For most of my adult life, I’ve considered myself an agnostic—sometimes, if I’m honest, an atheist. I walked into the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous over two decades ago, desperate and determined to get sober. And I did. I stayed sober through thick and thin, using the tools that were given to me: fellowship, the steps, and a lot of coffee. But, there was always this one aspect of the program that never quite resonated with me: the spiritual side. “God as we understood Him” felt like an empty phrase—something that wasn’t meant for someone like me, someone who didn’t believe in God at all.
Still, I worked the program. I did my inventories, made my amends, and tried to practice the principles in all my affairs. My life got better, and for a long time, that was enough. I even met my girlfriend in the rooms, and we built a life together around our mutual commitment to sobriety. But recently, I found myself feeling restless and disconnected, especially in my relationship. It was as if we were going through the motions—both sober, yes, but missing something deeper. We had built our lives on the bedrock of recovery, but the cracks were beginning to show.
It was my girlfriend who first suggested we explore something new. She had heard about people in recovery who had profound spiritual experiences through psychedelics—specifically, psilocybin. At first, I was shocked and a little angry. We were sober. This seemed like a step backward, a slippery slope that could lead to relapse or worse. But she was persistent, and honestly, her curiosity got me curious. I started doing my own research, cautiously reading about psilocybin journeys, their potential therapeutic benefits, and how some in the recovery community were finding new spiritual insights through them.
I was afraid of the stigma, the judgment. What would people think? Would I be kicked out of AA? I kept it all a secret, not ready to face the questions or the consequences. But the more I read, the more I felt drawn to the idea. Not because I wanted to get high—I had no interest in that—but because there was a part of me that felt so disconnected and, frankly, a bit desperate for a change. For years, I had stayed sober through sheer willpower and the support of my fellowship, but now, I needed something more. I needed to feel connected, not just to other people, but to something larger than myself.
So, with a mixture of fear and hope, I decided to try it. We found a reputable guide who could facilitate a psilocybin journey in a safe, controlled environment. I did everything right—or at least, as right as I knew how. I prepared mentally, set my intentions, and made sure I was in a good, safe space with people I trusted. And then, I let go.
What happened next is hard to put into words. During the ceremony, I felt something I had never felt before—a profound sense of awe, of connection, of something that can only be described as spiritual. It wasn’t like I saw God or anything, but I felt a presence, a consciousness that was far beyond my own. It was as if I was a part of something infinite and eternal, something that was both inside me and all around me. For the first time in my life, I felt a true sense of God-consciousness, a feeling that there was more to this life than just what I could see and touch.
The experience was transformative. It was as if a light had been turned on inside of me, revealing a deeper layer of reality that I had never known existed. I realized that my atheism, my skepticism, had been a kind of armor I wore to protect myself from vulnerability, from the unknown. And while that armor had served me well in some ways, it was also keeping me from fully experiencing life in all its richness and mystery.
After the journey, I felt a profound sense of peace, a calm that I hadn’t felt in years—if ever. It wasn’t that all my problems disappeared; my relationship still needed work, my fears and insecurities didn’t magically vanish. But I felt a new sense of perspective, a new way of seeing things that was deeply spiritual, in a way I never expected to experience.
Now, my recovery feels different. The fellowship, the steps, the inventories—they’re still important, but they’re not the whole picture. For me, recovery is now about embracing a spiritual path, exploring what it means to be truly connected to myself, to others, and to whatever that greater presence is that I felt during the ceremony. I still don’t know if I believe in “God” in the traditional sense, but I do believe in something now—something powerful, something meaningful, something that’s guiding me toward becoming the person I’m meant to be.
I’m still cautious about sharing my experience openly. There’s still a lot of fear and stigma around psychedelics, especially in traditional recovery communities. But I know what I felt, and I know it was real. It’s a new chapter in my recovery, one I never saw coming but one that I’m grateful for every day. And maybe, just maybe, there’s room in the recovery world for this kind of spiritual exploration. Maybe we can expand the conversation to include new paths to healing, new ways of connecting with the divine—however we understand it. Because, in the end, isn’t that what recovery is all about? Finding a path that leads us closer to the truth of who we are and who we’re meant to be.
