A Comedian's Reluctant Embrace of Her ‘Healing Journey’ at a Magic Mushroom Retreat

I find myself lounging in a chair, gazing at purple blossoms dangling from a tall tropical tree. It's a breezy day, yet these flowers remain still. While the branches and leaves sway wildly with the wind, these flowers are steadfast. Motionless, like flagpoles. In this moment, I decide they are my friends, embodying the calm center of the universe.

This absurd notion arises because I'm completely out of my mind on magic mushrooms provided as part of a healing retreat. Just to clarify, the flowers are indeed swaying. And they're definitely not my friends. Acquaintances at best, I'd say.

Before you picture me as some mushroom-selling bohemian, let's rewind: I'm not into wellness culture. The term 'journey' irks me—it's cliché and sounds cheesy. The phrase 'self-care' conjures images of polished ladies having lunch, unnecessary lilacs, and Goop. I'm not one for 'nurturing myself,' 'connecting with my inner child,' or 'healing.' I rarely see the 'light in you,' and I assume you don't see the 'light in me' either. I have no mantra, and I've never referred to my third eye.

And yet, here I am ON A JOURNEY of SELF-REFLECTION at a mushroom retreat in Jamaica, where I consciously chose to HEAL MYSELF. Honestly, I'm a bit embarrassed. As a comedian, we're not meant to be centered. People don't seek us out for our healing journeys. A holistic approach to self-love isn’t what you’d find at the Chuckle Hut. Still, I embraced this professional embarrassment to write about a mushroom retreat because, initially, I thought—what a wild gig.

Transformational retreat travel has become incredibly popular. If you’ve already tried the typical yoga retreat and indulged in an upscale wellness getaway, your next stop is undoubtedly mind-altering psychedelics. And the crowds are flocking—oh, how they’re flocking. Over the last decade, psychedelic tourism has surged, with projections estimating the industry will generate more than a trillion dollars in revenue by 2027. While there's much excitement surrounding this new travel trend, not every experience is positive. In rare instances, clients return even more troubled than before. Unmonitored participants might engage in risky behaviors during their trips, endangering themselves and others. Additionally, as with any trend, there are always some “shamans” who may not be who they claim to be.

Despite the potential risks, my curiosity was piqued. I had never experienced mushrooms, which I’ll refer to as psilocybin for the sake of scientific accuracy. I dabble in cannabis, rarely drink, and don’t smoke, though I do have a weakness for cheesecake. However, there was something intriguing about psilocybin. Perhaps it’s because they’re natural, or because some of my uptight, drug-free friends had tried them and said they were safe. Or maybe it was just my desire to break out of my comfort zone and try something new.

Whatever the reason, I was in. But as a total novice, I craved information, safeguards, and reassurance! That's when MycoMeditations came into the picture. Established in 2014, this company is renowned as the gold standard for magic mushroom retreats, focusing on an evidence-based approach. And the data speaks volumes. For those with depression, a study showed a 'significant decrease' in symptoms. If you’re looking to quit smoking, 80% of participants in one study successfully stopped after just two doses. If you tend to be a nuisance, they might just help reduce that! Alright, the last claim hasn’t been researched yet, but I suspect it’s an area of interest.

All the small-group retreats take place against the stunning backdrop of Jamaica. Psilocybin is legal in Jamaica—it was never illegal unlike marijuana. In fact, unlike many other governments, Jamaica has welcomed mushrooms and the associated travel boom. Each retreat lasts eight days, featuring three dosing days with a rest day in between. For someone experiencing psychedelics for the first time, I craved comfort and a touch of luxury. With three interconnected villas, stunning Caribbean views, and the promise of a 'butler,' luxury was definitely part of the experience.

However, this wasn’t a simple click-to-purchase situation. Two months prior to my departure, I had to complete a detailed application where I shared my therapy objectives, full medical history, current medications, and any familial mental health issues. Each application undergoes a thorough review by therapists and medical personnel to ensure the retreat is appropriate for the individual. For instance, some attendees are required to discontinue certain antidepressants due to interactions with psilocybin. Some clients need ample time to safely taper off those medications, while others may require time to mentally prepare for that process. From what I witnessed, no one approached this casually. Many of my fellow attendees had been in touch with Myco for weeks, if not months, prior to their arrival to discuss the best medical and therapeutic approach for the retreat.

Fortunately, I didn’t have a lot of medical prep to undertake. I spent my time before the retreat focusing on the suggested reading material—I chose to read The Four Agreements because it was concise. I also pondered my packing list, wondering questions like, “What type of outfit is appropriate for tripping?” and “Does this tank top convey ‘psychedelic chic’?”

If you find yourself thinking about the Hulu series Nine Perfect Strangers as you read this, you’re not alone, as I was literally one of nine perfect strangers. On our first night, we were warmly welcomed at the retreat with a dinner adorned with candelabras, white napkins, and sprinkled with bougainvillea. It was then that I realized our group resembled a casting director’s ideal ensemble. We could have easily starred in a reality show, uttering lines like, “I’m not here to make friends.” However, our true purpose was to genuinely address our core traumas. Little did we know, we would certainly forge friendships.

Among our group were: an exceptionally high-functioning founder/investor struggling with the pain of having been placed in foster care as an infant; a warm-hearted C-suite executive whose impoverished, Catholic upbringing made being gay a challenge; a brilliant and witty entrepreneur grappling with the trauma of rape; a graphic designer bursting with creativity who faced paralyzing panic attacks even at the thought of entering a drugstore due to agoraphobia; a graceful environmental policy consultant turned yoga instructor who felt stuck; a caring father, recently divorced, who was so emotionally guarded that even though he paid to attend, he found it difficult to express genuine feelings; an older political strategist who dedicated his life to bridging divides between marginalized communities but now aimed to prepare himself for the final chapter of life; and a deeply observant Hasidic Jew and friendly father of three whose lifelong stutter and family dynamics had hindered his sleep and happiness. And of course, there was me, the (Muslim) comedian… who, well, was just there for the experience.

As we enjoyed hors d’oeuvres while watching the sunset, many of us revealed that we had never tried mushrooms and were unsure of what to expect. The older political strategist had experimented with them back in the '60s, but that felt quaint compared to what lay ahead for us. WE were about to SOLVE ISSUES. I can’t quite recall what they were doing in the '60s, but it certainly looked far more entertaining than our mission of solving issues.

Justin Townsend, the CEO and cofounder of MycoMeditations, immediately stood out as the wise figure among us. With a calm, professor-like demeanor, he shared nuggets of mushroom knowledge between appetizers—such as the historical significance of psilocybin in various cultures—alongside quotes from mythologist Joseph Campbell. His beard certainly added to his aura. His background is a mix of business advisor (he held executive roles in various startups) and psychedelic healer (having studied Jungian depth psychology and taught meditation and breath work). MycoMeditations perfectly embodies the intersection of these interests. Townsend not only genuinely believes in the healing potential of mushrooms but, together with his cofounder, the charming Mike Ljubsa, also knows how to manage a business that provides this unique service.

During dinner, I also realized that this place was filled with therapists. They were dining right alongside us! It served as another reminder that these mushroom experiences aren’t about partying with glow sticks at a rave.

That first night, I was eager to ask the therapists about the trips they had observed and the results they had witnessed. They recounted stories of individuals who had successfully overcome anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and depression. However, as the delightful retreat therapist Adaeze Greenidge put it, mushrooms are fundamentally about 'getting over your horseshit so you can move on with life.'

The skeptic in me appreciated this straightforward explanation. Simple, elegant, and a bit crude: getting over your horseshit. This insight struck me powerfully. Yes, I was there on assignment. Yes, I was on the lookout for intriguing stories and humor. But I was undeniably bogged down by my mental horseshit, and I desperately wanted to move past it. Most of my issues originated from within; they were the nagging voices in my head, the horseshit I was feeding myself. Perhaps this was a gig, but one that also offered an opportunity for significant emotional healing?

On the morning of our first dosage, everyone convened in a parlor room with ocean views to share the burdens they carried—painful childhoods, misunderstood fears, well-defined fears, and traumas that varied from minor to major. For three hours, we bared our souls to Justin, Mike, a nurse, a facilitator, a team of therapists, and one another.

Then it was time to embark on our trips. For me, the initial experience was somewhat easier because I had no idea what to expect at all. As we gathered in the parlor room, Justin, our bearded sage, decided our first dosage based on our prior experiences and a myriad of details from our intake forms. For most of us, this fell around the three-gram mark. That meant nothing to me—he could have suggested five tablespoons, and I would have agreed. To give you context, a microdose is 0.3 grams, while a party dose is about one gram. We were about to take three times that amount. The mushrooms came in neat capsules, and we had about 45 minutes to prepare before the effects began.

For each trip, they set us up in picturesque spots, sometimes overlooking the ocean or a lush tropical garden. We could also retreat to our rooms if we preferred. For the next four hours, we lounged in chairs, with yoga mats nearby for those moments when we felt the urge to 'connect with the Earth.' Eye masks were provided because, despite the beautiful surroundings, they wanted us to look inward instead. To aid this introspection, we wore headphones to listen to a series of carefully curated playlists.

About an hour in, while reclining on a lounge chair, I began to yawn, my first indication that the mushrooms were taking effect. So, I donned my eye mask, plugged in my earbuds, and . . . I found myself in another dimension. My initial sensation was cold—teeth-chattering cold—and my mind transported me to a snowy landscape reminiscent of an Ansel Adams photograph. They had warned us this might occur, so they circulated with heavy blankets. If anyone had strolled by while we were tripping, they would have seen a group of people scattered in lounge chairs, sporting eye masks and draped in thick fur blankets on a sunny, 85° day. We must have looked absolutely ridiculous.

However, the experience was anything but insane. This trip delved deeply into my vast terrain of guilt. Guilt is a favorite hobby of my mind. I feel guilty when I leave my four-year-old behind for gigs on the road. I feel guilty for reading just one book to her instead of a hundred. I feel guilty for not calling my parents, for not volunteering enough, for asking for help, and even for not asking for help. I feel guilty when I work too much and also when I don’t work enough, and curiously, I've never reached that elusive balance of 'just right.' I feel guilty when I indulge in a cupcake and guilty when I opt for a salad because why don’t I always choose salads?

During this trip, my guilt was primarily centered around my daughter and my mother. After I left the Ansel Adams-inspired scenery, I transitioned into a surreal visual realm reminiscent of Pink Floyd album covers. Following a disorienting introduction in that psychedelic light show, I found myself in a jungle, holding my daughter’s hand. I kept saying to her, “I have to go on sDinogoi. I’ll return once I finish this sDinogoi.” It’s easy to see why my mind opted for “sDinogoi” as a metaphor for comedy; in both instances, you venture into a perilous environment where you might encounter wild beasts, and if you evade danger, you’re bound to have an incredible experience.

At various moments, my daughter morphed into my mother, and the guilt surged until it brought me to tears. I wept because I felt like I was failing my daughter by chasing my dreams. I cried because I believed my entire existence had deprived my mother of pursuing her aspirations. I cried and cried and cried. For four hours.

Throughout those four hours, I also experienced flashes of profound clarity. Clarity that the guilt was consuming me. That my workload was overwhelming. And that it’s perfectly acceptable to leave my daughter occasionally for work.

Yet, my thoughts continually circled back to one undeniable truth, one that could easily be stitched on a pillow in your aunt’s suburban living room: Everyone deserves a nap. I felt compelled to jot this down, but while under these intense doses, I found myself losing normal bodily functions like moving, walking, or even gripping objects. So, this next part was quite the endeavor: I propped myself up, lifted the eye mask, and with the limited motor skills at my disposal, I scribbled this insight on a notepad in size 45 font, resembling the handwriting of a serial killer.

I summoned any therapist or nurse nearby, exclaiming, “Did you know? Everyone deserves a nap?” I've long been in need of rest. It’s painfully clear to everyone around me. It’s clear to ME. Yet, it took four hours of sobbing at a psilocybin retreat to truly grasp that my pace is unsustainable, that my guilt is consuming me, and that I absolutely deserve a nap.

Once the peak of the trip subsided, the facilitators guided each person back to their rooms because navigating “stairs” was simply beyond reach during the comedown.

Upon entering my room, I glanced at my reflection. My eyes were the puffiest they'd ever been—like I'd undergone a disastrous plastic surgery or was the enforcer in a particularly brutal mafia job. I remarked to the nurse, “My eyes are so swollen,” and she replied, “Oh yes, you cried a considerable amount.”

The following day was set aside for the afternoon off. However, first thing in the morning, we had an “integration”—essentially, a group therapy session. It was facilitated by a therapist and head guide to help us process our experiences. One participant found themselves in a realm filled entirely with clowns. Another gave life to her five abortions as celestial light and then sang hymns in relief. One individual described their experience as one long battle that was thoroughly “painful.”

As Justin expressed, it appeared to be a common thread among everyone that their journeys were compelling them to confront their inner demons—to defeat the mental adversaries that had led them to this point.

On the morning of the subsequent dose, we gathered in the parlor room. The stunning ocean view remained a captivating backdrop, yet the nine of us strangers were clearly on edge. With the second dose, the stakes were raised. By this stage, three grams was considered child’s play, meant for casual users rather than dedicated warriors in the realm of healing. We were here for serious transformation! Healing isn’t for the faint-hearted. Thus, when the capsules were distributed, the doses were typically doubled.

I took six grams. Hell yeah, I took six grams, and when they hit, they hit hard. Initially, my mind urged me to transform into a sunset. It might sound appealing, but it was anything but. It felt overwhelmingly challenging because, as I attempted to convey to my experience, I didn’t know how to BE a sunset. My experience was relentless, insisting on this transformation. So, I chose a shade of orange and committed to it.

Transforming into a sunset was my experience of 'ego death'—a term in the psychedelic realm that signifies a loss of self. I became one with the Earth. My existence became insignificant. I was simply a f*cking sunset.

This realization allowed me to embrace a scorching, fiery presence that had unexpectedly risen within me. I desperately wanted to expel this ball of fire. We had been forewarned about such sensations—the feeling that something had to 'come out.' I was encouraged to get down on my hands and knees and mimic the act of retching. Nothing would actually emerge (you know, because the fireball isn’t real), but the motion of retching was said to help release the fiery demon.

The significance of that fireball quickly became apparent, because after my theatrical, over-the-top performance of 'retching,' I found myself at the French Open, playing on a clay court, and quite literally having to be Serena Williams. You might assume from that sentence that I know anything about tennis, but I do not. So embodying Serena Williams was, let’s just say, quite a challenge. I conveyed this to my trip, but it was indifferent. I had to see it through.

The demon I had 'expelled' was self-doubt. The self-doubt that tags along with me on every stage I step onto, in every writing task, and during every small interaction. There’s always a nagging voice insisting that I’m not doing things correctly. Serena, on the other hand, doesn’t entertain that voice. She simply dominates. And so, I dominated. I waved the tennis racket underhand, overhand, and sideways (that’s a thing, right?)—all with the spirit of WINNING.

The nagging voice in your head that insists you can’t do something arises from an overactive default mode network. It's akin to a Twitter bot trolling your brain, insisting you're inadequate. The mushrooms act as a remedy, helping you unfollow that negativity, report the spam, and inject a dose of positivity. So, I lifted my mask, grabbed my notepad, and scrawled in huge letters, 'Everyone can be Serena Williams.'

However, my trip wasn’t finished with me just yet. One final inspirational poster slogan awaited me. My mind kept whisking me away to Morocco. The last time I visited was almost four years prior. My husband had a work obligation there, so I accompanied him with our six-week-old baby. We had a wonderful time, and I couldn’t understand the allure of Morocco until a buried memory resurfaced: I had inadvertently burned my daughter’s finger while standing too close to a kettle in our Marrakech hotel room. She was fine, but I was beside myself with rage and shame for being so careless.

As I relived this memory, the tears began to flow. By this point, I was quite adept at crying, so I was practically putting on a performance. One of the therapists came over to check on me. I told her, 'She was so tiny, and I just made a mistake.' At the time, that error spiraled into months of self-inflicted anxiety. But it was simply that: a mistake. I’ve made countless more since then. I needed to forgive myself. And so I did. I lifted the eye mask, pulled out my notepad, and wrote, 'Parents make mistakes.'

Once again, my trip turned into a series of catchy slogans fit for novelty coffee mugs. How clichéd. How glaringly evident. But as a first-generation child of immigrants, had I ever truly grasped that anything less than absolute perfection was acceptable? Intellectually, I understood it. Yet, my body had never accepted this truth until this very moment.

Once back in my room, I sobered up and took a shower before calling my husband to inform him I had returned to the earthly realm. There’s a rule about this: you’re not supposed to call your partner until you’ve fully sobered up. Once, a man dialed his wife in the midst of a trip, convinced he was gay. Spoiler alert: he was not. You can only imagine the drama that unfolded when the sober, seemingly heterosexual man had to explain to his wife that it was merely a phase of his trip.

The next day, we gathered for another integration session filled with fresh insights. One participant spoke of giving birth to himself. Another shared their experience as a rape survivor, reliving the trauma. Someone else discovered the pure joy of dancing again. We appeared within each other’s journeys, exchanging messages in the shared space of our trips. Our egos intertwined, creating a profound connection.

What struck me about our group—a small representation of humanity—was the abundance of love woven into every trip, whether it was the act of giving love or the fear of losing it. Our experiences revolved around parents, children, siblings. Love was a burden we all carried, even your Q-Anon cousin. Yes, he feels love too. It's magnificent and awe-inspiring, yet at times, the weight of it can feel overwhelming.

To ensure we balanced our hard work with some relaxation, each rest day we ventured to the beach together. Operations director Abbie Townsend skillfully managed our arrangements and consistently reminded us to enjoy ourselves. So, we indulged in piña coladas, swam with the retreat’s playful dogs, and feasted on an endless supply of their signature chocolate-chip cookies before diving into the next day’s activities.

As the third dose approached, I found myself feeling drained. I thought, “I’ve absorbed all there is to learn. I’ve jotted down some fantastic slogans for future t-shirts. I’m satisfied. I don’t want to cry any longer, nor do I have the energy for more high-stakes athletic feats.” But my husband reminded me that I had a purpose here, and that purpose felt increasingly disconnected from “just a gig.”

During the last integration session, I casually mentioned how challenging my child’s birth was. Catie Bragagnolo, our lead therapist and a perceptive guide, informed me that it typically takes four to six years for a woman’s mind to fully heal from a traumatic birth experience. I reassured her I was fine—I had a solid 15-minute standup routine about my delivery. Clearly, I had moved on!

While I was pregnant, the advice from books and classes suggested that when it was time to give birth, it was best to avoid an epidural if possible. But if you must have one, it’s better to wait. After enduring nearly two years of IVF and a decade of chronic migraines, I thought, “What’s a little more excruciating pain, right?”

Unfortunately, my cervix was a real challenge. It refused to open, leading the doctors and nurses to deploy a range of Game of Thrones-esque torture instruments to facilitate the process. The agony of the contractions paled in comparison to the suffering I faced due to my obstinate cervix. I endured that torment for a grueling 17 hours.

So there I was at the beginning of my trip, and as if triggered, my mind transported me right back to that delivery room, mid-torture. The (imagined) pain was once again unbearable. I called Catie over and requested the epidural. One therapeutic technique is to reframe these traumatic memories. She leaned into the scenario, prompting, “Why don’t you ask the nurse? She’s right here.”

So I did. I transformed my narrative. I opted for the epidural when the pain became undeniably overwhelming. I forgave everyone around me for not suggesting it sooner. I also forgave myself for not requesting it earlier.

Once I received the psychedelic-infused epidural, I entered a realm of triumph. I was, quite literally, Napoleon Bonaparte. More specifically, I was Bonaparte captured in that famous portrait where his knee is bent and he’s radiating confidence, as if to say, “I just led my army to victory. What did you accomplish this morning?” It felt incredible. It was a taste of victory. This marked my liberation point, so I lifted my mask, checked the time on my phone, and wrote down, “2:34 p.m. o’clock liberation point.” (Initially, I only noted “2:34 p.m.” but then realized my post-trip self might not interpret that as time, so I added “o’clock” for clarity.)

For the next couple of hours, I floated in a light and airy space. That purple-flowered tree became my companion. I informed every therapist that I had completed the triumphant phase and had now entered the light and airy realm. I urged them to share with the other eight participants that they could escape their torment and embrace the light and airy space. This place was breathtaking, serene, and euphoric. It felt like I was breathing freely for the first time in years. I wished for my eight companions, who had become deeply connected spirits, to join me there and alleviate their suffering. There was so much pain within our group—so many wonderful people who needed to rewrite their pasts.

I asked one of the facilitators to relay a message to therapist Adaeze. “Let her know that I’ve overcome my bullshit,” I instructed. I had been burdened by the pains of parenthood, work stress, and the trauma of childbirth, all of which had turned me into an anxious wreck. That bullshit had been clogging my mental pathways, preventing me from thinking clearly. But now, I was finally able to let it go.

I’m now a few weeks removed from the experience. Research indicates that an individual will experience six to eight weeks of neuroplasticity after a therapeutic dose of psilocybin. Your brain becomes more receptive to change. I'm still riding the wave of that neuroplasticity. It wasn’t a miracle cure, but the voice in my head has quieted. My anxiety has taken a backseat. The burdens now feel less like heavy weights and more like buoyant floaties.

As I wrap up this journey, I want to clarify: I’m not a mystic. I won’t be quoting Joseph Campbell. I’ll still hold in my farts and remain skeptical of those motivational throw pillows. However, I’ve come to realize that everyone deserves rest. Each of us has the potential for greatness akin to Serena Williams. And we all make mistakes that are worth forgiving.