The High We Don’t Need Drugs For

An unforgettable weekend at the Vital Psychedelic Conference

There’s a delicious irony in gathering hundreds of people who spend their lives exploring substances capable of producing profound bliss, euphoria, and connection, only to discover that the greatest high of the weekend came from simply being together.

I arrived at the Vital Psychedelic Conference in Breckenridge, Colorado, expecting to expand my knowledge of psychedelic medicine. And I did. Spectacularly.

But somewhere between the groundbreaking research, spontaneous bodywork, tearful revelations, questionable breakfast offerings, and a near-disastrous attempt to leave town, something else happened.

I fell a little more in love with humanity.

The Characters

The first familiar face I saw was David, an exceptionally intelligent and friendly man who, I discovered, is even more charismatic in person than on Zoom. This was followed by an enormous hug from Natalia, who single-handedly dismantles the stereotype that Russians are emotionally reserved.

Then there was Ryan, whom I’d last seen couch-surfing in my Airbnb in Denver after the air conditioning in his motorhome surrendered. We’d nearly crossed paths again in Costa Rica, although we both owned our part in the missed connection and still never quite figured out what went wrong.

And Robin. Oh, Robin. Imagine a funky Rhode Island woman with a laugh that could brighten an airport security lineup and a heart big enough to accommodate everyone in it. Beneath that infectious joy is a remarkable story of addiction, recovery, and a courageous decision to explore psychedelics despite the teachings of her twelve-step program.

She believes that decision saved her life. I hope one day she finds herself sharing that story with people who desperately need to hear it. There’s something uniquely powerful about hope delivered by someone who’s been to hell and found her way back.

I also met Susan, who had somehow navigated both the grief of losing her husband and her own recovery from addiction. She had accidentally picked up the name tag belonging to another Susan, who, as it happened, was a neurologist. I’ve always wanted a neurologist friend! I figured befriending someone impersonating one was a reasonable start.

By the end of the first evening, I’d acquired several new friends and a deep appreciation for Shane, who materialized at the Broken Compass with slices of Hawaiian pizza after I’d gone all day without eating. I’m not sure whether it was the world’s greatest pizza or whether starvation had compromised my judgment. Either way, Shane was my shaggy-haired, bearded hero.

The following morning, I discovered two things that filled me with joy: the hotel offered complimentary breakfast, and several conference attendees were already gathered around a table.

I returned from the buffet carrying a waffle that would have horrified a nutritionist: maple syrup, chocolate chips, whipped cream, the works. Considering I actually have a degree in nutrition, I felt compelled to make at least one responsible choice. I added a banana. There, balanced diet.

Across the room sat a woman with brilliant pink hair. I didn’t recognize her from Vital, but something about her suggested she belonged with us. I introduced myself and invited her over. Amanda turned out to be a 5-MeO-DMT facilitator with an extraordinary warmth and presence. One of those people who seems to carry her own sunshine.

By the time we entered the conference room, I’d met so many wonderful people that I announced I was the conference’s unofficial Social Director. A few people seemed genuinely impressed. I didn’t have the heart to tell them I’d invented the position.

Tears Before Lunch

There was a mysterious, distinctly unpleasant smell concentrated on the left side of the conference room. I mention this because, despite all the extraordinary things I learned that weekend, nobody ever managed to explain it. Perhaps some mysteries are best left unsolved.

Kyle and Joe welcomed us and introduced the opening speaker, Court Wing.

I’d been particularly excited about Court. After more than twenty years running natural health clinics in Canada, chronic pain remains one of my greatest interests. I’d also heard an incredible account from Lynne Watkins about how Court had helped her overcome debilitating physical suffering.

His presentation explored the potential for psychedelics to interrupt entrenched pain patterns, influence inflammation, and create opportunities for change through neuroplasticity. But it wasn’t the science alone that moved me. It was the people behind it. The possibility of relief for someone who has spent years, perhaps decades, imprisoned by pain.

By the time Court finished, I was fighting tears. I could have gone home right then and considered the trip worthwhile. Fortunately, I didn’t.

Kalyanna followed with an elegant presentation on trauma-sensitive mindfulness. Having practiced and taught mindfulness-related techniques for years, I have a deep appreciation for the subject, but I especially loved the nuance she brought to it. Her emphasis on compassion, safety, and pacing was a beautiful reminder that mindfulness isn’t about pushing ourselves into discomfort in the name of growth. It’s about cultivating the capacity to be present with whatever arises, while honouring our limits. Even familiar wisdom can land differently when expressed with such clarity and care.

Then came Susan. The neurologist. The real neurologist. She’d arrived with a MacBook but no HDMI adapter. I happened to have one. Finally, my chance to befriend a real neurologist, not just someone wearing her name tag. Little did I know that lending her a tiny piece of technology would precede one of the most emotionally powerful presentations of my life.

Two Brothers

Susan Anzalone and her colleagues were presenting a case involving identical twins with multiple sclerosis. MS is a disease in which the immune system damages the protective covering of nerve fibres, disrupting communication between the brain and body. It can progressively steal abilities most of us take for granted: walking, balancing, moving freely.

During my years as a Bowen therapist, I’d worked with several people living with MS, but one woman, Leona, has never left my heart. After her third treatment, she called me one morning, practically bursting with excitement.

“Guess where I’m calling from?”

I had no idea.

“My kitchen!”

I laughed, a little confused. And then she told me she was standing at the counter, making herself a sandwich.

Leona had spent the previous seven years in a wheelchair. Seven years. And there she was, standing in her own kitchen, making a sandwich. No grand achievement by most people’s standards. Just bread, a countertop, and the extraordinary freedom to do something the rest of us take for granted.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that phone call.

So when Michael stepped forward to share his experience with ibogaine, I was already emotionally invested. His identical twin, Stephen, had lived with MS for approximately fifteen years before losing enough mobility to require a wheelchair in 2024. That same year, Michael received his own MS diagnosis. He was already noticing changes in his own body. Climbing stairs was becoming difficult. Simple exercises like jumping jacks and knee raises, movements most of us barely think about, were becoming increasingly challenging. Imagine watching your identical twin slowly lose his ability to walk, while recognizing the early signs of that same struggle in yourself. For Michael, the fear of what lay ahead wasn’t some distant, abstract possibility. He had been watching it unfold in the person who shared his DNA, his face, and his childhood.

Both brothers decided to explore ibogaine treatment.

Michael described a profound experience, followed by a remarkable improvement in his physical abilities. He could walk without his cane. Stairs became easier. And those jumping jacks and knee raises that had been so difficult before? He could do them again. These weren’t just improvements on a medical chart. They were everyday movements he had been losing, and suddenly, he had some of them back.

He showed us the videos. Before. After. The difference was astonishing. And there he stood, more than a year later, still enjoying those improvements and contemplating a return to the ski slopes.

I happened to be sitting directly behind his father and sister. I could barely contain myself. These weren’t tears of sadness. They were the kind that erupt when you witness someone getting a piece of their life back. Joy so intense it almost hurts.

And then we learned what happened to Stephen. He hadn’t experienced the same improvement. In fact, his symptoms had reportedly worsened. Suddenly, my tears had an entirely different source. I’d never met Stephen. He wasn’t even in the room. Until that moment, he’d existed for me only through his brother’s story, yet my heartbreak for him was very real. I’d gone from celebrating one brother’s remarkable recovery to grieving the outcome the other had so desperately hoped for. Two identical twins, two profoundly different outcomes.

I couldn’t stop thinking about what that must be like for both of them. How do you watch your identical twin regain abilities that remain painfully out of reach for you? And how does Michael celebrate his newfound freedom while watching his brother continue to struggle? I imagined the joy, the grief, perhaps even guilt or envy, all tangled together with the love between them. Of course, I couldn’t possibly know what either brother was feeling. But I couldn’t help wondering how they were navigating something so extraordinary and so heartbreaking at the same time.

Perhaps the most scientifically intriguing detail was that Michael’s dramatic functional improvements hadn’t been accompanied by corresponding changes in the structural damage visible on his imaging. His MRIs and X-rays still showed the same deterioration as before treatment. The same was true for Stephen, despite their vastly different outcomes.

The researchers weren’t presenting a miracle cure. They were presenting a fascinating, deeply human mystery that deserves further investigation.

I left that session carrying both brothers in my heart. I still am.

A Little Levity, Please

After such an emotional experience, I welcomed the next presentation on ethical business practices. Excellent, I thought. Something dry and practical. A chance to recover. Apparently, Emily had other plans. Her presentation was every bit as practical as I’d hoped, just considerably more entertaining.

She delivered an energetic, entertaining reminder that we don’t need to bankrupt ourselves to be ethical practitioners. Charging fairly for meaningful work isn’t a moral failing. Sustainable businesses can be compassionate businesses. Who knew a presentation about business could be so much fun?

At lunch, I joined Abby, Ryan, and Brody for street tacos and another round of fascinating conversations.

Brody, a young psychology graduate with an infectious personality, was contemplating his future in the psychedelic field. He felt somewhat disadvantaged by his relatively happy, trauma-free childhood. Imagine that. Feeling underqualified because life hasn’t sufficiently kicked your ass. I found his dilemma both endearing and refreshing. Trauma isn’t a prerequisite for helping people heal, and I suspect his healthy foundation will serve him beautifully.

Abby, meanwhile, looked far too young to be an accomplished therapist, let alone someone supervising other therapists. She was helping people who help people. I liked that. I liked Abby.

Ryan had also undergone a transformation since our Denver days. His formerly shaggy hair was gone, apparently connected to his recent experience with the Bwiti tradition in Africa. He explained that he had been told to shave his head as part of the ceremony, reflecting a belief that hair carries memories and patterns. Apparently, those who refused could sacrifice a goat instead.. I’m still not entirely clear on how the goat resolves the hair situation, but I suspect there’s a great deal of cultural context I’m missing.

The Unofficial Bowen Clinic

The afternoon brought Kyle Buller, whose reassuring presence has been a constant throughout my Vital training. I’ve probably heard Kyle speak a hundred thousand times. His calm, measured delivery never gets old. I get the sense that Alfred North Whitehead is his unofficial co-host.

This time, Kyle introduced a concept I particularly loved: the relatogen. A substance, practice, or experience that brings our relationships into awareness and potentially changes how we relate. Integration, he reminded us, isn’t a checklist we complete after a psychedelic journey. It’s an ongoing relationship with what we’ve experienced.

Rikvah, with her brilliant pink hair, challenged us to consider whether the organizations supporting psychedelic practitioners are applying the same principles of care they expect facilitators to extend to clients.

Claudia, striking with her long black hair and warm smile, explored the importance of holding multiple perspectives rather than forcing every experience into a single framework. Her message was refreshingly simple: sometimes we need to slow down, remain curious, and resist the temptation to explain everything.

Meanwhile, I was developing an entirely different reputation. It started with Robin’s sore back and an impromptu Bowen treatment in the ladies’ restroom. Apparently, people noticed. Before long, I was being approached in the hotel lobby, restaurants, and conference rooms by people perfectly comfortable with me grabbing their hips, backs, and asses. All in the name of healing, of course.

Susan and Ryan also received treatments in their hotel room, where I was reminded that administering Bowen Therapy on a regular bed without a face cradle requires an impressive combination of flexibility, balance, and awkward climbing. Perhaps I should add mobile mattress acrobatics to my professional biography.

I was delighted when Susan reported that her leg pain had improved.

Dinner introduced more wonderful characters, including Lia, whose professional background I promptly forgot when she mentioned buying property in Costa Rica.

Costa Rica! Suddenly, she was family.

Mike, whom I repeatedly called Jeff, was also contemplating a move there with his partner, Kiana. Or Kiara. Clearly, names were not my strong suit that weekend. Or ever in my life. Naturally, I invited everyone to visit us. My husband Tom is going to love finding out how many strangers I’ve offered accommodation to.

The restaurant was loud enough to qualify as an industrial workplace hazard. I spent much of dinner smiling, nodding, and laughing at what I hoped were appropriate moments.

Outside, a group gathered around a fire pit recognized me as “the back lady.” Another treatment followed, this time on a woman bundled into a long North Face coat that brought back memories of my hockey-mom days, freezing in arenas while pretending I was perfectly comfortable. Apparently, my Bowen practice now had a pop-up location beside the fire pit.

A National Scandal at Breakfast

The next morning, the hotel was overrun by young hockey players and their parents. As a Canadian, I have nothing against hockey. But sharing a waffle machine with a hundred hungry children before my first coffee tested my commitment to international friendship.

Then I spotted something far more troubling. A tray labelled Canadian Bacon. It contained thinly sliced smoked deli ham. Excuse me? I felt compelled to defend my country’s reputation.

For the record, Canadians eat regular bacon. We also have peameal bacon. But the idea that we routinely sit down to breakfast with thin slices of processed ham is an outrageous American fabrication. I declared it a dirty rumour. David was soary aboot that.🤣

The Love That Needs No Explanation

Day two brought Haley and Kevin from DreamMind Labs, whose work with extended-state DMT immediately captured my imagination.

My husband Tom has been fascinated by DMT research for years. He’s explored enough psychedelics to have largely retired from personal experimentation, but DMT remains an intriguing exception.

Haley and Kevin appeared onstage looking wonderfully unpretentious, casually dressed, one sporting a baseball cap and the other a toque. They had the easygoing air of two friends catching up over coffee, except their conversation happened to involve exploring the frontiers of human consciousness.

My favourite part of their presentation wasn’t even the research. It was the story of their first date. Apparently, while riding a chairlift, they discovered a mutual fascination with what might happen if DMT could be administered intravenously over an extended period. Most couples start with “So, what kind of music do you like?”  These two went straight to the mysteries of consciousness. I was smitten. And immediately began imagining the possibilities for our intentional community in Costa Rica.

Haley and Kevin, if you’re reading this, I wasn’t kidding about the invitation. There’s a beautiful casita waiting for your next family vacation in Alegría Village.

Next came Azul DelGrasso, whose tattoos and stretched earlobes offered a delightful contrast to the scholarly depth of his presentation on the history of 5-MeO-DMT. He carefully separated documented history from speculation, acknowledging that human use of the substance isn’t nearly as ancient as some popular narratives would have us believe.

Toward the end, he shared a reflection from James Oroc. It described a state of complete oneness, where the boundaries between self, God, and the universe disappear, leaving an overwhelming recognition of conscious, all-encompassing love. And something inside me opened.

A few years ago, following my seventeen-year-old son’s death by suicide, I experienced a profoundly meaningful DMT journey. I’ve struggled ever since to explain why it helped me so much. I knew it had changed something fundamental in my relationship with grief, but words had always failed me. And suddenly, listening to Azul share someone else’s description, I recognized my own experience.

Not an intellectual understanding of love. Not the comforting thought that love survives death. Something far more expansive. A sense of belonging to a love so vast that separation itself seemed impossible.

I sat there fighting back tears. Sometimes the greatest gift another person can offer is language for something we’ve carried silently inside ourselves.

A little Russian Humour

Natalia later tackled the serious subject of technology in the psychedelic sector, including the rapidly evolving role of artificial intelligence. She somehow managed to make even the uncomfortable realities entertaining. I’ve always had a weakness for Russian humour. My second husband, whom I affectionately call “The Russian,” had a wonderfully dry sense of humour that remains one of my favourite memories of him.

The Moments Between the Presentations

After lunch (sushi with Brody, Jill, Malena, Susan, and Myah, during which Jill firmly established that she does not share sushi 😂), I intended to return to the conference room.

Instead, a quick Bowen treatment in the lobby evolved into something extraordinary. Six women, most of whom had been strangers only days earlier, found ourselves standing together, sharing stories that went far beyond polite conversation. There was vulnerability. Compassion. Laughter. The kind of honesty that usually takes years of friendship to develop.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I realized I’d missed two presentations. I can watch the recordings. I couldn’t have replayed that moment.

Earlier that morning, I’d also learned that the ambulance I’d noticed outside the hotel the previous night had been there for Carrie, someone I absolutely adore. The altitude had taken a serious toll on her, and she’d spent much of the night seeking medical care. Anna had stepped in without hesitation, accompanying her and making sure she wasn’t alone through the ordeal, staying with her until the early hours of the morning. Carrie ultimately needed to leave Breckenridge for lower elevation.

So much for Anna’s weekend away from caregiving. Her quiet, selfless presence was another reminder that the most meaningful acts of service rarely happen on a stage.

The Art of Not Leaving

Eventually, reality intruded. I’d booked a seven-in-the-morning flight from Denver, apparently without giving much thought to the fact that Breckenridge is two hours away and transportation options become increasingly creative after dark.

Mike, the man I’d initially called Jeff, had kindly offered me a ride. I collected my luggage, said my goodbyes, and prepared to leave.

Except I couldn’t. Something in me was resisting. I was having too much fun. The conversations were too rich. The connections felt unfinished.

I’d experienced that instinct before, a quiet knowing that I needed to remain somewhere despite having perfectly reasonable plans to leave. I wrote about a similar experience in The Art of Being There When It Matters.

So I decided to follow it. When Mike arrived with his car, I sheepishly announced that I’d changed my mind. What a flake. Here was a genuinely kind man offering to drive two hours with a near-stranger, and I’d just wasted his time. Sorry, Mike. I hope we get another opportunity for that conversation. Maybe when you and Kiana/Kiara come to Costa Rica?

Staying allowed me to enjoy Maja’s fascinating presentation on sensory experiences in psychedelic work. Once again, a subject I thought I understood revealed new dimensions.

Then came more conversations, including one that I’ll never forget. Sue shared an extraordinarily intimate video of her father-in-law’s final moments in hospice. At the instant of his last breath, a mysterious light appeared near his feet. It was remarkable. I can’t explain what the camera captured, but watching that deeply personal moment and hearing Sue share its significance was profoundly moving. It reminded me of my own father’s passing and the spiritual understanding of death I’d developed through my psychedelic experiences.

With Sue’s permission, I later shared the video with my mother. Some experiences don’t need to be explained to be meaningful. Sometimes wonder is enough.

The Great Escape

Eventually, I wandered toward dinner with Matt, a deeply spiritual man from Georgia whose conversation was so engaging that we walked straight past our intended restaurant. He bought me a strawberry lemonade. Matt, I’ve just realized I never returned the favour. Next time.

The evening continued with more wonderful conversation until the music became so aggressively bass-heavy that our ability to communicate was reduced to facial expressions and sympathetic grimaces. Let’s just say Joe’s playlist inspired several people to seek quieter opportunities for connection.

And then I faced a small logistical challenge. There were no Ubers. Apparently, Breckenridge after seven in the evening is not a place where one casually summons a driver to take them to Denver.

After several unsuccessful attempts, Emma, the wonderfully personable and quick-thinking bartender at my hotel, encouraged me to abandon my fantasy of convenient transportation and get my ass to the bus stop. Somehow, the universe cooperated.

I made it to Frisco just as the last bus to Denver was preparing to depart. A wonderfully helpful driver made sure I got where I needed to go, and after a few hours of sleep at the Hilton Garden Inn, I boarded my flight to Phoenix.

Exhausted.

Grateful.

And still riding that extraordinary high.

What I Really Brought Home

I learned an enormous amount that weekend.

About chronic pain and neuroplasticity. Mindfulness and trauma. Ibogaine and neurological conditions. Integration, ethics, technology, DMTx, and the extraordinary complexity of human consciousness.

I encountered brilliant researchers, thoughtful practitioners, courageous participants, and people whose stories challenged my assumptions about what healing can look like.

But the most profound takeaway wasn’t something I heard from a podium. It was something I felt in the spaces between presentations.

In Robin’s laughter. In Anna’s willingness to sit beside Carrie through a frightening night. In the generosity of people offering rides, sharing food, and making room at their tables. In the tears we shed for two brothers whose lives had taken such different paths. In a circle women standing in a hotel lobby, discovering that strangers can become confidantes in the space of an afternoon.

And in the extraordinary freedom of being surrounded by people who don’t need you to explain why you’re curious about consciousness, healing, grief, or the mysteries of existence. We simply understood one another.

I kept thinking about the beautiful irony of it all. Here we were, a community of people who advocate for psychedelic medicines because of their remarkable capacity to produce bliss, connection, and euphoria. Yet I couldn’t imagine a substance on the planet that could come close to the high we were experiencing simply by being together.

Perhaps psychedelics can help us rediscover our capacity for connection.

But this weekend reminded me that the capacity was ours all along.

And that might be the most beautiful medicine of all.