“Trippin’ Ain’t Easy”

Trippin’ Ain’t Easy

Today, I want to talk about bad trips.

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

And they fuckin’ suck.

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

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

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

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

November 2024: The “Routine” Trip

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

This one started like any other night.

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

Flashback: Death by Poisoning (2022)

Before I go deeper, let me rewind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Countdown

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

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

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

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

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

Every breath felt heavier.
The panic set in.

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

Ego in the Driver’s Seat

My mind spiraled.

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

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

“Just breathe.”

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

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

Then my ego jumped in.

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

I started believing it.

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

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

A psychedelic is about to kill me.

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

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

That snapped me out of it.

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

The Inner Dialogue

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

That’s when I knew: this was a test.

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

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

It took everything in me not to freak out.

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

“Jermy Just Died.”

I thought it was over.

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

I answered:

“Hello?”

A voice replied,

“Hey… did you hear the news?”

I asked, “What news?”

And they said,

“Jermy just died.”

I froze.
Tears fell.

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

The voice said again,

“Jermy was such a good man.”

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

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

It emptied me.
Cleansed me.

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

The Lesson

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

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

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

Now, when that voice shows up, I ask,

“Are you here to harm me or help me?”

That single question has become a practice.

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

Final Thoughts

Trippin’ ain’t easy.

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

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

Epilogue: Faith Between Breaths

I used to think bad trips were punishment.

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

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

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

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

— Jermy

Be the Flow..

Be the Flow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love,
Jermy

“The Worry Weather Channel”

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

Nah, for real.

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

That realization took some serious self-awareness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much Love,

Jermy

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