Psychedelic therapy is sometimes recommended for people struggling with death anxiety. Technically, psychedelic substances are still illegal in Canada, though their use is quietly tolerated in therapeutic settings. Cancer Canada has approved a clinical trial to study psilocybin for end-of-life distress, but it won’t begin until 2027. I don’t have the time to wait.
The images are the “Before” and “After” of my psychedelic experience.
It was wonderful—peaceful, euphoric, and without a single anxious moment. At its peak, I drifted into a lucid dream, marvelling at how my brain could conjure such a beautiful world with my eyes open (though hidden behind a mask). In that moment, I thought, “I didn’t know I could be this happy.” I saw no angels or demons; the only creature who manifested was Sheryl. There was no fear, only a deep, boundless love for Sheryl.
I didn’t peer into an alternate universe, nor did I have a grand spiritual awakening. What I experienced was simpler and more profound: happiness without fear, love without condition, in a beautiful world of my imagination—with Sheryl at its centre. I don’t need to believe in an afterlife; it’s enough to know that I can exist, even briefly, in that state of joy and peace. If this is what dying feels like—even through the lens of a hallucinogen—that’s good enough for me.
The psilocybin macro dose was guided by two therapists, in a safe and comfortable space. The session lasted about three hours. I lay on a small sofa that conveniently fit my short frame, eyes covered with a dark mask, headphones playing gentle, meditative music. It began with 3.5 grams of Golden Teacher mushroom powder mixed into ginger tea with honey. For the first hour, it felt as if I were watching a film projected onto the ceiling—swirling colours dancing in rhythm with the music. I even said out loud, “What a nice show—I feel like a spectator.”
Whenever I lifted the mask, the vision disappeared, replaced by the ordinary fabric of the eye mask. The therapist gently suggested that I try become part of the world instead of just observing it. I replied, half-joking, that for that I’d need more tea. He smiled, confirmed that I really meant it, and prepared another cup—raising the dose to 5 grams. The change was dramatic. With my eyes open behind the mask, I began to see pastel, Lego-like structures forming and shifting.
I felt fine throughout. Later, the counsellor said he suspected I might need an even higher, “heroic” dose, since I’m too cerebral. An AI once described me as an “analytical overthinker.” It wasn’t wrong. The higher dose helped me cross that thin line—from being an observer of my mind’s show to being a participant in it.
And no, I’m not tempted to explore other drugs. I’m not a psychonaut. I just wanted to remember what it feels like to be happy, loving, and loved—without fear.
