“The Missed Education..”

I gotta just go on and say it:

The psychedelic community is dominated by white faces.
I don’t have any charts or stats to prove it.
I’m just speaking from my own POV after five years in this space — and from where I’m sitting, there really isn’t a big African American presence here.

I’ve been doing this for half a decade, and I still haven’t seen a large number of Black people who look like me, talk like me, or come from my hip-hop culture. Maybe there are folks like me who stay in the shadows, tripping quietly in their private time, not broadcasting anything, not saying a word. But me? I’ve watched hundreds of YouTube videos and followed psychedelic trends on social media, and all I keep seeing is the same thing:

Some odd-looking white dude, or a bohemian white woman who looks like she just teleported here from the ‘70s hippie era.

And the experiences they talk about?
Bro… they do not resonate with me at all.

It’s the same recycled story every time — seeing elves, “breaking through the veil,” wanting to fly, outer-space visuals, cartoonish hallucinations. I even heard someone share a story about their friend taking three grams and ending up schizophrenic in a mental hospital.

I’m sorry, but I’m calling bullshit on a lot of what I’m seeing.

I don’t have these wild, circus-level experiences. Not even close. And it’s starting to bother me a bit, which is why I decided to share my experiences — because I honestly don’t think the stories being told are an accurate representation of what mushrooms are.

I’m not saying people don’t have tough experiences or trauma-responses. I’m sure some do. I’m not dismissing anyone’s pain. But I refuse to believe mushrooms are out here snatching souls and dragging folks into the loony bin. That’s not their motive. That’s not their program.

These stories feel like white people’s stories — not mine.

There are a few Black figures in the space with a different perspective: Darren LeBarron, the late Kilindi Iyi… and of course Mike Tyson, who’s been a great ambassador. But even still, Tyson’s audience is mostly white. Same with Rogan.

But who looks like me?
Who talks like me?
Who dresses like me?
Who in the hip-hop or Black culture space is openly sharing their psychedelic experiences and making it feel authentic — not weird, not forced, not gimmicky?

Does that person even exist?

…or is the person I’m looking for actually me?

Maybe it is.
Maybe I’m being called to testify about the wonders of psychedelics instead of waiting for someone else to go first.

I decided to write about my experiences because I don’t want another Black person feeling like I felt — floating in this space with no cultural mirror, no tribe, no trusted voice that sounds like home.

Maybe my tribe hasn’t found me yet.
Maybe they’re watching quietly.
Maybe they’ll show up once I start talking.

I commented on a psychedelics.com post the other day and got some traction — positive interactions, people curious about my take. But still… if I didn’t know better, I’d honestly think I’m the only Black person deeply into this practice who also honors the medicine instead of treating it like a party drug.

I’m a 45-year-old Black man from the hood who just happened to find and fall in love with psychedelics.
And I’ll be real — it gets lonely sometimes.
There are things I wish I had someone to talk to about.
But the more I write this, the more I realize:

I might be that person for somebody else.

“Be the change you want to see” energy — that’s all this is.

Mushrooms are not some silly drug that makes you zone out and trip over imaginary portals. I’ve never once been encouraged to jump out of a window. I’ve had challenging trips, sure — but never anything close to wanting to harm myself. That’s not how mushrooms move.

Also, you can’t be doing mushrooms at a concert or a festival where they’re just a side dish to the party. They’re jealous. If you mix them with too many vices or too much chaos, you won’t have a good time. There’s a time, place, and posture for mushrooms — and they demand respect.

I’m not here to promote illegal activity, but I’m also not here to let a bunch of fear-based narratives define something sacred.

My relationship with mushrooms is personal.
Intimate.
Spiritual.

So I’m speaking up about all these negative agendas and exaggerated horror stories because I know, without a doubt, that psychedelics are not what people think they are.
Not even close.

I’m here to shift the narrative — not by preaching, but by telling the truth as a Black man who found healing in a space not built for him… and decided to build his own seat at the table.

“Friends..”

Today I want to talk about one of my favorite things… friends.

The older I get, the more reflective I become. Even though I’m always looking forward, every now and then I like to turn around and take inventory of my life — and one of the biggest areas I revisit is friendship. Who my friends are, where they are, and if we still are.

I’ve been blessed to have a lot of friends in my lifetime. Sure, there are colleagues, peers, and associates — but when I say “friends,” I’m talking about the ones who are close to you. The ones you confide in, and who confide in you. The ones who know your stories, your flaws, your family, your whole blueprint. For me, that list is short. I’ve got friends I’ve known for over 20 years, and because I’ve lived on two coasts for two decades each, I’ve been fortunate enough to have little pockets of close friendships in different parts of my life.

I’d say maybe 3–5 “close-close” friends, and another 6–10 who orbit that circle — each one having 20 years of dealing with Jermy and all his shenanigans lol.

I thank God for the friends who were there when I was at my highest and when I was at my lowest. Every single one of them has contributed something meaningful to my evolution, and I like to believe I’ve done the same for them. That’s the secret to friendships that last decades: you get to share in each other’s victories and each other’s sorrows. But even with that, some friendships still end. Some fizzle. Some break. And honestly? Those hurt. I think friendship breakups hit harder than relationship breakups — not even gonna lie.

I remember falling out with a good friend, and it was hard to get through. Especially when you share the same friend group. Week after week:
“So… when’s the last time you talked to so-and-so?”

And then it turns into an hour-long conversation about the situation — meanwhile all it’s doing is reopening old wounds I was trying to let scar over. Eventually you start asking yourself, “Why aren’t we friends anymore again?” And sometimes it’s been so long, you forget what even caused the fallout in the first place.

Then there were the times when I showed up for friends in their darkest moments, but when I needed them, they didn’t pick up. I used to take it personally — like straight-to-voicemail personally — but as I’ve healed and grown, I’ve learned to see it differently. People go through things. Everyone is fighting something. But yeah… that shit still stung.

In the past, that kind of disappointment made me put my guard up. It made me shut people out and become a choosier friend. I had to forgive myself for taking things personally and really examine why I took it that way. And what I discovered was that I was putting people on pedestals. I expected more out of them than I expected out of myself.

Once I owned that, it made me not only a better person… but a better friend.

I see people as mirrors — everyone. I genuinely believe every person I connect with is a reflection of some part of me, and that theme keeps showing up throughout my life. The more I interact with people, the more I learn about myself. That’s why friendships matter so much. They’re healthy. They bring a sense of community, acceptance, and belonging. Yes, you can be a lone wolf — plenty of people are — but I think there’s real strength and healing in having a healthy circle.

Napoleon Hill, author of Think and Grow Rich, called his circle of friends a “Mastermind group” — a tight, intentional group of people combining their minds, gifts, energy, loyalty, and ideas. Kind of like a strategy team, but rooted in trust and growth. That’s the kind of friendship I value. I want friends who sharpen me, challenge me, believe in my vision, and want to grow alongside me. Real friends aren’t threatened by your elevation — they help fuel it.

Those are the ones I keep close.
Those are the ones who’ve stayed the longest.
Those are my people.

Those are my friends.

Much Love,

Jermy

“Trippin’ Ain’t Easy”

Trippin’ Ain’t Easy

Today, I want to talk about bad trips.

Let’s get right to it — bad trips do exist.

And they fuckin’ suck.

I’ve got to be blunt about this one because, while I can name a million reasons why mushrooms are phenomenal — and yes, the breakthroughs are legendary — mushrooms are unpredictable. You never really know what you’re going to face once you enter that realm.

In five years of consistent mushroom use, I’ve “died” more times than I can count.

I’ve seen myself in a casket.
I’ve had visions of being lowered into the ground.
I’ve experienced the cliché death sequence — the white light, the surrender, the feeling of what it’s like to actually die.

But today, I want to share the most memorable — and most terrifying — trip I’ve ever had.

November 2024: The “Routine” Trip

I remember it vividly because it wasn’t that long ago. Once you’ve tripped enough, you start to recognize the rhythm of psychedelics. Every trip has its own personality and message — tailored to your mindset in that moment — but no one is exempt when it’s time for a “bad trip.”

This one started like any other night.

I was in a good mood — or at least, I thought I was. Nothing heavy on my mind. No unresolved drama. I figured it’d be a light, creative, reflective trip. But that night, the mushrooms had other plans.

Flashback: Death by Poisoning (2022)

Before I go deeper, let me rewind.

The last bad trip I had before 2024 was two years earlier — I called it Death by Poisoning.

I was at a woman’s house, and after she made me something to eat or drink (I can’t remember which), I suddenly felt my throat start to close — slow and tight, like a gentle vice.

As I was “dying,” I heard a voice say,

“That’s what you get — you’re just like your father.”

It hit deep. I was still carrying childhood pain from my parents’ divorce, and I hadn’t seen my father from age twelve to twenty-five. That trip forced me to face baggage I didn’t even realize I was still dragging.

But even that didn’t compare to what happened in 2024.

The Countdown

That night, I took one 4,000 mg (4 g) mushroom chocolate — a brand I’d used for months. The early phase was smooth. The music hit my soul. The visuals were soft and comforting.

Then, near the end of the trip, something shifted.

I sat up in bed, took off my headphones, and noticed that with each breath, it felt like a clock was counting down — like every inhale was one less I’d ever take.

And if you’ve ever tripped before, you know: the hardest thing to do is remember to breathe.

Your breath is the gasoline for your body — it keeps you moving through the waves. But when the visuals, sounds, and sensations overwhelm you, breathing becomes almost impossible.

Every breath felt heavier.
The panic set in.

And the more I panicked, the worse it got — as if every freak-out cost me two extra breaths off the clock.

Ego in the Driver’s Seat

My mind spiraled.

I thought maybe the bar was poisoned, maybe the company sold a bad batch, maybe someone made a bootleg version. My brain ran wild.

And just as I hit full panic, a small voice cut through the chaos:

“Just breathe.”

It was ironic — almost comical — but it was the last thing I wanted to hear.

“How the hell am I supposed to breathe,” I thought, “if I only have a few left?”

Then my ego jumped in.

“This is your fault, Jermy. You’re about to die. Everyone was right — this mushroom shit is weird. It’s gonna kill us.”

I started believing it.

It felt that real. I even tidied my room — thinking, at least if I die, the place will look clean when they find me.

I scrolled through my phone, ready to call someone and confess:

A psychedelic is about to kill me.

Then another voice cut in — calm, grounded, familiar:

“Don’t panic, Jermy. Remember, you’re on a hallucinogen.”

That snapped me out of it.

I obeyed. I drank water. I sat down. I breathed.

The Inner Dialogue

As I calmed down, I realized there were three of me in the room — my ego, my inner voice, and the observer watching it all.

That’s when I knew: this was a test.

I sat back and listened as my ego panicked, cursed, and complained — about things that weren’t even real.

But the more I centered myself, the quieter my ego became.
The more I surrendered, the more control I actually had.

It took everything in me not to freak out.

But when the vision finally faded, I exhaled — the deepest breath I’d ever taken — and survived.

“Jermy Just Died.”

I thought it was over.

I was ready for my afterglow — a smoke, a drink, time to reflect. But then I “got a phone call.”

I answered:

“Hello?”

A voice replied,

“Hey… did you hear the news?”

I asked, “What news?”

And they said,

“Jermy just died.”

I froze.
Tears fell.

Then the mushrooms began replaying memories of my life — all the good I’d done, the joy I’d shared.

The voice said again,

“Jermy was such a good man.”

I wept like I’d lost a friend — not realizing that friend was me.

It was the cry I didn’t know I’d been holding for years.

It emptied me.
Cleansed me.

That night, I released every ounce of pain I’d been carrying.

The Lesson

I took a full month off mushrooms after that. I was shaken to my core. I swore I was done.

But over time, that trip became the most sacred one of all.

It taught me how to recognize God’s voice in the middle of chaos.
It showed me that not every voice in my head deserves my trust.
It reminded me to be gentle — that my inner critic had been too loud for too long.

Now, when that voice shows up, I ask,

“Are you here to harm me or help me?”

That single question has become a practice.

Because sometimes, the scariest trips are the ones that bring you closest to the truth.

Final Thoughts

Trippin’ ain’t easy.

But the journey — even the dark ones — are part of the rebirth.

Bad trips remind us who we really are when everything else falls away.
And sometimes, dying in the vision is how we learn to live again.

Epilogue: Faith Between Breaths

I used to think bad trips were punishment.

Now I know they’re conversations — the kind you can only have when your soul’s tired of pretending.

That night stripped me of every illusion I had about control.

And what was left wasn’t fear — it was faith.
Raw and real.

It was me, breathing again — grateful to still be here.

— Jermy

Be the Flow..

Be the Flow

I didn’t plan on being serious today, but that’s just where I’m at. The last couple of days have carried a kind of serious energy, and I need to get this off my chest — life really is about being the flow.

I know that sounds cliché, but Jay-Z once said during his B-Sides concert, “Don’t go with the flow — be the flow.” That line stuck with me. It hits even harder now that I’m older and have a little more life experience. It’s honestly the best way to describe the season I’m in right now.

I’ve been learning to let go — a lot — and the more I let go, the lighter I get. Most of that has to do with my breathing and paying closer attention to my body and mood. It takes patience to sit in your own silence, to breathe, and wait to hear from God Himself. But when you do, something shifts. There comes a moment — after enough deep, intentional breaths — where you land in a place of complete peace. And I’ve been swimming in that energy lately. A lot.

I think my mind keeps interpreting it as “seriousness,” but it’s deeper than that. It’s awareness. It’s presence. It’s understanding what’s really going on within and around me. I love it. I love being aware of who I am and what I am. And that, to me, feels beautifully serious — the kind of serious that’s sacred.

I’ve learned how to breathe the right way — mostly through my psychedelic practices. When you’re coming up on mushrooms, that wave of euphoria hits like the ocean, and if you don’t breathe through it, it can sweep you into anxiety. It takes practice. But now, it’s second nature.

When I feel emotions that aren’t the most positive, I breathe right through them. When negative thoughts creep in — the ones you accidentally start to believe — my body reacts with anxiety or worry that can feel hard to endure. But I remind myself: just breathe. When life gets tough, it won’t last forever. Embrace it. Not just endure it — love it. Because that discomfort is just a version of you that’s hurting, calling out for attention. The solution isn’t to fight it, or to beat yourself up, or to take it out on other people.

I used to fall into that pattern when I wasn’t emotionally mature enough to see it. I was training my body to stay on high alert — losing trust, losing belief, mostly in myself. And that disbelief trickles down into everything. It’s a domino effect on your whole mindset.

So if you’re going through something similar, the best medicine I can give you is this: breathe. Be patient. Be kind to yourself. Encourage yourself with gentle words. Allow the feeling to move through you — don’t resist it. Lean into it. Feel it. Love it the way you’d love your younger self. That’s what I had to learn.

And trust me — I don’t always have the best days. Sometimes life gets the best of me, but most days, it doesn’t. Each test, each lesson, each experience — they all shape me into something better. A better person. A better father. A better friend. A better Jermy.

And if I have to go through the fire to find myself at the end — more whole, more refined, more complete — then mission accomplished.

I hope something great happens to you today. I pray God’s favor over your life — that He puts you through just enough fire to come out shining like pure gold.

Much love,
Jermy

“The Worry Weather Channel”

Lately, I’ve been thinking that I actually like surprises.

Nah, for real.

I used to be the guy who needed to know what was coming next. Not because I hated surprises — I just thought control kept me safe. But the truth is, when I try to stay “in the know” about everything, I end up robbing myself of one of life’s greatest gifts: the thrill of not knowing.

That realization took some serious self-awareness.

My ego — my inner critic — had been intercepting everything, trying to forecast the future as a survival tactic.

My mind turned into a Worry Weather Channel, broadcasting endless predictions about what could go wrong. And for years, I tuned in every day.

Eventually, I had to cut the power off on that fan and wait for the blades to slow down. That’s where patience comes in — sitting still while the mind learns to stop spinning.

In that stillness, I had to forgive myself — not just for doubting me, but for doubting God.

My ego had me convinced that if I handled everything myself, things would move faster. But that was really just a lack of trust… and patience.

Now, I’m better. I’ve learned to let God surprise me. Because every time I try to peek behind the curtain, I end up missing the magic.

Think about it: even Christmas would be pretty lame if nobody wrapped the gifts.

Just boxes sitting out in the open with your name on them, waiting for December 25th. The waiting is part of the joy.

Yeah, not every surprise is good — nobody wants to be blindsided by bad news or loss. But I’m talking about the good surprises — the kind that sneak up on you in aisle 7 at Target, or at a surprise birthday party, or when that thing you’ve prayed for finally shows up after years of silence.

Those moments remind me that faith isn’t about prediction — it’s about participation.

It’s about trusting that God knows how to wrap the gift better than I ever could.

Maybe the best stories start when we stop trying to write the next chapter ourselves.

So now, I’m learning to make room for surprise — to walk slower, trust deeper, and keep my eyes open for the moments God’s been quietly wrapping behind the scenes.

Because when it finally shows up… I want to be present enough to unwrap it with wonder. ✨

Much Love,

Jermy