I’ve been reflecting on my personal journey into spirituality for some time, wondering how to put it into words that others might find meaningful. In sharing my story, I hope to offer insight, comfort, and encouragement to anyone who finds themselves questioning life’s deeper purpose. This is the path I took—unplanned, often painful, and ultimately transformative—and perhaps it can help guide you on your own spiritual journey.
For most of my early life, spirituality felt more like an occasional pastime than a lived experience. I grew up in a mostly secular household, and although I attended a Catholic high school for a couple of years, it was never out of genuine spiritual interest. When it became clear that Catholicism didn’t resonate with me, I moved on. In my teens, I took some meditation training, and later, my mother briefly joined a meditation group. I experimented with these practices alongside her, and also as a young mother in a moms’ group, but never truly embraced them. During those years, spirituality remained at the periphery of my life, something I acknowledged but didn’t actively engage with.
During my years running a natural health clinic, however, I did encounter many spiritually inclined individuals. I worked alongside reiki practitioners, a shaman trained in Peru, and a psychic, and many of my clientele were dedicated yoga practitioners. Even in my own work as a Bowen practitioner, I recognized the influence of subtle energies. I would call upon a higher presence to guide the healing process, rely on my intuition, and understand the importance of grounding and clearing my mind before sessions. From the outside, I likely seemed quite spiritual—people often asked if I was a yoga teacher, although in truth I couldn’t stand the thought of yoga and felt too busy to even consider it. Despite these brushes with spiritual practice, I remained largely disconnected. After work, I returned to a hectic, uncentered lifestyle and an unhappy family environment. Though I had spiritual tools at my disposal, I hadn’t yet integrated them into my daily life.
All that changed with the death of my son, Alexander. Before he passed, I had experienced a series of ominous, predictive dreams that felt like warnings his life was in jeopardy. When he took his own life, my world was turned upside down. Along with the overwhelming grief, guilt, and heartbreak, I recognized something else: a profound certainty that more was happening beneath the surface. Some force or presence had tried to prepare me. I even thought, at the moment I lost him, that he might find it easier to reach me in my dreams. Although those visits were less frequent than I’d hoped, the few dreams I did have confirmed a sense that our connection continued in some form. I also sought guidance from a medium who delivered a startlingly precise message about Alexander’s circumstances—details too specific to be mere guesswork.
In the aftermath of Alexander’s passing, my already fragile sense of purpose collapsed completely. Even basic tasks—getting out of bed, eating a meal—were monumental challenges I didn’t always overcome. Yet, in my desperate search for meaning, I immersed myself in spiritual practices with unwavering devotion. I took multiple walks in nature each day, exercised regularly, meditated for hours, eliminated alcohol, and engaged in breathwork sessions several times a week. I refined my diet to include only high-vibrational, nourishing foods. I read Ram Dass, revisited the Bible, and explored the Bhagavad Gita, Taoist writings, and other religious and spiritual texts from around the world. Through this exploration, I discovered common themes that suggested a universal spiritual truth, something that transcended culture and creed.
In addition to my spiritual pursuits, I also sought more traditional forms of bereavement support. I enrolled in a 12-week, in-person course offered in Oakville by Heartache2Hope, a program specifically designed for those who have lost loved ones to suicide. Although this group didn’t necessarily deepen my spiritual understanding, it provided invaluable emotional support and allowed me to connect with people who truly understood my pain. Some of the friendships I formed there continue to this day.
Then, in an effort to enhance my meditation practice, I decided to explore psychedelic medicine, which profoundly altered my perspective on reality, introducing me to new dimensions of understanding and compassion. I learned that acting with genuine love and selflessly helping others can provide a more profound, lasting sense of fulfillment than any external pleasure. I began feeling deeply connected not just to people, but to the earth itself. I found that I could loosen my grasp on the material world, wearing it “like a loose garment,” as I’d heard recommended. In re-examining religious and spiritual texts, I found historical context and common ground that linked so many teachings.
As I moved through my grief, I also found supportive communities, both online and in-person. I joined a spiritual discussion group in Burlington and engaged deeply with a psychedelic community where we held rich discussions on existential and spiritual subjects. I recognized how previously I had been only a superficial participant in certain spiritual circles—like those I encountered in Costa Rica. But now, through shared vulnerability and genuine curiosity, these groups became places of real growth. I also realized how fortunate I was that my partner, Tom, had always been spiritually inclined and had patiently waited for me to catch up, deepening our relationship in new ways.
It was during this period of healing and seeking that I began to honestly confront my past as a mother. In raising my four children, I had been distant and preoccupied, clinging to my independence and failing to offer the unconditional love they deserved. With Alexander in particular, our relationship had been fraught. The more effort I put towards helping him with his mental struggles, the more he pushed me away. For the last year and a half of his life, he refused to speak to me, and his suicide note blamed me directly. Facing this was painful, but in acknowledging my shortcomings, I found a path toward forgiveness—both for him and for myself. Through spiritual practice, I learned to see these failings not as irreversible damages, but as part of my evolving human experience, something I could learn from and strive to grow beyond.
Eventually, I began studying to become a psychedelic integration guide, taking classes with doctors, social workers, psychologists, and indigenous practitioners who explored the same inner landscapes as I did. Today, my spiritual practices guide my daily life. I don’t always succeed at meditating every day, but I still try. I continue learning from teachers like Ram Dass, Eckhart Tolle, and Stan Grof, and I remind myself to act out of love whenever possible. My relationships have improved tremendously. The once-fraught connection with my mother has grown more peaceful, and I was able to sit –and truly be present– with my father in his final days, helping bring comfort to him and my mother. I’m still working through regrets—about my past choices and the distance I maintained from my children—but I no longer carry these regrets as a burden that defines me. Instead, I view them as lessons on my path.
Looking back on this journey, I’ve realized not to take life so seriously. I’ve learned that there is more to me, and to everyone around me, than meets the eye. We are all connected, and we have a responsibility to help each other. To anyone just beginning their own spiritual path, I would say: embrace every aspect of yourself—the good, the bad, and the ugly. Don’t pretend that your pain or failings don’t exist. Acknowledge them, accept them, and forgive yourself. You truly did the best you could with what you knew at the time. In learning to accept yourself, you open the door to understanding and loving others more fully, and in that openness, you find the deep, sustaining meaning that spirituality can offer.
Psychetopia 
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