The Grief Session

My father died in October. Twelve weeks later I sat with psilocybin for the first time in two years. I wasn't sure I was ready. I'm not sure "ready" was the right frame.

My friend Sarah has done this kind of work before — not as a professional facilitator, but as someone who knows how to hold space without filling it. We prepared carefully: a list of what I hoped to process, clear communication about what I needed from her (presence, not words), and agreement on what would prompt us to seek help if necessary.

The tea came on gently. For the first hour, mostly visual — the walls breathing slightly, afternoon light through the curtains becoming rich and meaningful in a way that's hard to explain. I had made a playlist of music my father and I had shared. That was the doorway in.

When I found him in the experience, he wasn't what I expected. Not a vision of him — more like I was inside the feeling of him. His particular kind of steadiness. The way he'd listen without interrupting. I understood, in a way I couldn't access while grieving normally, that this hadn't gone anywhere. The grief isn't the loss of the person — it's the love with nowhere to go.

I spent a long time sitting with that. The love, and the direction it still wants to move. Sarah checked in twice. Both times I said I was okay. Both times I was telling the truth.

The comedown was gentle. We had soup. We talked until dark. She didn't try to summarize or conclude what I had experienced — just listened while I tried to put pieces of it into words.

The grief hasn't lifted — grief doesn't lift on a schedule. But there's something different about its texture now. Less like drowning, more like wading. Something I'm carrying forward rather than something that's crushing me in place.