Last spring, I found myself in the surreal position of taking enormous doses of so-called magic mushrooms with a group of women I’d known for less than 48 hours.
We were in the where, unlike the UK, magic mushrooms are legal if they’re taken in truffle form. But we weren’t prepping for a hedonistic night out. Instead of downing negronis, shimmying into sequins and hitting the dancefloor, we were utterly sober, dressed in leisurewear and lying prone on gym mats.
For our consumption of frankly mind-blowing amounts of psychedelics was done for one purpose only – therapy, and specifically to find for ourselves a new path in life. And for a directionless 51-year-old divorcee like me, it was a revelation. Simultaneously brutal and joyful, it was one of the most meaningful experiences I’ve ever had.
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