The Truth About Mushrooms..
The Truth About Mushrooms
“I’m not taking no fuckin’ mushrooms, bro. Why? So I can go crazy and jump off a bridge??” – One of the Bros.
The Steak Story
Where I come from, there’s an unspoken rule passed down like gospel:
“If your steak isn’t well done, it’s not done at all.”
That’s it. That’s the myth. A bloody steak? That’s not flavor — that’s danger.
At least, that’s what I was taught.
In Black families, especially the ones that came up like mine, food isn’t just food — it’s identity, it’s safety, it’s how we show love and avoid sickness at the same time. So when my folks said, “Make sure it’s well done,” it wasn’t just about taste. It was about survival. It was about not getting sick, not getting laughed at, not being seen as one of them.
For years, I held onto that rule like it was written in scripture. Every barbecue, every cookout, every time someone said, “You want it medium?” I’d respond with a quick disgusted face, “Nah, I’m not trying to die today.”
Then one night in Vegas changed everything.
In 2014, I was in town doing Vegas things with a few friends, and we had dinner at Gordon Ramsay Steakhouse. When the server came out with an assortment of cuts for us to choose from, everyone started ordering their steak and their preferred temperature. There were eight of us, and I was sixth in line.
As each person ahead of me ordered, I noticed something — everybody was ordering everything except well-done. Not even medium-well.
Not gonna lie, I started getting a little anxious because, for one, I was the only Black guy there, surrounded by white and Jewish friends. The little Black boy from Jersey City was definitely under the gun.
When the server finally got to me, I knew my cut — but before I could answer the “How would you like that?” part, my boy Darin cut in and said, “He’ll have it medium.”
I froze.
That wasn’t in my script.
Part of me wanted to stick to what I knew; the other part didn’t want to be that guy at the table, arguing about Black family food codes. So I nodded.
“Sure… I’ll have it medium.”
When the plate came out, I stared at it like it was a setup.
It was pink — glowing pink — in the middle. I poked it with my fork like it might jump back at me. Everyone else started eating, and I just sat there in silent panic.
Finally, I took a bite.
And man… listen.
That first bite was revolutionary. Juicy. Tender. Flavor I didn’t know existed. It melted — literally melted — and all I could think was, What else have I been overcooking my whole life?
It wasn’t just steak.
It was my mindset. My fear. My need to feel safe at the cost of discovery.
For the first time, I realized something simple but powerful:
Sometimes, the danger we’ve been taught to avoid is actually where the depth lives.
That’s exactly how I felt the first time I heard about mushrooms.
All I knew was what I’d been told — they’ll mess you up, they’ll make you crazy, they’ll open portals you can’t close. And, just like the steak, I believed it. I never questioned it… until life invited me to take one more bite of something I didn’t understand but couldn’t ignore.
The Experience
When I first heard people talking about mushrooms on Clubhouse in 2020, I brushed it off.
I thought they were just as ridiculous and scary as everyone said. The stories I’d heard were wild — people partying, losing their minds — so wild I believed them. “Damn, if this stuff is so bad, why do people even take it?”
They made mushrooms sound worse than crack. Worse than percs. Worse than ecstasy. So I built a force field of danger around them.
I thought it was a “white-people-in-the-woods” kind of thing — hiking sandals, kale smoothies, and “finding yourself” after Burning Man. It didn’t feel like something we did.
Truth is, I’d seen plenty of folks doing way harder drugs. I’d had friends smoke angel dust and run naked in the street. One even went to prison for killing his girlfriend. Yet somehow mushrooms were considered “the worst thing ever.”
Now, I had two older sisters who struggled with drugs for years — and I lost my oldest to it — so you can imagine the math I was doing in my head when I started hearing all these beautiful Black people in that room sharing stories of healing and breakthrough. I was confused. So I started doing my own research.
Online, I found the same thing: mostly white faces sharing trip reports — Terence McKenna, Paul Stamets, Michael Pollan, Joe Rogan, Duncan Trussell, Hamilton Morris — all speaking highly of these sacred plants. But still, none of them looked like me.
I studied for months before my first official psychedelic experience. Finding them wasn’t easy, but after a few failed attempts, I finally got my hands on something legit and took my first journey.
And just as quickly as I realized, “Somebody lied to me about well-done steaks,” I realized, “I was lied to about mushrooms.”
To me, mushrooms were a drug — dangerous, illegal, weird.
And yeah, they’re still dangerous if you don’t want to face yourself, illegal for expanding your sense of self, and weird in how they show you the best and worst sides of you at the same time.
But life has a way of putting curiosity on your plate, even when you swear you’re full.
I don’t remember everything that led up to that first journey — just that it came in a season when I was hungry for something real. I wasn’t looking to get high. I was looking to get free.
So I said yes — to the scariest thing I’d ever done.
I remember the room: dim lights, incense burning, soft music. Nothing wild, nothing “psychedelic.” Just peace.
At first, nothing happened. Then slowly… it did.
The walls didn’t melt or start breathing — I did.
My thoughts loosened like a clenched fist finally opening. The room softened. The music felt like a movie with me starring in it. Somewhere between “What the hell is happening?” and “Oh wow…” I realized something — I wasn’t out of control; I was in tune.
The mushrooms didn’t show me colors; they showed me connections. Everything — the air, the candlelight, my heartbeat — felt like one long conversation.
And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t trying to understand it. I embraced it, and the mushrooms embraced me.
Then came the real trip — not in my eyes, but in my heart. Old memories surfaced, not to haunt me but to hug me. Tears came, not from sadness but recognition. I wasn’t seeing visions; I was seeing myself.
My guard was down. My soul was open. And I was safe.
My ancestors met me in a vision — planting trees and gifts inside my mind and body. They greeted and hugged me, filling me with love and wisdom until I burst into tears. I’ll never forget it.
That trip was a medium-cap steak from Gordon Ramsay — cooked to perfection, just for me, with leftovers to feed my soul for weeks.
Trip after trip, I learned more. I journaled like never before. And even with all the breakthroughs, I kept it to myself — partly proud, partly protective. I’d found something sacred and wasn’t ready to share it.
The experience wasn’t about escaping. It was about returning —
returning to the parts of me I’d abandoned,
returning to peace I didn’t know was possible,
returning to God — not in a church pew, but in my own body.
By the end, I didn’t discover something new. I remembered something ancient — something that had been whispering all along:
“You’re safe now. You can let go.”
The Truth
The truth about mushrooms isn’t that they take you somewhere new — it’s that they bring you back to where you’ve always been.
I went in expecting wild visuals or outer space. Instead, I met clarity. I met presence. I met God — not the God I was taught to fear or please, but the One moving through everything.
I’ve been Christian most of my life. I’ve felt God’s presence in worship, in ministry, in quiet time — but the presence I meet on a journey feels deeper, wider, more alive. It’s not a different God. It’s the same one, amplified — like I finally removed the static between us.
It wasn’t a religion moment; it was a relationship moment. It felt like sitting down with a friend I’d been too busy to call back.
Mushrooms taught me that healing doesn’t look like light beams and angel choirs. It looks like being brutally honest about the parts of yourself you hide from love. It’s laughing one minute and crying the next. It’s realizing how long you’ve been holding your breath — and finally exhaling without guilt.
They showed me how fast the world trains us to disconnect — to scroll past our feelings, to measure everything in money or followers, to mistake noise for meaning.
And yet, in that stillness, I saw the opposite of chaos — I saw order.
Everything I’ve been through had rhythm. Even the heartbreaks had purpose. Even the silence had sound.
But here’s the real truth:
You don’t meet God on mushrooms if you haven’t already met yourself sober.
They’re not shortcuts — they’re spotlights.
They don’t give you wisdom — they reveal it.
They peel back everything you pretend to be until you have no choice but to stand there as you are.
And when you do, you realize the divine isn’t “out there.”
It’s in the same breath you’ve been taking since day one.
So no, they’re not evil.
They’re not witchcraft.
They’re not the devil’s candy.
They’re reminders — sacred technology built into nature, teaching us what church hymns and therapy sessions have been saying all along:
You are loved, and you’ve never been separate from that love.
That’s the truth.
The Integration
Trips end. Life doesn’t.
That’s something I had to learn the hard way — that the real work starts when the colors fade, the music stops, and you’re back at the sink washing dishes or answering emails. That’s when the mushrooms hand you the mirror and say, “Now keep looking.”
Integration isn’t glamorous. It’s quiet.
It’s how you treat yourself on a Monday when patience runs thin.
It’s how you breathe when old pain knocks again.
It’s remembering to listen to your spirit without needing a dose to reach awareness.
The truth about mushrooms isn’t in the trip — it’s in the translation.
Can you take what you saw in the silence and apply it to your noise?
Can you bring the peace of God into your relationships, your self-talk, your work?
For me, it’s shown up in small ways —
in prayer that feels more like conversation than confession,
in art made from trust, not pressure,
in the way I move slower now — not rushing anywhere because I finally know where I am.
The integration process humbled me. It showed me every day is another ceremony, another chance to remember.
The mushrooms gave me the message, but life gives me the practice.
And maybe that’s the truth we all come back to: it’s not about escaping reality — it’s about embodying it.
To walk in love.
To listen deeper.
To stay awake, even when it’s easier to sleep.
Because at the end of it all, the point was never just to trip — it was to transform.
That’s why I call them journeys instead of trips.
A journey takes effort. A trip just takes distance.
And that, right there, is the quiet miracle — the one that doesn’t need fireworks or visions, just the courage to be fully here:
still breathing,
still learning,
still light.
And that, to me, is no myth.
To God be the Glory,
Jermy
Self-Love Is Relationship Goals..
I Am Love
I really hate starting over after a breakup. It’s one of those moments in life that, when it comes, I just look it straight in the face and sigh. But now that I’ve gotten to know myself — and love myself — a little better, I can appreciate when something like that happens.
Yeah, it’s sad when things end, especially when they end abruptly. But eventually, you realize those endings are the perfect time to rediscover yourself and grow.
In my short 45 years on this planet, I’ve been blessed to have dated some phenomenal women. Every single relationship — long or short, deep or surface level, romantic or platonic — has taught me something about myself. Each one has been its own mirror.
But the most important person I’ve ever dated is myself.
I didn’t realize it before, but I was dating myself through all of those women. They were all reflections of me — of where I was, what I believed, and what I lacked at that time in my life.
It finally dawned on me this year, during the longest stretch of singleness I’ve ever had. I had a hard time realizing my worth. I used relationships as a crutch — as proof that I mattered — without knowing that all I was doing was catering to what other people expected of me. I called it “love,” but it wasn’t love. It was validation dressed up as connection.
That mindset made me a target in some ways. My lack of self-awareness allowed me to attract women who mirrored my insecurities and flaws. The parts of me that needed healing kept showing up wearing someone else’s perfume.
But now… I know what love really looks like — because I’ve learned how to give it to myself.
This time of singleness has been uncomfortable at times — and still is, here and there — but it’s also been sacred. For the first time, I’ve had real solitude. I’ve spent time with me — not just alone, but truly present with myself while still navigating this wild thing called life.
These days, I feel more love than I ever have, because I’ve learned to love myself deeply. I do that by keeping promises to myself, by staying disciplined where it matters, and by focusing on what brings me joy: the things that make me smile, laugh, and come alive.
That’s what love looks like to me.
Love looks like patience with myself. Gentleness toward myself. Knowing that I am enough — no matter who’s in my life and who’s not.
Love is not leaving me. Ever.
And truthfully, I never want love to leave me again.
Better yet — I am love.
Writing that sentence feels powerful, because there was a time I didn’t believe I was loved. I thought love was something outside of me — something I had to earn, chase, or prove. But real love comes from within.
You have to know it. You have to become it.
You can’t depend on something physical to show it. When you love yourself deeply, you carry so much love that you can share it freely — without losing yourself in the process. That’s what I’ve learned.
I’m grateful to be in a place where I can hear God’s voice clearly and follow His guidance. I’ve had this relationship with Him for 45 years, and knowing that I am loved unconditionally… man, that’s beyond words.
I hope you find that same love — the kind that doesn’t leave when people do.
Much Love,
Jermy
We Got a Thing Goin’ On…
My Sacred Relationship with Psychedelics
For the last five years, I’ve been in a sacred relationship with psychedelics — more specifically, psilocybin mushrooms.
As of today, I’ve had three LSD trips, one DMT trip, and well over 250 mushroom journeys — anywhere from 3.5 grams to 12 grams at a time. My sweet spot is usually between five and nine.
Every week, I sit with them. A high dose followed by a microdose a few days later.
Five years strong — and we’re still learning each other.
I think mushrooms get a bad rap, especially in the Black community.
Growing up, if someone said you were “doing shrooms,” people called you crazy, weird, spaced out — gone. I’ve heard it all. And because of that stigma, I used to hide my practice. Even as mushrooms were healing me from the inside out, I stayed quiet.
But silence started to feel like self-betrayal.
So today, I’m done hiding.
I’m coming out to say it proudly: I take psychedelics.
And not only that — I stand on it. Because they’ve been one of the greatest blessings of my entire life.
I love mushrooms. I really can’t hide it anymore, because the inner essence of who I am won’t allow me to. If I just come out and say what I’m into — and stop caring what people think — then those who support me will keep doing so. And those who are curious can ask questions or simply come here and read about my journeys and what the mushrooms have taught me this week.
Breaking the Stigma
When I talk about mushrooms, I’m talking about healing — about meeting the parts of myself I buried under years of criticism, doubt, and low self-worth.
Mushrooms helped me hear myself again — beyond the noise of my own mind. They showed me the confident, peaceful, and worthy version of me that I had forgotten existed. They taught me to respect myself, which made me more aware of when others didn’t. They helped me build boundaries and, most importantly, peace.
The truth is, mushrooms loved me when I didn’t know how to love myself.
The Hidden Years
For a long time, I kept my journey private — mostly out of fear of judgment. But hiding came with a cost. It separated me from my truth.
This website is my sanctuary now — where I can share what I’m learning, what I’m feeling, and what I’m building. A space to reflect on my growth, my hobbies, my creative life, and the lessons the mushrooms teach me week by week.
How It All Began
My journey started during the pandemic, in the stillness of 2020.
The world was shut down, and everyone was searching for connection. Then came Clubhouse — that invite-only app where voices filled the void. One night, I stumbled into a room full of Black people talking about psychedelics. They spoke with honesty and wisdom — about transformation, healing, and liberation. I listened for hours. That moment changed me. It was the first time I saw reflections of myself in that world.
After that, I started researching everything — from the 70s hippie movement to Nixon’s ban on psychedelics, to the philosophies of Terence McKenna, who gave language to what I was starting to feel. Then I discovered Kilindi Iyi, a martial artist and Black psychonaut from Detroit known for taking heroic doses — up to 45 grams. His courage inspired me to explore deeply, but respectfully.
Eventually, I met a young grower in Brooklyn who showed me his mushroom lab. Watching him cultivate them with care felt like witnessing sacred alchemy. That day, I knew — this wasn’t “getting high.” This was ceremony.
The Relationship
McKenna called five grams a “heroic dose.” I started small — one gram, two grams — learning my body and my mind.
Weighing your mushrooms is crucial; safety and respect go hand in hand. Not all mushrooms are the same, and they deserve your awareness.
I always remind people: mushrooms are still illegal in most states, though places like Oregon and Colorado are changing that. Institutions like Johns Hopkins are even studying psilocybin for depression, addiction, and trauma.
It’s funny how something once labeled a drug might actually be the medicine humanity’s been missing.
In my experience, mushrooms aren’t drugs. They’re teachers. They’re mirrors. They’re medicine.
They give you what you need, not what you want. And they know how to humble you — with love.
Why I Share
If I sound passionate, it’s because I am.
I’ve seen what these sacred plants can do — not just for me, but for anyone brave enough to look inward. That’s why I created this space. To share my truth. To challenge the stigma. To let other Black men and women know: you can heal too. You can face yourself with honesty, grace, and courage — and come out lighter.
The mushrooms and I — we’ve got a thing goin’ on. They’ve been around for over 460 million years. They’ve watched the rise and fall of everything. And somehow, they chose to meet me right when I needed them most.
So this is my thank-you letter.
Thank you, mushrooms, for saving my life.
For showing me who I am.
For teaching me how to love — truly.
Much love,
Jermy
Oh Whale..
Boundaries. Today is all about boundaries. The jet fuel for true freedom, in my opinion is boundaries. I was never one to really establish boundaries for a long time because I was too busy “people pleasing” which does nothing but give people the green light to disrespect you. They’ll spot your weakness, whether it be consciously or subconsciously and take advantage of it and you. If I leave anything with you today, it is to never let anybody take advantage of you. Always stand up for yourself and stand firm on that belief.
The moment you continue to allow disrespect, and not check it as soon as you are aware of it, the more you gain a level of self-respect that cannot be measured. The amount of courage it takes to stand up for yourself should come from your freedom to not be bound to what people may think. Who cares? if you speak up for yourself for something you may think is right and if the person on the receiving end doesn’t like it or is resistant to your boundary, let their ass go. and if they don’t take it personal and respects your boundary, then that is a form of unconditional love. it is a respect factor that does nothing but build strong and healthy relationships everywhere. no matter the relationship. It can be with your parents, co-workers, a significant other and much more.
Now, this is easier said than done. only because there are a great number of people today that I have witnessed or heard about that are known pushovers. the only thing is, they don’t know that they are being pushed over. and for the ones who DO KNOW and not take immediate action and allows the disrespect, then you my friend are showing a great deal of cowardice. I pray that you find yourself and really take the time to love on yourself and look inward to what’s really happening and take action on spending a great deal of your time on that. That will take time, so you have to be patient with yourself. you have to give yourself time to heal. time to think about the great things that you love about yourself and continue to think on those things. the more you do that on a daily basis. that true “alone time” is sure to put you in a mindset that you are valuable and you must protect what is valuable at all times.
You can do it. Be strong. Be courageous. You will be surprised how people view you. especially if you care about what other people think, like I do. I still have work to do, but what I have learned during my time in unfolding more layers of myself, I realize that there is so much more love to give yourself. and the very people who’s views you care about, will end up being the other way around. You will find out, much like I did, is that the same people will look at you with a great deal of respect because you did the work to respect yourself, first. I hope the best for you today. I hope you learn how to stand firm on who you are and take the time to put in the work and earn the respect of yourself and in turn, others will respect you. and if they don’t? oh well, fuck them.
Much Love,
Jermy
