How to Use Psychedelics

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Most “bad trips” are the result of a collision between poor preparation and the biological instinct to resist difficulty as it is surfacing.

Psychedelics are non-specific amplifiers. When a difficult emotion or a disorienting thought or vision appears, our lizard brain treats it as a threat and tries to push it away. But resistance is exactly what creates the “bad” experience. It’s the friction of your own mind fighting against itself.

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The way through isn’t by thinking your way out. If you try to “solve” the trip, you just create more loops. Instead, you have to turn toward the fire. Releasing control doesn’t mean being passive; it means shifting your attention from the scary story your mind is spinning to the literal physical sensation in your body.

If the internal landscape is too much, recalibrate the external one. Your nervous system is highly sensitive to sensory input during psychedelic experiences. Splashing cold water on your face or moving to a different room provides a new “anchor” for your senses, which can break a negative feedback loop.

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Your breath is the literal bridge to your parasympathetic nervous system. By focusing on a long, slow exhale, you are sending a physiological signal to your brain that, despite the chaos of the visuals or feelings, you are physically safe.

One of the most destabilizing parts of a challenging journey is the feeling that the uncomfortable state is permanent. It isn’t. Every experience has a metabolic duration. Repeating “this is temporary” isn’t just a comfort; it is a fact that can give you enough distance to stop the panic from taking over.

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Avoid the urge to escalate. Unless there is a genuine medical emergency, calling for sirens and bright lights is usually the worst thing you can do for a disoriented mind. Most difficult journeys resolve with simple presence, calm breathing, and the passage of time.

The same substance can produce radically different experiences depending on the dose. It is the difference between a slight shift in visual perception and the total dissolution of your sense of self.

In psychedelic practice, dosage isn’t just about the “strength” of a trip—it’s about the kind of cognitive environment you are entering and experiencing.

Understanding these ranges is a fundamental part of harm reduction and responsible preparation.

Dose ranges are not one-size-fits-all.

Your body chemistry, emotional state, and immediate environment will always influence the outcome. If you are new to this type of practice, the golden rule remains: start low and go slow. You can always take more, but you can never take less.

Know where you’re going before you go there.

Detailed resources like the Journey Planner via the link in our bio are designed to help you navigate this terrain safely.

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Bicycle Day and Earth Day sit just three days apart on the calendar, a timing that feels more like an ontological alignment than a coincidence.

On April 19th, 1943, Albert Hofmann took the world’s first intentional L*D journey. His laboratory notes famously recorded the phrase “Home by bicycle,” marking a ride that began in terror and ended in a profound, ego-dissolving realization: the absolute illusion of our separation from the living world.

Hofmann spent the subsequent decades advocating for L*D not merely as a pharmacological curiosity, but as a “medicine for the soul”—a tool specifically designed to help humanity move past the destructive belief that we are outside observers of Nature.

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From the perspective of ecopsychology, the environmental crisis is a crisis of relationship. We have spent centuries conditioned by a neurocentric model that treats the planet as a passive backdrop for human activity.

Bicycle Day reminds us that altered states can act as a radical intervention in this narrative. By temporarily suspending the Default Mode Network, these experiences allow for a “biophilic” awakening—a felt sense of ecological attunement where the boundary between self and soil becomes permeable.

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Earth Day asks us to care for the planet, but information and data are rarely enough to inspire the kind of stewardship we need. True care doesn’t come from a sense of duty; it comes from a sense of kinship.

When we perceive ourselves as an embedded planetary process, “protecting the environment” is no longer an external task. It becomes an act of self-preservation.

The legacy of the bicycle ride is a shift from neurocentrism to an ecological consciousness. It is the realization that we do not live on the Earth, but as a conscious expression of it.

Treating psychedelics solely as mental health treatments misses half of what they offer.

The dominant story right now is a medical one: someone is suffering from depression, trauma, or addiction, and they turn to these substances for relief. This is a vital narrative for healing our collective relationship to these molecules, but it isn’t the whole picture.

For most of human history, these substances weren’t used primarily by the “unwell.” They were allies for those seeking them—woven into the fabric of communal life to mark transitions, deepen connection, and maintain a conscious relationship with the world.

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When you bring these experiences into a healthy life as an ongoing practice, the entire orientation changes.

Working from a place of relative stability means you have more capacity to meet what arises. When you are in acute distress, your inner resources are often stretched thin, making deep integration harder. Stability provides the floor needed to carry the insights forward into lasting change.

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Medical treatment begins with the question: what’s wrong, and how do we fix it?

But some of the most meaningful work happens when the question shifts to: how do I want to live, and what’s getting in the way? Stability opens up the space to ask a different kind of question—one centered on growth rather than repair.

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We don’t exercise or spend time in nature only when we’re sick; we do these things to stay well. Periodic inner work functions the same way. It is about recalibrating, clearing, and renewing your system before it breaks down.

Recalibrating your nervous system and renewing your sense of meaning shouldn’t be a crisis response. It’s part of a high-functioning life.