My History with Psilocybin Microdosing

This is my very personal and candid addendum to the story on this site's About page.

My journey with psilocybin began in January 2024. But the roots of my story stretch much further back as you read "My Story" on the About page. This part of my journey is what really pushed me to create Reawakened Nurse and find others, mostly women, that feel alone and unheard.

When it began ...

In June 2022, I became a mother for the first time. I had imagined this chapter of my life would be filled with joy, warmth, and love. Instead, it was marked by fear, isolation, and an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. I struggled with breastfeeding, felt like a failure, and, at times, was so paralyzed by fear and resentment that I couldn’t even care for him. The shame, the guilt, and the crushing self-doubt never left me. At my six-week postnatal checkup, I gathered the courage to tell my doctor about the terrifying intrusive thoughts I was having—not necessarily of intentionally harming my son—but of being unable to keep him safe. Every scenario in my mind ended in helplessness. The doctor had me fill out a questionnaire. The nurse glanced at it and told me I’d be fine, as long as I didn't "want to intentionally hurt my son." When the doctor arrived, he reassured me that all these feelings would disappear if I just “went for a walk and lost the rest of the baby weight.” I had never felt so dismissed, so invisible, and very unworthy or any help.

I have been a nurse for quite a while, so I was confident that my career had prepared me for motherhood, at least how to keep a calm demeanor during chaos. But when postpartum depression and anxiety took hold, I shut down. My husband and friends always supported me, but I kept my struggle hidden. I kept it all hidden because of fear- fear of being judged, fear of losing my son, fear of being hospitalized. I had intentionally isolated myself because that felt safe; it was not safe. So, I did what I had always done—I put on my denial hat, wore a brave face, and kept pushing forward. But merely surviving was not enough.

Photo credit: Stormseeker, via Unsplash

Breaking Down

By August 2023, the cracks were impossible to ignore. One day, I left work to pick up my son from daycare, a route I had taken for months, and suddenly, I had no idea where I was. The town, the street names, the day—it all felt unfamiliar. My brain was unraveling under the weight of a demanding 40+ hour workweek, forcing me to choose between my career and my son while neglecting my own well-being. Panic attacks became routine. Basic work tasks, like attaching a document to an email, became insurmountable. One afternoon, I had to call my husband to help me find my way home. I thought I was having a stroke. But again, I downplayed all these warning signs and kept plugging away.

By October 2023, I had completely broken down. Postpartum depression, anxiety, burnout, and resentment had consumed me. I took a 12-week medical leave, hoping to find relief, Instead, I found exhaustion, anger, and fear. My leave was anything but restful and restorative—it was empty. Stepping into the role of a patient after years as a nurse was both disorienting and disheartening, and I felt betrayed to be honest.

I felt absolutely betrayed by the industry I had dedicated more than half of my life to.

My new primary care provider quickly prescribed Zoloft, a medication that had helped me in the past. I spent entire days in bed, neglected hygiene and household tasks, and drifted further from my husband and son. I started to believe they would be better off without me. My attempts to find a postpartum depression specialist led nowhere. I had no one. I had nothing to live for.

So, I began to plan my death.

I wrote letters—to my husband, my closest childhood friends, and the few people who had tried to support me. I confirmed my life insurance policy would cover suicide. I organized financial logins and detailed my funeral wishes. I even planned the location, ensuring my husband wouldn’t have to find me at home. The hardest letter to write was the one for my son. The only words I managed were:

“I love you so much. I am so sorry I had to go. None of this was ever your fault. Love, Mommy.”

On New Year’s Eve 2023, my Zoloft prescription had run out, and my doctor had been unreachable for weeks. I spent the day in rage blackouts and panic attacks. That night, I retreated to a spare bedroom and found my husband’s utility knife. This was it. I hadn’t finished my letter to my son, but maybe that was for the best. The anguish was unbearable. I looked down at the knife, at my wrist, and felt an overwhelming moment of clarity...

I heard my son calling for me. “Mommy! Mommy!”

He was crying. My husband reassured him, “Mommy will be right back.”

Photo credit- Yuris Alhumaydy, via Unsplash

But I wouldn’t be back. If I went through with my plan, my son would never see me again. What would happen when he asked for me tomorrow? Next week? In a few months? I thought about my own childhood, about how I had spent years feeling abandoned by the adults who were supposed to guide me and protect me. And now, I was about to do the same thing to my son.

I put the utility knife down.

The next day, I started researching psilocybin and any clinical research on psychedelic therapy. Years ago, an ex-boyfriend had given me homemade psilocybin capsules, and I remembered the effects made me feel focused, euphoric, and hopeful. In that moment, I decided I would rather try something illegal than die. Those were my only options.

So, I *began growing and cultivating psilocybin at home. I began to microdose-consuming small doses of psilocybin-a few times a week. At first, it was almost every day. I found an available counselor, and while he did not specialize in women's health or postpartum issues, he was still a professional that was capable of helping. The combination of the two changed my life.

Photo credit- Hillie Chan, via Unsplash

Looking back now, I remember my pain, but I also see how far I have come. I am no longer surviving—I am living. I don’t just want to exist; I want to thrive. While the fear of failing my son stopped me that night, my recovery now is for me.

I deserve to live. I deserve joy. I deserve effort—from me, for me.

To the mothers out there who feel invisible, overwhelmed, and lost—I see you.

You are not alone.

You deserve to be here.

And together, we will find a way not just to survive, but to truly live again.

🖤

*Disclaimer: Legal status of psilocybin and "magic mushrooms" vary by state. I do not promote, condone, recommend or suggest acquiring psilocybin spores or growing/cultivating psilocybin in someone's private residence.

I just wanted to share my story. What I did was mostly illegal in the state of Washington, however, given the alternative,

I do not regret a thing.