12-step Archives - Psychedelics in Recovery

When Community Leads the Science: What New Research Tells Us About Psychedelics and 12-Step Recovery

Kevin F — Sun, 11 Jan 2026 12:51:47 +0000

In November 2025, a peer-reviewed article was published in the Journal of Psychoactive Drugs examining a phenomenon that many in our community have been living for years: the intentional integration of psychedelic experiences with 12-Step recovery. Titled “Psychedelic Augmentation of 12-Step Engagement: A Novel, Accessible Approach to Enhance Community-Based Recovery from Substance Use Disorders,” the study represents one of the first empirical efforts to document this emerging practice in real-world settings.

Importantly, this research did not emerge in a vacuum. Participants were intentionally recruited through a community partner with lived experience—members connected to Psychedelics in Recovery and adjacent 12-Step networks—underscoring a central truth: much of the innovation in recovery is happening outside of clinics, ahead of formal systems, and in response to unmet needs.

Why This Study Matters

The study was small by design. Due to federal research constraints, the final sample included eight individuals in remission from alcohol, opioid, and/or stimulant use disorders. The authors are explicit that the findings are exploratory and not generalizable. But what the study lacks in scale, it makes up for in depth.

Participants described using psychedelics such as psilocybin, ayahuasca, ibogaine, peyote, and others in conjunction with—not instead of—12-Step engagement. All had prior exposure to 12-Step programs. For some, psychedelics helped them finally engage with the Steps after repeated failed attempts. For others, they addressed persistent psychological distress that lingered despite long-term abstinence and diligent program participation.

This distinction matters. The study does not frame psychedelics as a shortcut or replacement for recovery work. Rather, participants consistently emphasized that psychedelics were most helpful when embedded within an existing framework of accountability, integration, and ongoing peer support.

Psychedelics as a Catalyst, Not the Container

One of the most compelling findings was how participants described the synergy between psychedelic experiences and specific 12-Step practices. Psychedelics appeared to facilitate openness to Step 2 (belief in a Higher Power), deepen moral inventory work in Step 4, and enrich contemplative practices aligned with Step 11. Several participants used vivid metaphors: psychedelics as the “engine,” the Steps as the “transmission.”

Equally important, participants were clear about what didn’t work. Prior recreational psychedelic use—absent structure, intention, or integration—was largely described as ineffective for recovery. Frequent or poorly integrated use was seen as destabilizing and, in some cases, as reinforcing addictive patterns. In other words, “set and setting” extended beyond the ceremony itself to include one’s recovery community, living situation, and psychological readiness.

Accessibility and Equity

A central theme in the paper is accessibility. Half of the participants were uninsured. Many contrasted the relative affordability of community-based approaches with the high cost of emerging psychedelic-assisted therapies. Twelve-Step programs, for all their imperfections, remain free, ubiquitous, and lifelong. For participants in this study, that infrastructure provided something clinical models often cannot: continuity.

This is a crucial equity consideration. As psychedelic medicine becomes increasingly medicalized and commercialized, community-based models—however imperfect—may remain the only viable option for many people. The study does not argue that this is ideal. It argues that it is real.

Risks, Tensions, and Honesty

The authors do not minimize risk. Participants reported challenging psychological experiences, one case of transient psychosis following unsupervised high-dose use, and instances of psychedelic misuse—particularly with non-classic substances like MDMA. Tensions with abstinence-oriented norms were also acknowledged. Most participants avoided discussing psychedelic use in traditional 12-Step meetings, relying instead on alternative spaces such as PIR® for honest dialogue.

This mirrors long-standing dynamics around medications for opioid use disorder and highlights a broader truth: recovery is relational. Stigma, secrecy, and fear of exclusion can themselves become risk factors.

Where PIR® Fits In

Psychedelics in Recovery did not set out to prove a model. PIR® emerged to meet people where they already were—navigating recovery, curiosity, skepticism, hope, and risk in equal measure. This study validates that community-based wisdom deserves careful attention, not dismissal or romanticization.

The findings do not offer simple answers. They offer something more valuable: grounded questions for future research, policy, and community practice. How can integration be supported? Who is most at risk? What safeguards matter most outside clinical settings? And how do we honor both recovery principles and evolving therapeutic landscapes?

As the authors conclude, further research is urgently needed. PIR® is proud to have contributed—carefully, ethically, and transparently—to that ongoing conversation.

Ebby Thatcher and the Day He Died, March 21, 1966

d lee — Sat, 22 Mar 2025 00:42:50 +0000

On March 21, 1966, Ebby Thatcher died alone in a small apartment in Ballston Spa, New York. He was 69 years old. His death didn’t make headlines. There were no grand memorials, no speeches at AA conventions honoring him. In fact, the man who had played such a pivotal role in the founding of Alcoholics Anonymous had become, by then, a quiet afterthought — a shadow lingering at the edge of AA’s public story.

Ebby was the man who first carried the message to Bill Wilson. The man who, in late 1934, showed up at Bill’s doorstep and said, “I’ve got religion.” It was Ebby who told Bill about the Oxford Group, about surrendering to God, about the moral inventory and the amends process — the foundations of what would become the 12 Steps. It was Ebby who first planted the seed that maybe there was a way out of the endless cycle of drinking and despair.

Bill sobered up. Ebby… well, that’s where things get complicated.

Ebby never stayed sober. He would string together some months, maybe a year, only to fall back into the bottle. Over and over. His name would show up in early AA circles, then vanish. Some members knew he was off drinking again. Others preferred not to mention him at all. In the eyes of early AA, Ebby Thatcher was a problem — an uncomfortable reminder that not everyone makes it. And not everyone fits the narrative.

AA was growing rapidly in those early years. The Big Book had been published, and meetings were multiplying across the country. The public story that AA needed was a story of success — of men and women who had followed the steps and found freedom from alcohol. Ebby didn’t fit that image. He was messy. He was complicated. His story didn’t wrap up neatly with a bow. He was a chronic relapser, a face AA wasn’t always sure it wanted to claim.

Bill never abandoned him, though. Even as AA grew more polished and professional, Bill would quietly support Ebby. When Ebby was broke and drinking, Bill would find him a place to live. When Ebby needed help, Bill would offer it. Bill knew that Ebby had given him the most precious gift of his life — the message of hope. And Bill never forgot it.

In the last year of his life, Ebby found some peace. He got sober — really sober — living in a small house that Bill helped arrange for him. His drinking days were behind him. He even started attending AA meetings again, not as a leader or a success story, but simply as another alcoholic trying to stay sober one day at a time.

When Ebby died on March 21, 1966, it wasn’t the tragic death of a hopeless drunk. It was the quiet passing of a man who had known suffering and hope, and who had given the gift of that hope to another. Ebby never lived to see his own redemption written into the official story of AA. For decades, his name was an uncomfortable footnote — a reminder that not everyone who helps to build something gets to enjoy the comfort of the foundation they helped lay.

Bill would later write that Ebby was his “sponsor,” the man who gave him the greatest gift of his life. Without Ebby, there would have been no AA. But Ebby’s story remains unfinished — a reflection of the truth that not every recovery is linear, not every effort results in permanent sobriety, and not every life is wrapped up with a tidy resolution.

Today, we might see Ebby differently. The idea of recovery itself has expanded beyond the binary of success or failure. Clean time is no longer the only standard by which we measure healing. We now understand that recovery can look different for everyone — that there are many paths to healing. Psychedelics, long dismissed as dangerous, are now emerging as powerful tools for treating addiction, trauma, and depression. In Psychedelics in Recovery, a growing support group for those exploring alternative paths to healing, Ebby’s story would no longer be seen as a failure. He wouldn’t be measured solely by his slips or his setbacks. He would be embraced as someone walking his own path toward recovery, one that didn’t yet have the language or the framework to hold him. Maybe Ebby wasn’t a failure at all — maybe he was simply ahead of his time. If Ebby lived today, we might finally see him not as someone who “didn’t make it,” but as someone who helped light the way for all of us who are still finding our way home.

The Fascinating Origins of the Charles Towns Belladonna Cure

d lee — Sun, 02 Feb 2025 15:56:16 +0000

The history of addiction treatment is filled with intriguing stories, but few are as captivating as the beginnings of the Charles Towns Belladonna Cure. Known later as the “Towns-Lambert treatment,” this so-called cure became a pivotal method for treating alcoholism and drug addiction in the early 20th century. Interestingly, it was the very same treatment that played a crucial role in the recovery journey of Bill Wilson, the co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous. Its roots, however, are anything but conventional.

A Leap from Brokerage to Medicine

Charles Towns’ journey into addiction treatment was an unexpected detour from his previous life. After leaving a successful career in selling insurance in Georgia, Towns moved to New York City in 1898. He became a partner in a brokerage business, but personal and professional hardships eventually pushed him towards a new path. In 1901, a pivotal encounter changed his life forever. A non-physician acquaintance claimed to have a remedy that could free addicts from their dependencies. Despite having no medical background, Towns was intrigued.

“In 1901, a man who was not a physician told me he believed he had a remedy that would free an addict from the drug habit. At that time I knew nothing about medicine, and less about drug habits. I had never been afflicted with any such habit, and had never paid any attention to anyone who had. I thought it was preposterous for this man to suggest that I take up this matter, and I told him so. I asked him why he did not appeal to a physician, and he answered that no physician believed it possible to treat cases of drug addiction in a definite way. By a strange stroke of fate, it happened that on that very day I found it necessary to call in my family physician to see one of my children.” I told him of the conversation that I had had, and he made all manner of fun of me for even permitting the man to take up my time. He told me how nonsensical it would be to treat such a case in the way that this man suggested. He himself had had several cases, but he usually sent them to medical institutions, where they were kept over long and indefinite periods, and finally turned adrift-uncured and incurable, and this, he said, was the experience of the profession.

The dogmatic attitude of my physician incited me to investigate the matter further. I secured for treatment a real fiend—a man who was taking forty grains of morphine a day. I hired a small apartment in a New York hotel-and a physician to stand sponsor for the treatment. It was terrible therapy—the patient went wild, and tried to tear the house down; he swore he would have us all arrested, if we did not desist at once. He wanted to quit, the man with the formula wanted to quit, the doctor wanted to quit. But I saw that this was not the time to quit. For three days and nights I remained in that room-with my prisoner. On the fourth day the man claimed he no longer craved morphine, and on the sixth day he returned to his home. Two years ago I saw this man. He had never touched the drug since that day, and was in splendid physical condition.”

-Charles Towns, Medical Review of Reviews, 1916

Refining the Formula

Encouraged by this initial success, Towns realized that the treatment needed refinement. Partnering with Dr. Alexander Lambert, they fine-tuned the formula, incorporating belladonna, a plant known for its psychoactive properties. This combination aimed to disrupt the physical and psychological grip of addiction. The treatment involved administering powerful agents to induce physical reactions that would supposedly reset the patient’s system.

The Components of the Belladonna Cure

The Towns-Lambert treatment’s key components were belladonna and henbane, both known for their psychoactive and dissociative properties. Belladonna, often referred to as “deadly nightshade,” contains alkaloids such as atropine, scopolamine, and hyoscyamine, which affect the central nervous system. Henbane contains similar compounds, known to induce hallucinations, altered states of consciousness, and even delirium in higher doses. While Towns and Lambert may not have fully understood the neurological mechanisms at play, these dissociative psychedelics likely played a significant role in disrupting the addictive pathways in the brain.

Interestingly, these substances may have contributed to the so-called “white light” experiences reported by some patients, including Bill Wilson. Such mystical or transcendent experiences are often associated with profound shifts in perception, which can catalyze lasting psychological change. In Wilson’s case, the experience was pivotal, marking a turning point in his battle with alcoholism and influencing the spiritual foundation of Alcoholics Anonymous.

The Frustration with Medical Orthodoxy

Towns was often vocal about his frustration with the medical community’s stance on addiction. At the time, the prevailing belief among physicians was that addiction was an incurable condition—that once an addict, always an addict. Doctors largely dismissed the idea that physical dependence could be “cured,” relegating treatment to mere management rather than recovery. Towns found this perspective both disheartening and infuriating. His early successes with the belladonna cure stood in stark contrast to the pessimism of the medical establishment.

He argued that the medical profession was too rigid, clinging to outdated theories that failed to acknowledge the possibility of true recovery. Towns believed that addiction was not a life sentence, and he set out to prove that effective, transformative treatment was possible. His relentless pursuit of a cure was fueled by this frustration, as he sought not only to treat patients but to challenge and change the prevailing medical dogma of his time.

Controversy and Legacy

The Towns-Lambert treatment, while groundbreaking, was not without controversy. The aggressive methods and the use of belladonna, a potentially toxic substance, raised many eyebrows in the medical community. Despite this, the treatment gained widespread popularity, notably being mentioned in the foundational text of Alcoholics Anonymous, where Bill Wilson, AA’s co-founder, acknowledged its role in his recovery journey.

The Impact on Addiction Treatment

The legacy of the Charles Towns Belladonna Cure lies not just in its methods but in its bold approach to addiction treatment. It marked a shift from purely punitive or moralistic views of addiction to a more medicalized approach, paving the way for future innovations. Towns’ determination to find a solution, despite his lack of formal medical training, underscores the desperate need for effective addiction treatments during that era.

In reflecting on the origins of the Towns Cure, we see a blend of desperation, experimentation, and a relentless quest for recovery solutions—elements that continue to shape the field of addiction treatment today.

The Plain Language Big Book: Preserving Legacy While Embracing Change

d lee — Sun, 24 Nov 2024 03:44:40 +0000

The upcoming release of the Plain Language Big Book, a new edition of the foundational text of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), has sparked conversation and controversy within the recovery community. Designed to make the original Big Book more accessible to modern readers, this project aims to retain the core principles of AA while simplifying its language and updating its tone for contemporary audiences. Yet, for many, the idea of altering even a single word of the original text feels like sacrilege. After all, this book has been instrumental in saving millions of lives since its first publication in 1939.

This effort to reimagine a classic reflects a broader tension within AA and other recovery traditions: how to balance reverence for the past with the need to evolve for the future. The challenge of creating a plain language edition goes far beyond paraphrasing. It requires honoring the heart of a sacred text while recognizing that the language and cultural assumptions of the 1930s may alienate some of today’s readers. At its core, this project raises an important question: when does protecting tradition hinder the opportunity to reach those who still suffer?

The Challenge of Changing a Sacred Text

The Big Book is often seen as more than just a guide—it’s a lifeline, a spiritual blueprint, and, for some, a sacred scripture. Its words have offered hope and transformation to countless individuals. For those who owe their sobriety to its teachings, any changes, no matter how small, may feel like tampering with something divine.

Yet, as the decades have passed, the original text has grown increasingly challenging for some readers. Its language reflects a time when society was very different, and its references can seem distant or exclusionary to modern audiences. The plain language edition seeks to bridge this gap, offering the same life-saving message in a way that feels relevant and accessible to all.

Still, the resistance to change highlights a broader truth about AA: dogmatic truths that once saved us can become obstacles to progress. In the case of the Big Book, the tension lies in how to maintain the integrity of the message while ensuring it remains inclusive and effective in a rapidly changing world.

When Dogmatic Truths Become Resistant to Change

The very elements that make the Big Book powerful—its foundational truths about surrender, community, and spirituality—also make it resistant to revision. Dogma, while grounding, often stems from fear: fear of losing what works, fear of diluting the message, fear of failing those who still suffer.

But history shows us that truths must sometimes evolve to remain effective. Consider the gradual inclusion of women, LGBTQ+ individuals, and people of color in AA. These changes were not easily won. They were met with resistance but ultimately made the program stronger and more inclusive. Similarly, the plain language Big Book is an acknowledgment that accessibility matters—that the life-saving principles of recovery should never be locked behind barriers of language or cultural disconnect.

This tension isn’t unique to AA. Across all systems and traditions, deeply held beliefs often clash with the need for progress. Nowhere is this more evident than in the reemergence of psychedelics as a potential tool for recovery.

Psychedelics: Evolution, Not Replacement

The emergence of psychedelics as a tool for recovery represents one of the most significant developments in addiction treatment today. Contrary to fears within traditional recovery communities, psychedelics are not here to replace AA but to enhance it. Their role isn’t to challenge the 12 steps but to provide deeper insights into the trauma, disconnection, and spiritual challenges that underlie addiction.

This is not an entirely new concept. Bill Wilson, AA’s co-founder, explored the use of LSD in the 1950s as a way to facilitate spiritual awakenings and help those struggling with faith. Wilson believed that psychedelics could help individuals connect with the Higher Power so central to the recovery process. While his ideas were sidelined due to stigma and fear, modern research has reignited interest in how substances like psilocybin and MDMA might complement traditional recovery approaches.

For some, psychedelics serve as a bridge, breaking through barriers that might otherwise prevent individuals from fully engaging with the steps. In this sense, they align with the spirit of AA: helping the suffering find a path to healing, whatever that path may look like.

The Slow Evolution of AA

The history of AA is one of slow but meaningful change. Its decentralized structure empowers local groups to remain autonomous, but it also makes large-scale innovation difficult. This ensures the program’s core remains intact, but it can also mean progress is hard-won.

The plain language Big Book and the growing conversation around psychedelics in recovery both reflect this pattern of cautious evolution. Each step forward is met with debate, and rightly so. Yet, both changes underscore a vital truth: growth doesn’t come from abandoning tradition but from adapting it to meet the needs of today.

Honoring the Past, Embracing the Future

The release of the plain language Big Book is a milestone in AA’s history, a reminder that even the most revered texts must evolve to remain effective. It reflects an acknowledgment that accessibility matters, that language and context can either welcome or alienate, and that the heart of recovery lies not in rigid adherence to tradition but in the ability to reach those who still suffer.

Similarly, the inclusion of psychedelics in recovery represents a growing willingness to explore new tools in the fight against addiction. Together, these shifts point to a brighter future for recovery—one in which the wisdom of the past and the innovations of the present work together to save lives.

Ultimately, both the plain language Big Book and the broader acceptance of psychedelics in recovery remind us of a crucial truth: the principles of healing are timeless, but the methods must evolve. In the pursuit of sobriety, it’s not tradition that matters most but the ability to bring hope to those still struggling.

12-Step Philosophy and the Imbalance of Masculine Energy: Why We Need the Divine Feminine in Healing

d lee — Fri, 15 Nov 2024 14:28:27 +0000

The 12-step philosophy, born from Alcoholics Anonymous in 1935, has undoubtedly saved countless lives. Its framework is a spiritual path of surrender, inventory, amends, and service—a process often rooted in accountability and personal responsibility. However, as effective as the 12-step model can be, it carries an energy that is, in many ways, distinctly masculine. This is not to say that it lacks value but that its inherent design may not provide the balance many individuals—especially those with trauma—desperately need.

In contrast, trauma work approaches like Internal Family Systems (IFS) and other parts-based methodologies introduce a compassionate and nurturing energy that integrates the divine feminine. These approaches encourage a more balanced, whole-person exploration of wounds and behaviors, allowing for both accountability and healing through self-love and compassion.

The Masculine Core of 12-Step Inventories

At the heart of the 12-step philosophy is the moral inventory. In Steps 4 and 10, individuals are asked to identify their resentments, fears, and harms to others and acknowledge their role in these problems. The underlying message is that personal freedom comes from recognizing one’s part in the dysfunction—essentially, that you are the common denominator in most of your struggles.

While this approach can be transformative, it often reinforces a deeply masculine spiritual archetype. It focuses on action, problem-solving, and accountability—qualities associated with the masculine energy. The work asks individuals to “own their part” and move forward with clarity and resolve.

Yet, for many—especially trauma survivors—this process can feel like further evidence of their unworthiness or a reaffirmation of shame. The inventory process sometimes suggests that if you are in pain, it is because of a moral or spiritual failing on your part, rather than recognizing the systemic, relational, or external factors that may have contributed to your suffering.

Trauma Work and the Energy of the Divine Feminine

Trauma-informed practices, including IFS, somatic experiencing, and other parts-based work, offer a counterbalance to the 12-step approach by introducing the compassionate, nurturing energy of the divine feminine.

Internal Family Systems, for instance, teaches that all parts of the self—no matter how destructive they may appear—are ultimately trying to protect us. The addict part, the self-sabotaging part, the angry part—these are not “defects of character” to be eradicated but wounded parts of us that need understanding, love, and integration.

This feminine energy is not passive or indulgent; it is deeply healing. It allows individuals to approach their pain with curiosity and compassion rather than judgment. It acknowledges that while we may be responsible for our healing, we are not necessarily to blame for our suffering. This distinction is critical, particularly for trauma survivors who may already carry a heavy burden of guilt and shame.

Balancing Masculine Accountability with Feminine Compassion

The 12-step philosophy provides a structure that works well for many, but it is not a complete system for everyone. Its emphasis on inventory and accountability can be invaluable for those who need to take ownership of their lives. However, without the balancing energy of the divine feminine, this process risks becoming punitive rather than healing.

Trauma work introduces this much-needed balance by validating pain, exploring systemic and relational contexts, and providing a space where individuals can integrate all parts of themselves. It fosters a sense of connection, not just to a Higher Power but to the self, others, and the world—a connection rooted in love, not just responsibility.

Bridging the Gap

For 12-step programs to evolve and remain relevant in the modern era, they might benefit from integrating trauma-informed practices that honor both masculine and feminine energies. This does not mean abandoning the principles of accountability and service but expanding them to include self-compassion, systemic awareness, and an acknowledgment of the complexity of human suffering.

Incorporating practices like parts work or IFS into the inventory process could transform it from a list of defects into a journey of self-discovery and healing. Likewise, creating spaces for trauma education within 12-step communities could help individuals approach their pain with greater compassion and understanding.

The 12-step philosophy has provided a roadmap for recovery for nearly a century, but its masculine energy—while powerful—is not the whole picture. Trauma work, with its focus on self-compassion and integration, introduces the divine feminine energy necessary for true healing. By balancing accountability with compassion, we can create a more holistic approach to recovery that honors the complexity of the human experience.

In recovery, as in life, we need both the masculine and the feminine, the active and the receptive, the problem-solver and the nurturer. Only then can we truly heal.

Redefining the Inventory: A Balanced Approach

Support groups like Psychedelics in Recovery (PIR) offer an opportunity to rethink the traditional inventory process by infusing it with the balance of masculine and feminine energies. The traditional 12-step inventory emphasizes accountability, encouraging individuals to look for their part in resentments, fears, and harms caused. While this approach has value, it can sometimes feel overly harsh, reinforcing feelings of shame or guilt, especially for trauma survivors.

In contrast, a more balanced inventory—one informed by feminine energy—invites compassion and curiosity alongside accountability. Rather than simply asking, “What was my part?” this approach encourages deeper questions: “What happened to me? How was I shaped by these experiences? What unmet needs or wounds might have driven my behavior?” This shift allows for a broader exploration of context and encourages individuals to see themselves not only as agents of change but also as deserving of understanding and care.

Since PIR is a melting pot of diverse recoveries, including traditional recovery paths as well as more trauma informed such as ACA there are not the limitations of a singular approach. In PIR, the inventory process can become a journey of self-discovery and integration. Masculine energy helps participants identify patterns and take responsibility for their actions, while feminine energy nurtures self-compassion and fosters a willingness to embrace and heal the wounds beneath the behaviors. This balanced perspective acknowledges that individuals are more than the sum of their mistakes—they are complex beings shaped by experiences, relationships, and inner parts seeking protection or connection.

By balancing the inventory in this way, participants in PIR create space for holistic healing. They learn to hold themselves accountable without losing sight of their inherent worthiness. The process becomes less about self-criticism and more about self-understanding, transforming the inventory into a tool for uncovering not just flaws but strengths, resilience, and untapped potential.

This balanced approach not only helps individuals navigate recovery with greater grace but also reflects the deeper truth of healing: that real transformation happens when we integrate both the active accountability of masculine energy and the nurturing compassion of feminine energy. Together, these forces create a path to wholeness—one that honors the full spectrum of the human experience.

Finding Connection in Healing: A Veteran’s Journey from Silence to Psychedelics in Recovery

d lee — Mon, 11 Nov 2024 13:40:44 +0000

The weight of war clings to me like a shadow, one that I’ve learned to carry in silence. When I first came back from active combat, it felt like I’d been dropped on a planet where everyone spoke the same language but couldn’t understand my words. At first, I didn’t see how the war was still living inside me, slipping into every part of my life, unseen but relentless. The closest thing I felt to home was with a bottle in hand, but even that comfort came at a price.

Relationships were impossible to hold onto. Every attempt felt like trying to hold water between my fingers. I wanted to connect, to care, but there was a wall around me that nothing could breach. Friends from before the service would invite me to dinner, talk about their spouses, kids, even things like work drama and mortgages. I’d listen and nod, trying to relate, but my mind would drift back to dusty roads and the hum of helicopters. No one could understand, and I didn’t know how to let them in. The only thing I could connect with was a drink and the feeling that maybe, for a while, it would numb the constant noise in my head.

Eventually, I walked through the doors of a 12-step meeting, looking for something—anything—that would help. Sobriety gave me a sense of direction, and there were times in the rooms of AA and NA when I felt close to belonging. But the bond wasn’t complete. While people talked about their struggles and shared laughter about things like work trouble or raising kids, I sat there, unable to talk about the realities that filled my mind every night. Combat stories don’t fit well over coffee and donuts. I’d hear someone talk about a bad day at the office, and I’d nod along, hiding the memories I carried from far away.

I kept my back to the wall in every meeting, always making sure I had a clear line to the door. Small things like that gave me some control, a way to manage the hypervigilance. But every day, the PTSD lingered, silent yet insistent, feeding me with memories I didn’t want to relive. The startle reflexes, the tension in my muscles, the deep-rooted distrust—I faked it, hoping that one day, I’d make it. I wanted the brotherhood I had felt in the military, the sense that everyone in the room had my back. Instead, I felt like the loneliest guy in a crowd of people who wanted to help but just couldn’t understand.

One night, scrolling through my phone after another restless meeting, I stumbled upon studies about psychedelics and PTSD. It sounded like hope, something more than just a promise to keep showing up. But signing up for those studies felt like chasing smoke. So I stayed in silence, sober but alone, caught in a world where I couldn’t even speak about my experiences. The irony of it stung: I had been brave enough to face combat, but here I was, afraid to mention psychedelics in a room where so many people preached the idea of “open-mindedness.”

With time, I reached out for therapy. EMDR became a regular part of my life, and bit by bit, I could feel something softening. Trauma work opened doors in my mind that I’d bolted shut for years. The therapist encouraged me, guiding me toward memories I’d long tried to forget, helping me lay them down slowly and gently. But the demons didn’t fade; they lingered, stubborn and silent.

Finally, I signed up for a guided psychedelic therapy session. I walked into the room, unsure of what would come. At first, the experience was like staring at the walls I’d built around my heart, each brick stacked with old pain and stories too heavy to tell. But then, something cracked open inside me. Emotions flooded in, raw and intense, emotions I hadn’t dared to feel for years. Grief for lost friends, guilt for things I could never change, compassion for a version of me that hadn’t known how to heal. I let it all out, feeling each wave crash through me, washing away layers of hurt.

Afterward, I returned to the 12-step rooms, but something had shifted. I didn’t feel like I was the loneliest guy in the crowd anymore. The walls I’d built were thinner, and for the first time, I looked at the people around me and felt a sense of connection. I saw their struggles as deeply as I saw my own.

When I found a psychedelics-in-recovery support group, I didn’t expect to see such a diverse mix of people. Most weren’t combat veterans; in fact, many hadn’t seen the kind of life I’d lived. Yet as we started sharing, it became clear that our stories, though different in setting and detail, were bound by a thread of pain and survival. With walls lowered, we recognized pieces of each other in the silence and struggle that trauma had left behind. I’d try not to share too many specifics of combat—didn’t want to stir up memories for others—but I could sense that many in the room understood. They knew what trauma was, each in their own way, and they knew what it took to step onto this path of healing.

Now, as I sit among them, it feels like a new kind of group has formed around me. This is a safe space where I can share openly, where no one expects me to keep parts of myself hidden, and where disconnection fades. It’s strange to feel connected to such a variety of people, but here, finally, I’ve found a place where I can be whole.

Embracing Unity: Tradition 10 in the Light of Psychedelics in Recovery

d lee — Tue, 05 Nov 2024 14:59:12 +0000

As the nation turns its collective gaze to the ballot boxes today, feelings of division, hope, anxiety, and determination swirl in the air. It’s in these moments of heightened tension that we can find solace in the wisdom of the original Tradition 10 from Alcoholics Anonymous:

“10. Alcoholics Anonymous has no opinion on outside issues; hence the AA name ought never be drawn into public controversy.”

This tradition was born out of the understanding that unity is essential for survival. In a world rife with differing beliefs and opinions, AA chose to create a sacred space where personal differences could be set aside for the common goal of recovery. It was a radical act of inclusivity—an invitation to focus solely on the spiritual and communal aspects of healing.

Tradition 10 Reimagined: Psychedelics in Recovery

For those of us exploring the frontier of psychedelics in recovery, Tradition 10 holds profound relevance, yet it calls for reinterpretation. The world has evolved, and so too must our understanding of what it means to maintain unity without engaging in divisive controversy. This evolution is captured beautifully in the rewritten Tradition 10 of Psychedelics in Recovery (PIR):

“10. Individual PIR members have a variety of opinions on outside issues; however, members remain mindful that PIR is an inclusive program and are respectful when sharing and listening about sensitive topics. PIR, as an organization, has no opinion on outside issues.”

Let’s unpack this modern take on Tradition 10 and its significance in today’s world:

1. Unity in Diversity:
In the realm of psychedelics, unity doesn’t come from uniformity of thought but from embracing the diverse experiences and backgrounds of individuals. The updated Tradition 10 acknowledges that while members hold varied opinions on outside issues, the focus remains on inclusivity and respect. This is crucial in creating a space where healing and growth can flourish, regardless of personal beliefs.

2. Respectful Dialogue:
Unlike the original tradition’s avoidance of outside issues, PIR’s Tradition 10 encourages respectful dialogue. It understands that sensitive topics may arise naturally, given the transformative nature of psychedelic experiences. The emphasis is on listening and sharing respectfully, ensuring that discussions contribute to mutual understanding rather than division.

3. Healing Beyond the Personal:
Psychedelic journeys often reveal the interconnectedness of all things. This insight compels us to recognize that healing extends beyond the individual. While PIR as an organization maintains neutrality on outside issues, it empowers members to engage thoughtfully and respectfully with broader societal concerns, understanding that these play a role in our collective recovery.

4. A Safe Haven:
Despite the acknowledgment of broader issues, the core of Tradition 10 remains—a commitment to creating a safe haven. Whether someone is navigating recovery through AA, psychedelics, or another path, PIR provides a space free from coercion or judgment, focusing solely on the shared commitment to healing.

Finding Peace in a Divisive World

On this election day, let us draw from the strength of both the old and the new Tradition 10. The original AA tradition reminds us of the sanctity of a neutral space where the primary focus is recovery. PIR’s reimagined tradition encourages us to navigate our interconnected world with open hearts and minds, fostering unity even amidst diversity.

As we cast our votes and participate in democracy, may we also carry forward the spirit of Tradition 10—honoring our differences while committing to unity in our shared journey of healing. Together, we can create a space where recovery thrives, even in the most divisive of times.

Beyond the Steps: Bill Wilson’s Journey to Emotional Sobriety

d lee — Fri, 01 Nov 2024 15:13:54 +0000

In 1953, nearly two decades after co-founding Alcoholics Anonymous, Bill Wilson penned a letter that would eventually become one of the most influential pieces in understanding the complexities of long-term sobriety. In it, he explored what he called “emotional sobriety,” a state of inner stability and balance that goes beyond mere abstinence from alcohol. Bill’s letter highlighted a personal and vulnerable struggle with depression, anxiety, and reliance on external validation, admitting that despite his commitment to the 12 steps, his emotional turmoil remained largely unresolved.

This is the substance of a revealing letter which Bill Wilson wrote several years ago to a close friend who also had troubles with depression. The letter appeared in the “Grapevine” January, 1953.

EMOTIONAL SOBRIETY

“I think that many oldsters who have put our AA “booze cure” to severe but successful tests still find they often lack emotional sobriety. Perhaps they will be the spearhead for the next major development in AA, the development of much more real maturity and balance (which is to say, humility) in our relations with ourselves, with our fellows, and with God.

Those adolescent urges that so many of us have for top approval, perfect security, and perfect romance, urges quite appropriate to age seventeen, prove to be an impossible way of life when we are at age forty-seven and fifty-seven.

Since AA began, I´ve taken immense wallops in all these areas because of my failure to grow up emotionally and spiritually. My God, how painful it is to keep demanding the impossible, and how very painful to discover, finally, that all along we have had the cart before the horse. Then comes the final agony of seeing how awfully wrong we have been, but still finding ourselves unable to get off the emotional merry-go-round.

How to translate a right mental conviction into a right emotional result, and so into easy, happy and good living. Well, that´s not only the neurotic´s problem, it´s the problem of life itself for all of us who have got to the point of real willingness to hew to right principles in all of our affairs.

Even then, as we hew away, peace and joy may still elude us. That´s the place so many of us AA oldsters have come to. And it´s a hell of a spot, literally. How shall our unconscious, from which so many of our fears, compulsions and phony aspirations still stream, be brought into line with what we actually believe, know and want! How to convince our dumb, raging and hidden 閃r. Hyde’ becomes our main task.

I´ve recently come to believe that this can be achieved. I believe so because I begin to see many benighted ones, folks like you and me, commencing to get results. Last autumn, depression, having no really rational cause at all, almost took me to the cleaners. I began to be scared that I was in for another long chronic spell. Considering the grief I´ve had with depressions, it wasn´t a bright prospect.

I kept asking myself “Why can´t the twelve steps work to release depression?” By the hour, I stared at the St. Francis Prayer … “it´s better to comfort than to be comforted.” Here was the formula, all right, but why didn´t it work?

Suddenly, I realized what the matter was. My basic flaw had always been dependence, almost absolute dependence, on people or circumstances to supply me with prestige, security, and the like. Failing to get these things according to my perfectionist dreams and specifications, I had fought for them. And when defeat came, so did my depression.

There wasn´t a chance of making the outgoing love of St. Francis a workable and joyous way of life until these fatal and almost absolute dependencies were cut away.

Because I had over the years undergone a little spiritual development, the absolute quality of these frightful dependencies had never before been so starkly revealed. Reinforced by what grace I could secure in prayer, I found I had to exert every ounce of will and action to cut off these faulty emotional dependencies upon people, upon AA, indeed upon any act of circumstance whatsoever.

Then only could I be free to love as Francis did. Emotional and instinctual satisfactions, I saw, were really the extra dividends of having love, offering love, and expressing love appropriate to each relation of life.

Plainly, I could not avail myself to God´s love until I was able to offer it back to Him by loving others as He would have me. And I couldn´t possibly do that so long as I was victimized by false dependencies.

For my dependence meant demand, a demand for the possession and control of the people and the conditions surrounding me.

While those words “absolute dependence” may look like a gimmick, they were the ones that helped to trigger my release into my present degree of stability and quietness of mind, qualities which I am now trying to consolidate by offering love to others regardless of the return to me.

This seems to be the primary healing circuit: an outgoing love of God´s creation and His people, by means of which we avail ourselves of His love for us. It is most clear that the real current can´t flow until our paralyzing dependencies are broken, and broken at depth. Only then can we possibly have a glimmer of what adult love really is.

If we examine every disturbance we have, great or small, we will find at the root of it some unhealthy dependence and its consequent demand. Let us, with God´s help, continually surrender these hobbling demands. Then we can be set free to live and love: we may then be able to gain emotional sobriety.

Of course, I haven´t offered you a really new idea — only a gimmick that has started to unhook several of my own hexes´ at depth. Nowadays, my brain no longer races compulsively in either elation, grandiosity or depression. I have been given a quiet place in bright sunshine.”

Bill Wilson

Bill’s insights into emotional sobriety were groundbreaking. He acknowledged that while the 12 steps provided a framework for physical sobriety and personal growth, they didn’t necessarily address the profound emotional and psychological struggles that persisted even after years of sobriety. Bill realized that true emotional sobriety involved breaking free from dependencies on people, outcomes, and external approval—relying instead on an inner source of resilience. But for him, this was an area the steps alone couldn’t fully reach.

This idea—emotional sobriety as deeper, ongoing work—wasn’t easily reconciled with the traditional recovery framework. Bill wrestled with the limitations of AA’s structure in addressing the kinds of deep-rooted emotional and spiritual wounds that persisted well beyond achieving sobriety. By 1956, he was actively exploring avenues beyond the 12 steps, including LSD, as a way to potentially unlock these deeper levels of self-understanding and healing. Bill saw LSD as a potential catalyst for profound spiritual experiences that might dissolve ego barriers and enable people, including himself, to access suppressed emotions and memories that were often at the core of their psychological suffering.

While this venture may have seemed radical, it was deeply in line with Bill’s ongoing quest for inner peace and true emotional sobriety. His experimentation with LSD allowed him to revisit and integrate buried traumas and confront his own feelings of inadequacy and depression in a way that traditional AA methods had not. Bill was convinced that these experiences helped him understand himself and his emotional struggles on a profound level, giving him insights that continued to shape his view on recovery.

In taking these steps beyond AA’s traditional framework, Bill recognized the need for a more holistic approach to sobriety—one that addressed emotional and spiritual needs as deeply as the physical ones. His journey illustrated that true recovery isn’t simply a one-time achievement, but rather an ongoing process of integrating all parts of ourselves. Emotional sobriety, as Bill came to understand it, meant living with a sense of inner peace that did not depend on external circumstances or approval. It involved a deeper acceptance of self, one that acknowledged the complexity of human suffering and the possibility of growth even beyond the foundational teachings of AA.

Today, Bill’s legacy on emotional sobriety inspires countless individuals who seek deeper healing beyond physical sobriety. His journey serves as a reminder that while the 12 steps provide an essential foundation, the quest for emotional sobriety may lead each of us to explore new territories, to deepen our understanding of self, and to embrace practices that allow us to truly transform. Emotional sobriety, as Bill hinted, is a journey that calls us to engage with all aspects of our humanity—embracing recovery as a path of continuous self-discovery and healing.

Today, Bill Wilson’s reflections on emotional sobriety resonate with members of Psychedelics in Recovery (PIR), a community of individuals who, like Bill, have found that traditional recovery methods alone don’t always reach the depth of healing they seek. Many members of PIR struggle with the same issues Bill described—unresolved traumas, persistent depression, and a sense of incompleteness despite years of sobriety. By incorporating psychedelics in therapeutic, intentional settings, these members have found a pathway to confront and integrate long-buried emotions, unlocking layers of self-acceptance and inner peace that go beyond what they found in traditional recovery. In aligning with Bill’s courageous exploration, they are pioneering a new approach to emotional sobriety, one that embraces the potential of psychedelics to deepen their healing and bring about a more comprehensive sense of spiritual wholeness. Through PIR, they continue Bill’s legacy of searching for inner peace, bridging the wisdom of the 12 steps with the profound insights available through expanded, conscious exploration.

Beyond Shame: A Journey of Healing in SLAA through Faith, Psychedelics, and Self-Acceptance

d lee — Fri, 01 Nov 2024 13:13:24 +0000

Growing up Catholic, I learned early on about sin, guilt, and penance. I remember sitting in church, watching candlelight flicker across the statues of saints, feeling awed by their holiness but convinced I could never be like them. I prayed, confessed, and tried to follow the rules, but deep down, there was always a part of me that felt irredeemably flawed, burdened with an inherent unworthiness I couldn’t shake.

As I got older, those feelings of guilt and shame only deepened. I’d often act out in secret, torn between my faith and desires I couldn’t seem to control. My life felt divided—keeping the surface clean and presentable while beneath, my heart remained tangled in shame. It became a familiar cycle: indulge in hidden moments, then plunge into guilt, throwing myself into prayers and promises to be “better.” Yet, nothing ever seemed to lift that weight off my shoulders.

Eventually, I found Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous (SLAA), a space where people openly shared their struggles, their secrets, and their need for connection. At first, I thought I’d finally found the solution. I dedicated myself to the program, attended meetings, and did my best to honor my edges. But as the years went by, I still felt the gnawing belief that I was unworthy. Even with support, the shame remained like a shadow, reminding me that I could never fully escape it.

One day, I stumbled upon No Bad Parts by Richard Schwartz. The title alone stopped me. Was it possible that I wasn’t as broken as I’d thought? Could it be that my desires and fears, the parts I’d been taught to reject, weren’t “bad” at all but just misunderstood? This idea felt radical, almost blasphemous, to think that I could look at myself with compassion rather than condemnation.

The more I read, the more I began to wonder if there was a way to reach these hidden parts of myself and embrace them. I’d heard about using psychedelics for deep healing, and though it felt like forbidden ground, I felt a quiet pull—a sacred urge to seek healing in ways I hadn’t allowed myself to explore. I chose All Saints’ Day for my first ceremony. It felt fitting, a day dedicated to honoring those who had struggled and found grace, each saint with their own journey of redemption.

On the morning of All Saints’ Day, I entered the ceremony with a heart full of prayer. I thought of the saints, those who had struggled, sacrificed, and transformed. I wasn’t entering this lightly; I was stepping into it with intention, hoping to find relief from a lifetime of feeling broken.

As the experience unfolded, memories rose to the surface: the hidden moments I’d spent in shame, the secrets I’d buried, the prayers whispered in desperation. But rather than the usual rush of guilt, I felt something softer. Each memory, each hidden part of myself, seemed to have a voice, a reason, a story. For the first time, I could see these parts not as sinful or shameful but as young, wounded, and in need of love. I saw myself as I was in those moments, not through the lens of judgment, but with compassion.

It was as if the divine presence I’d been taught to revere was showing me that every part of me was worthy, that my shame and desires were part of a larger journey toward wholeness. The shame I’d carried for so long began to loosen, replaced by a sense of peace and understanding. I felt connected to something greater, a love that embraced every part of me, just as I was.

In the weeks and months that followed, I continued working with No Bad Parts, learning to connect with and understand each facet of myself with gentleness. I began to see my faith in a new light. Instead of focusing on sin and guilt, I saw my religion as a path toward compassion and healing. When I prayed, I felt as if I was speaking not just to God but to the parts of myself that had been in need of love.

And then, as if by divine timing, I discovered a community called Psychedelics in Recovery. It was a place where others were integrating spiritual practices with healing modalities like psychedelics, a space where I could openly share my experiences without fear of judgment. In this group, I found acceptance and understanding I hadn’t realized I needed. Here, I could be open about my journey, my faith, and the blend of both with my healing work. I didn’t have to choose between my faith and my desire for healing; I could embrace both as part of my spiritual path.

With Psychedelics in Recovery, I discovered that my spiritual journey didn’t have to fit within a single framework. Here was a group that honored the need for both faith and exploration, tradition and transformation. For the first time, I felt that I could be whole—embracing my Catholic roots, my recovery, and my evolving understanding of myself.

All Saints’ Day has become more than just a holy day for me; it is a reminder that we are all on a journey toward wholeness, that no part of us is beyond redemption. Psychedelics, No Bad Parts, and the Psychedelics in Recovery community have shown me that I, too, am worthy of love, acceptance, and healing, just as I am. In integrating my faith with new ways of understanding, I’ve found the spiritual peace I’d been seeking all along.

Breaking the Cycle: Healing the Haunted Memories of Halloween through Recovery, Trauma Work, and Love

d lee — Fri, 01 Nov 2024 13:00:36 +0000

Growing up, Halloween was…different. My parents were draped in their own chaos, often more interested in the next drink than in their children’s happiness. I’d cobble together costumes from whatever I could find, dreaming of the “real” costumes I saw in store windows but never quite having the chance to wear. My friends’ parents would walk with them, carrying flashlights, chatting with other parents, watching to make sure their kids stayed safe. But I’d walk alone, drifting along in the night with other kids but feeling invisible, knowing there would be no one waiting at the curb for me.

Candy was the real currency on Halloween, but even that felt like it slipped through my fingers. Sometimes, after a night of trick-or-treating, I’d come home to find my mom or dad rummaging through my stash, often taking whatever they wanted or trading me a promise for something I knew they’d forget. Other years, I’d come home to a house in darkness, my pillowcase of candy the only glimmer of the holiday. I didn’t recognize the sadness I felt back then, nor did I understand why it hurt so much to not have anyone looking out for me. I just knew that Halloween wasn’t like it was for other kids.

When I got sober and started my own family, I poured everything I had into making sure my kids felt loved and safe, especially on nights like Halloween. Watching them race up each driveway, full of excitement, I’d smile and cheer them on, all the while pushing down the memories of my own childhood. I thought I’d dealt with the past, but as my kids grew, reaching the same ages I’d been back then, a flood of memories came rushing back. I found myself staring off into the distance, feeling echoes of a loneliness I hadn’t acknowledged in years.

One Halloween, after tucking my kids into bed, I sat alone in the living room, watching the pumpkin lights flicker in the window. The emptiness of my own childhood came roaring to the surface. I couldn’t shake the image of myself as a kid, walking alone, no one there to hold my hand or share my excitement. The weight of those memories became too much to ignore, and I knew I had to confront them.

That’s when I discovered Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACA). It was a place where others understood the hidden scars of growing up with parents lost in addiction, the unseen wounds that continued to shape our lives. In those meetings, I heard stories like mine, stories of hollow holidays, of broken promises, of feeling like we were invisible. For the first time, I felt less alone in the pain that had been buried inside me for so long.

But the journey didn’t stop there. Facing those memories opened up deeper layers of grief and trauma I hadn’t even realized were there. I started working with a therapist specializing in trauma, someone who helped me trace the echoes of my childhood and understand how deeply they had impacted my life. Together, we went back to those Halloweens, those lonely nights when I longed for someone to walk beside me, to keep me safe. I found myself grieving the childhood I’d never had, the comfort and safety I’d been denied.

Eventually, I felt ready to explore psychedelics in a therapeutic setting, hoping to unlock the last layers of buried pain. Those sessions were profound, taking me back to moments I hadn’t thought of in decades, letting me see myself from a new perspective. I began to understand that I wasn’t just grieving the past; I was healing the child I’d been, the one who’d walked through those lonely Halloween nights feeling unseen and unloved.

And as I worked through these memories, something shifted inside me. I could finally stand at the sidewalk with my kids without feeling the old weight pressing down on my chest. I wasn’t haunted anymore. Halloween became a celebration of healing, a time when I could see my children’s joy without the shadow of my own past.

In the end, it was my children, along with trauma work and psychedelics in recovery, that helped me find the wholeness I’d been searching for. They showed me the love and safety I’d never known, and in healing myself, I was able to break the cycle. I became the parent I had always wished for, the one who waited at the sidewalk with open arms and a warm smile, letting my kids know they were never alone.

Beyond the Steps: A Journey from Tradition to Esoteric Healing in Recovery

d lee — Fri, 01 Nov 2024 12:51:19 +0000

At my first recovery meeting, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being both relieved and trapped. The room was dim, the chairs arranged in a circle, and the walls were bare save for a few posters with slogans: One day at a time, Let go and let God, Keep it simple. Words I wanted to believe in, but that felt, at that moment, more like survival slogans than guiding principles. Still, I returned, meeting after meeting, clinging to the structure, the community, and the security that had eluded me for so long.

In those early days, my life was about basics—just keeping my head above water. For the first time, I had routines: meetings, work, even friendships with people who understood. It was good, but eventually, I found myself asking questions the steps alone didn’t answer. Why was it that even in sobriety, I felt haunted by the same old wounds? How was it possible to still feel so deeply alone, even surrounded by others who were on the same journey?

It was around this time that a friend pulled me aside after a meeting. “You ever thought about going deeper?” they asked, their eyes flicking around to make sure no one else could hear. “I mean, beyond the meetings, maybe exploring…other means?” They were speaking in code, but I understood. They were talking about psychedelics.

My gut reaction was resistance—years of program slogans and voices in my head telling me, Don’t do it. It’s too risky. Yet the words they’d said haunted me. A part of me yearned to go deeper, to find answers the steps couldn’t offer, to fill a void I couldn’t even explain. So, I sat with the idea in secret, wrestling with feelings of guilt and betrayal. My mind churned: What would my sponsor say? What would the others think?

Eventually, the pull was too strong to ignore. I decided that if I was going to do this, it would be in a structured way, with intention and respect. My friend introduced me to someone who held private psychedelic ceremonies. She was an older woman who exuded an ancient, grounded energy. I remember her asking if I’d be willing to meet myself fully, without pretense or guard. In that moment, I realized how much I’d been hiding, even in recovery.

My first ceremony felt like crossing a threshold. As the psychedelics began to take effect, memories surfaced—fragments of my past, but from a different angle. I saw my younger self, not through the lens of shame and regret, but with a strange compassion, almost as if I were watching someone else. I could feel the weight of trauma I hadn’t acknowledged: the disappointments, betrayals, and wounds that had slowly built up over the years.

And then, the strangest thing happened. The steps—the very ones I’d struggled with and sometimes resented—appeared in my mind, not as rigid rules, but as layers of understanding I hadn’t seen before. I understood that “making amends” wasn’t just about apologies but about healing the connection between myself and the people I’d harmed. Concepts like “turning my will over” took on a different shape, too. It wasn’t about control, as I’d once thought, but about trust. Trusting that there was wisdom beyond my own understanding, that life held more for me if I could let go of my grip on certainty.

This realization felt esoteric—like a hidden truth that had always been there but had only revealed itself now that I was ready. I had a sense of responsibility now, something that wasn’t about sobriety for sobriety’s sake but about wholeness. The experience was like peeling back the layers of a wound that I’d thought was healed, only to realize I’d only ever touched the surface.

Afterward, I was filled with an intense feeling of peace, unlike anything I’d experienced in recovery. I returned to my meetings with fresh eyes, suddenly aware of the incredible depth hidden in the simple words people shared. The twelve steps, once a rigid guide to survival, became a map for a journey of the soul. Each step revealed itself as a door to another layer of healing, another way to understand myself and my place in the world.

I had spent years afraid that stepping outside the bounds of tradition would isolate me. Instead, it connected me to those in my recovery circle in a way I hadn’t expected. Now, I see that the community wasn’t there to enforce rules but to offer a foundation, a space to return to, even as my journey took me into uncharted territory. When I finally opened up to my sponsor about my psychedelic experiences, I was surprised to find acceptance rather than judgment. They didn’t fully understand, but they supported me, recognizing that I was finding my own path, grounded in the same principles that had once saved my life.

Today, my recovery feels fuller, richer. The journey has become about more than abstaining from substances; it’s about discovering who I am beneath all the layers, all the stories, and all the fears. That word—esoteric—continues to echo in my mind, a reminder that some paths are hidden until we’re ready, that some truths require a journey before they’re revealed. And I’ve learned that sometimes, we have to go beyond what we know to come back home to ourselves, more whole than we ever thought possible.

From Purification to Integration: A Comparison of AA’s Roots in the Oxford Group and Modern Trauma-Informed Healing

d lee — Sun, 06 Oct 2024 12:58:05 +0000

The evolution of recovery and healing philosophies reveals a striking contrast between early 20th-century spiritual approaches and more contemporary psychological frameworks. The Oxford Group, a Christian-based movement that heavily influenced the founding of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), emphasized the concept of “soul surgery”—a process of moral purification and the removal of sin. This notion of disintegration, where individuals sought to shed their defects of character to achieve spiritual fitness, became a core aspect of AA’s program. However, modern trauma-informed approaches, including parts work and psychedelic therapies, offer a different perspective. These contemporary methods focus on integration rather than elimination, encouraging individuals to embrace their full selves—flaws, traumas, and all—as vital aspects of personal wholeness. By comparing these two frameworks, we can explore how the journey of healing has shifted from a path of self-denial and purification to one of self-acceptance and integration.

The Oxford Group: “Soul Surgery” and the Removal of Sin

The Oxford Group, founded in the early 20th century by Dr. Frank Buchman, laid the groundwork for AA’s approach to recovery, particularly around the concept of moral inventory and “soul surgery.” Buchman believed that personal transformation occurred through a process of confession, restitution, and surrender to God. The Group’s ideas were rooted in a Christian framework, which emphasized sin and the need for redemption.

“Soul surgery” was the metaphor used to describe the process of identifying and removing the sinful aspects of a person’s character. The idea was that sin, manifested in selfishness, dishonesty, resentment, and fear, was the primary cause of personal dysfunction, including addiction. The Oxford Group’s practices focused on confession of these faults, followed by surrender to God’s will, as a way to purify the soul and lead a moral, spiritually healthy life.

This belief was carried over into AA’s early framework. In AA, one of the core practices is to “remove the things that were blocking you,” often understood as character defects that prevent spiritual growth. In the 12 Steps of AA, individuals are encouraged to take a “fearless moral inventory,” admit their wrongdoings, and ask for the removal of these defects. The emphasis is on eliminating negative aspects to achieve spiritual fitness, framing the process as one of stripping away obstacles to connect more deeply with a higher power.

Modern Trauma-Informed Approaches: Embracing Wholeness

In contrast, recent advances in trauma-informed approaches, including parts work (such as Internal Family Systems, or IFS), focus less on “removing” parts of the self and more on integrating and embracing all aspects of the person. These approaches are rooted in psychological understandings of trauma and stress, which see dysfunction not as a result of moral failings or “sin,” but as adaptations to harmful experiences.

Internal Family Systems, for instance, posits that each person has different “parts,” some of which may develop protective roles in response to trauma. In this framework, addiction and other forms of dysfunction are not viewed as moral failings to be eradicated but as protective mechanisms that developed to manage emotional pain. The goal is not to disintegrate or remove these parts, but to understand and integrate them with the person’s whole self, leading to a sense of internal harmony.

Trauma-informed approaches emphasize self-compassion, understanding, and wholeness. Instead of rooting out “sins” or “defects,” the idea is to affirm each part of the self and allow these parts to work in harmony. There’s a strong emphasis on healing through safety, acceptance, and compassion, rather than judgment and confession.

Disintegration vs. Integration

The Oxford Group and AA’s approach can be seen as one of disintegration—dividing the self into acceptable and unacceptable parts, with the aim of removing or eliminating the negative aspects. The language of moral inventory and surrender suggests that certain aspects of the self are impediments to spiritual growth and must be shed. This is reinforced by concepts like the removal of defects of character, which implies a need to discard parts of the self that are flawed.

On the other hand, trauma-informed and psychedelic approaches lean into integration. Psychedelic therapy, which is gaining popularity as a tool for addressing trauma and addiction, focuses on “integration” as a key part of the healing process. These experiences often lead individuals to a sense of wholeness, where previously fragmented or disowned parts of themselves are embraced and re-integrated. The aim is not to “remove” anything but to bring about a deep understanding and acceptance of all aspects of one’s being.

Psychedelics and Spiritual Fitness

In the realm of psychedelic-assisted therapy, this idea of integration is especially prominent. Psychedelics such as psilocybin, MDMA, and ayahuasca are used in therapeutic settings to help individuals access suppressed memories, emotions, or parts of their identity. These substances, combined with therapeutic guidance, enable people to confront and process traumas, leading to greater emotional and spiritual wholeness. Rather than seeing certain emotions, memories, or aspects of the self as problems to be removed, these therapies encourage individuals to integrate them into their sense of self.

The language in psychedelic therapy is more about self-acceptance and connection, rather than the Oxford Group’s language of sin, defect, and surrender. In psychedelic journeys, participants often report feelings of deep interconnectedness and unity, both within themselves and with the world around them—a stark contrast to the Oxford Group’s focus on identifying and purging negative elements.

Affirmation vs. Denial

AA, while offering spiritual growth, often centers around the denial of the ego, personal shortcomings, and the need to remove or “let go” of certain parts of the self. This reflects a disintegrative mindset, wherein becoming spiritually fit requires rejecting certain behaviors or beliefs.

Conversely, modern trauma-informed practices, parts work, and psychedelic healing are rooted in affirming the self in all its complexity. These approaches encourage embracing the parts of the self that have been cast out, seen as “sinful,” or labeled defective. It’s an acknowledgment that all parts have value and, when understood, can contribute to a more harmonious, whole self.

A Shift from Removal to Embrace

The core difference between the Oxford Group’s influence on AA and contemporary trauma-informed or psychedelic-based approaches lies in their treatment of the self. The former focuses on disintegration, stripping away what is deemed negative or sinful to become more spiritually fit. It emphasizes moral purification and the removal of “defects.” The latter, by contrast, embraces integration, focusing on the wholeness of the self and the healing power of acceptance. Psychedelic and trauma-informed methods teach that healing comes not from the removal of parts of ourselves but through understanding, affirming, and integrating them.

As both approaches continue to exist in parallel, each offers valuable insights into personal and spiritual development, though their methodologies and philosophies diverge greatly. The older model offers a path of purification through surrender and sacrifice, while the newer methods suggest a more compassionate, holistic view that sees healing as embracing all aspects of the self.