychedelic Therapist (and Why I Love Doing Integration Work)
My first experience working with psychedelic therapy came in 2016, when I worked in psychedelic science on a MDMA-assisted therapy for PTSD study. It was a remarkable and hopeful time. Psychedelics were beginning to move from the underground into the light, and there was this collective sense that something truly groundbreaking was happening in mental health.
I watched people find the courage to face the most unbearable parts of their histories—war trauma, abuse, loss—and do so with a heart cracked wide open. The sacredness of that was undeniable. These were not just “clinical trials.” They were moments of deep humanity and awe.
And yet, even amidst that hope, I began to notice something in myself. A quiet unease. A sense that the emotional field between therapist and participant was more charged than anything I had seen before.
The transference and countertransference—the powerful emotional and unconscious exchanges that are always present in therapy—were amplified tenfold. Everything that usually unfolds slowly over months or years seemed to arrive all at once: love, fear, dependency, idealization, and grief. It was breathtaking. But it was also precarious.
From a depth psychotherapy perspective, such intensity isn’t always in the service of healing. When the psyche opens too quickly, it can flood. And sometimes what floods in isn’t just light—it’s everything that’s been long exiled or unprocessed.
The Psyche, Wide Open
A few years later, I trained in ketamine-assisted psychotherapy (KAP). Once again, I was drawn by curiosity and compassion. Ketamine can open doors that talk therapy alone may never reach. It can loosen the grip of depression, dissolve rigidity, and give someone a glimpse of their inner aliveness when it’s felt unreachable. I’ve seen people experience genuine relief and reconnection through it.
But I’ve also seen what happens when these powerful experiences aren’t handled carefully enough. Over the years, I’ve sat with clients who came to me in the aftermath of difficult or even harmful psychedelic experiences—people who weren’t properly screened or prepared, emotionally manipulated, or left unheld after being cracked open.
I don’t believe most harm comes from malice. More often it comes from naivety, hubris, or unexamined shadow—the idea that these medicines alone heal, or that the therapist becomes a kind of enlightened conduit. But the truth is: when someone is under the influence of a psychedelic, their psyche is completely open. The boundaries that usually protect the self dissolve. The unconscious becomes vividly alive.
That openness is both the medicine and the risk. It’s what allows transformation—and what demands humility.
The Wisdom of Slow
Depth psychotherapy moves differently. It follows the pace of the soul, not the timeline of the ego. There’s no rush to insight or transcendence. Instead, there’s a deep trust in what wants to unfold.
This kind of work asks us to stay close to the moment, to build safety and intimacy slowly. The healing happens in the between—in the relationship, the attunement, the subtle shifts that occur when we are truly seen and met.
Psychedelics, on the other hand, can be like lightning. They illuminate what’s hidden but can also burn if there’s no grounding afterward. The psyche doesn’t always know what to do with that much intensity at once.
Still, for some people, psychedelic therapy can be life-changing. When used with skill, compassion, and deep psychological understanding, it can help people access parts of themselves that years of talk therapy couldn’t touch. It can restore a sense of awe and possibility. For those trapped in depression, trauma, or profound disconnection, it can offer a doorway back to aliveness.
The key, though, is not the medicine itself—it’s how we meet what it reveals.
The Shadow in the Psychedelic Field
The rapid expansion of the psychedelic therapy movement has brought enormous potential—and, inevitably, shadow. There’s so much excitement, but often not enough grounding. Many well-meaning practitioners step into this work without the psychological depth or training to recognize what’s unfolding in the transference field. Others use spiritual or “shamanic” language to justify poor boundaries or avoid accountability.
The healer archetype can be seductive. When combined with power, projection, and altered states, it can easily distort. This is why I believe so strongly in the need for shadow work and ethical rigor in this field. Without it, even the best intentions can cause harm.
But I also want to acknowledge the good. There are many gifted, heart-centered clinicians doing beautiful work—people who approach these medicines with reverence, who understand the gravity of what it means to hold a soul in such an open state. The field needs more of them: thoughtful, humble, trauma-informed therapists who can balance science, psyche, and spirit.
Where I’ve Landed
I’m not against psychedelic therapy—not at all. I think it can be profoundly healing when the conditions are right: when there’s deep trust, clear boundaries, and a therapist who understands the terrain of the unconscious.
But for me, I realized I didn’t want to be the one facilitating that kind of intensity. I wanted to be the one who helps people make sense of it afterward.
Integration work feels truer to my nature and my training. It’s where insight becomes embodiment, where the extraordinary is woven back into the ordinary. I love helping people understand the symbols, emotions, and memories that surfaced during a journey—and supporting them as they learn how to live what they’ve seen.
Because the real healing isn’t in the peak—it’s in the return.
It’s in what you do with the truth once it’s revealed.
For me, depth psychotherapy is already psychedelic. It invites the same mystery, the same reverence for the unconscious. It asks us to sit with the unknown, to trust what’s unfolding, to make meaning of what’s been hidden.
So while I didn’t become a psychedelic therapist, I remain deeply connected to the spirit of that work: the longing for wholeness, the courage to face what’s been disowned, the awe of remembering who we truly are.
Because healing doesn’t always require lightening.
Sometimes it just asks for presence, patience, and the slow, sacred work of becoming whole again.