Trials are not the part of the spiritual path most of us ask for. We long for the light, the insight, the ease, the joy. And yet, anyone who has truly walked a spiritual path knows: trials are not optional. They are essential.

Each trial that arrives in our life — whether it comes as heartbreak, failure, illness, or disillusionment — is an invitation. On the surface, it feels like opposition. Beneath the surface, it is initiation.

From a spiritual perspective, trials are not punishments. They are the means by which we grow. Without them, we remain untested and therefore untempered. Much like gold refined in fire, our soul gains its luster through the heat of life’s challenges.

Every trial asks us questions:

• Will you give up or go deeper?
• Will you shrink back into fear, or expand into faith?
• Will you abandon your commitment when it is hard, or hold fast to it with humility?

Trials, in this way, are mirrors. They show us where we are strong, where we are fragile, where our ego still holds sway, and where our soul longs for freedom.

One of the greatest lessons of trials is the unveiling of our ego. When things are easy, it is simple to appear spiritual, kind, and devoted. But when hardship comes, the ego shows itself. Our defenses flare. Our fears rise. We are tempted to control, to collapse, or to run away.

This unveiling is not failure. It is the work. To see ourselves clearly — even in our most raw, ego-driven moments — is to stand at the doorway of transformation. Trials strip us of illusion so that we can see what still needs healing.

Trials also invite us into personal power. Without grounding in our own capacity to choose, we collapse into victimhood. We blame others. We spiral into despair. But when we claim personal power, even in small ways, we begin to see the trial differently.

Instead of asking, Why is this happening to me? we begin to ask, How am I being invited to grow? What is my role in what is unfolding?

This shift does not make the trial easier — but it makes it purposeful. And purpose gives us strength.

Trials are where commitment is tested. It is easy to be devoted when the path is smooth. The real measure of our devotion is whether we can remain aligned when the ground shakes beneath us.

In this sense, trials refine not only our strength but also our sincerity. They strip away superficial motives and ask us to choose again, to recommit at a deeper level. Sometimes, the choice is not glamorous. It may look like showing up one more time, breathing through one more moment, whispering a prayer when all feels lost. But these are the very acts that forge true devotion.

Though trials feel bitter as we endure them, their fruit is sweet. They give us wisdom that no book could teach. They deepen our humility, soften our hearts, and root our strength in something eternal.

Many spiritual teachers have echoed this truth: that our pain and difficulties are not obstacles to our path but gateways into it. Each time we survive a trial with openness and sincerity, our soul grows more resilient, more compassionate, and more aligned with truth.

If you are in a trial now, know this: you are not being punished. You are being initiated. This hardship is not the end of your path but part of its very design.

Ask yourself: What am I being asked to let go of? What am I being asked to embody more deeply? Where is this trial pointing me?

Trials will come, again and again. But so will grace. And if you meet your trials with humility, personal power, and commitment, you will find that each one is secretly a teacher — guiding you ever closer to freedom.

For most of the last decade, I dedicated myself to the study and practice of plant medicine work. For better or worse, I am not one to do things half-heartedly—once intrigued, I pursued my studies with relentless commitment. I traveled the world, sat with a variety of facilitators, shamans, madrinhos and padrinhos, educated myself through books and resources, and applied my psychological and spiritual research skills to critically assess what I was experiencing.

 It consumed my free time. It became the pivotal organizer of my life. In time, I transitioned from participant to facilitator, assisting others on their journeys.

As I was introduced to this practice, I was taught that it was a spiritual progression path in its own right—that the leaders of various traditions had reached high levels of spiritual attainment and should be revered. I was taught that ceremonial work should be done regularly, that it was a lifelong commitment, and that the only reason a person would stop ingesting medicine was due to a lack of spiritual discipline.

Being a good student—most of the time—I followed the protocol and dove in. To give a sense of the depth of this dive, many people would have lost their minds in the sheer volume of altered experiences I pursued with discipline. Yet my pursuit was not primarily about the psychedelic experience. Instead, I sought out diverse spiritual traditions that incorporated plant medicine, focusing on the ceremonial aspect. The medicine was regarded as a sacred substance that allowed for deeper communion with and manifestation of the divine. And in some ways, it does.

My initial experiences were liberating—cathartic, transcendent, and deeply educational. As I leaned further into the work, I encountered traditions that shaped my understanding of spiritual practice. I witnessed lifetimes of trauma seemingly dissolve, replaced by a deeper spiritual connection. I fell in love with certain traditions, learning their music, dance, devotional practices, and archetypal teachings.

I was serious about my study and the life I built around it. I structured my existence around devotion. I applied spiritual principles to every aspect of my life. I abstained from alcohol and other substances. I curated my environment, avoiding anything that was not explicitly spiritual or related to medicine work. I sought guidance from experienced teachers. I used every challenge as an opportunity for growth. I lived and breathed a spiritual discipline that revolved around regular ceremonial work with plant medicine.

For some, this might seem extreme, but for me, it was born of love and respect. If this was a path for spiritual advancement, then I would walk it with dedication. I both loved the ritual devotional work I practiced and excelled at it.

When I looked toward my future, I knew I would not work with plant medicines forever. I never envisioned myself facilitating at seventy. Still, I believed I would continue until I received a clear message that my time was done. I trusted that the medicine would let me know when I was no longer in service to it. What I never considered was that the medicine itself might cease to serve me.

What ultimately happened was that I came to see the entire practice in a different light. Some of this shift was influenced by current events; some by the teachings of advanced spiritual mentors who helped me see the limitations of my approach. But mostly, it was my direct experience that changed my perspective.

I have studied healing my entire adult life—one could argue my entire life. My method has always been experiential; I test things extensively on myself before I use them with others. I seek both the strengths and the limitations of any method I practice.

I share my observations now because, in the flurry of excitement surrounding plant medicine—both in its potential for healing and its lucrative appeal—the nuances are being lost. The field is rapidly expanding, but in this expansion, we are losing sight of crucial concerns. For those who are true stewards of this work, it is essential to acknowledge the obstacles ahead.

One of the primary reasons I stopped working with plant medicine is what I call Pollution of the Field. This concept is rooted in the idea that everything has an energetic field—each location, group, and type of work carries an energetic imprint. When you engage with something, you become entangled with its field. While this has scientific corollaries, those who work with energy can sense it directly.

The problem is that as plant medicine work becomes mainstream, its field is increasingly contaminated by unhealthy, unhelpful, or outright damaging energies. One might debate when this began—was it 500 years ago or just in the last two years? Regardless, what is clear is that the issue is worsening, not improving, and all signs indicate it will continue to deteriorate.

Plant medicine work has long faced challenges, particularly in adapting shamanic traditions from one culture into another. But these issues have intensified as the field becomes flooded with self-appointed shamans, medical institutions, and individuals with little awareness of the deeper implications of what they are engaging in. The rapid commercialization, normalization, and accessibility of these substances are compromising the integrity of the practice at an alarming rate.

At first, when I noticed this degradation, I tried to counteract it through education and strong practices. I am not against non-traditional facilitators, medical psychedelic treatments, or people seeking healing. We accept pharmaceuticals, electroshock therapy, and outright denial—so why not explore tools that may actually help? There is real suffering in the world, and I support innovation that alleviates it. I advocated for rigorous training, integration practices, and informed facilitation.

Yet despite these efforts, I have seen the effectiveness of the medicine and its ceremonies deteriorate due to careless handling. Worse, I believe we are just at the beginning of a crisis stemming from this rapid uptick in energetic pollution. Historically, when spiritual tools become distorted, the wisdom within them recedes from view, leaving behind only a hollow shadow of what once was. I believe we are moving toward that fate. And because the decline will be gradual, most will not notice until the damage is irreversible.

I am a firm believer that anything in life can be a tool for growth. That said, the long-term benefits of plant medicine as a spiritual development practice are not as significant as I once believed.

One of the core teachings I received was that plant medicine is a legitimate spiritual path that should be practiced regularly. However, if this were truly the case, the long-term results should reflect the time and energy invested. Instead, what I witnessed in the most devoted practitioners—those who engaged for years—was not profound spiritual evolution but rather stagnation, illusion, and in many cases, egoic inflation.

Plant medicines grant access to higher states of consciousness, but without proper training, individuals are unable to sustain or integrate these states meaningfully. This makes medicine work particularly susceptible to spiritual bypassing, materialism, and self-delusion. Any legitimate spiritual path warns against substance use for this very reason. Advanced development requires emotional stability, a well-regulated nervous system, and a disciplined mind—qualities that are often disrupted rather than cultivated by prolonged plant medicine use.

While these medicines can serve as a catalyst—offering glimpses of the transcendent and deep self-awareness—they are not an end in themselves. Repeatedly seeking transcendent experiences without the corresponding effort to develop one’s inner faculties leads to escapism. And while plant medicines are not physically addictive, the cycle of chasing enlightenment through external substances is its own form of dependency.

When I began practicing medicine work, I was told about its many health benefits—it was said to be non-toxic, non-addictive, and to have positive effects on brain function, organ function, and overall well-being. While some of these claims may hold truth (and some research supports them), they do not present the full picture of frequent use. Long-term engagement can result in erratic sleep patterns, nervous system overload, poor mental focus, emotional dysregulation, and psychological dependence. As I mentioned earlier, these factors significantly hinder spiritual development, as it is difficult to cultivate higher states of consciousness when the body and mind are in a state of imbalance.

Among those I observed who engaged regularly in plant medicine work, I witnessed an increasing prevalence of nervous system issues—some experiencing paranoia, delusions, or confusion. In myself, after years of deep involvement, I realized that while I had become highly attuned to my emotions, I was also at their mercy. I could feel everything, but I had lost the ability to regulate and apply my insights effectively. I also struggled to maintain a healthy weight, consistently hovering ten pounds below what was optimal for my frame. This level of depletion is not found in a person who is truly balanced and well.

As a result of my years in this work, my perception became profoundly sensitive and powerful—but I was unable to regulate or constructively channel it due to how compromised my physical state had become. Because this deterioration happened gradually, I didn’t fully grasp its extent until I stepped away. It was only in hindsight that I saw just how depleted my system had been and for how long.

Some people may be comfortable with the physical toll of their choices—whether it’s hangovers, burnout, or other consequences—but any habit that diminishes a person’s vitality will inevitably limit both personal and spiritual growth. Of course, the effects of plant medicine vary from person to person, but frequent users should be mindful of how these substances impact their overall well-being and factor that into an honest discussion about both benefits and costs.

As I examined the effects more closely, I noticed a striking pattern—every advanced practitioner in the field appeared energetically compromised. It was as if they had spent years sculpting their biceps while neglecting their calves. In the realm of medicine work, their strength was evident, yet when viewed as whole spiritual beings in energetic integrity, they were profoundly underdeveloped.

The more closely I examined my own energetic body and development, the more I recognized the limitations—and even the damage—caused by my chosen approach. While I was immersed in the work, I was blind to this reality, clinging to my deeply ingrained belief that I was engaged in something wholly positive. Since leaving, I have watched many others in the field decline, both energetically and physically, while simultaneously rationalizing or dismissing the signs of deterioration.

When I began practicing medicine work, I was told about its many health benefits—it was said to be non-toxic, non-addictive, and to have positive effects on brain function, organ function, and overall well-being. While some of these claims may hold truth (and some research supports them), they do not present the full picture of frequent use. Long-term engagement can result in erratic sleep patterns, nervous system overload, poor mental focus, emotional dysregulation, and psychological dependence. As I mentioned earlier, these factors significantly hinder spiritual development, as it is difficult to cultivate higher states of consciousness when the body and mind are in a state of imbalance.

Among those I observed who engaged regularly in plant medicine work, I witnessed an increasing prevalence of nervous system issues—some experiencing paranoia, delusions, or confusion. In myself, after years of deep involvement, I realized that while I had become highly attuned to my emotions, I was also at their mercy. I could feel everything, but I had lost the ability to regulate and apply my insights effectively. I also struggled to maintain a healthy weight, consistently hovering ten pounds below what was optimal for my frame. This level of depletion is not found in a person who is truly balanced and well.

As a result of my years in this work, my perception became profoundly sensitive and powerful—but I was unable to regulate or constructively channel it due to how compromised my physical state had become. Because this deterioration happened gradually, I didn’t fully grasp its extent until I stepped away. It was only in hindsight that I saw just how depleted my system had been and for how long.

Some people may be comfortable with the physical toll of their choices—whether it’s hangovers, burnout, or other consequences—but any habit that diminishes a person’s vitality will inevitably limit both personal and spiritual growth. Of course, the effects of plant medicine vary from person to person, but frequent users should be mindful of how these substances impact their overall well-being and factor that into an honest discussion about both benefits and costs.

As I examined the effects more closely, I noticed a striking pattern—every advanced practitioner in the field appeared energetically compromised. It was as if they had spent years sculpting their biceps while neglecting their calves. In the realm of medicine work, their strength was evident, yet when viewed as whole spiritual beings in energetic integrity, they were profoundly underdeveloped.

The more closely I examined my own energetic body and development, the more I recognized the limitations—and even the damage—caused by my chosen approach. While I was immersed in the work, I was blind to this reality, clinging to my deeply ingrained belief that I was engaged in something wholly positive. Since leaving, I have watched many others in the field decline, both energetically and physically, while simultaneously rationalizing or dismissing the signs of deterioration.

As I became increasingly aware of these issues, I did my best to maintain neutrality while observing the field. I loved the work. I loved the community I had built. I saw people change and heal, and I know that good came from what we did. But I also saw that there was not enough scrutiny of the costs.

Ultimately, my decision to step away from plant medicine work was guided by three primary concerns: energetic toxicity, spiritual stagnation, and health consequences. I share this because my realizations run counter to the dominant narratives within these communities. I hope my perspective invites deeper inquiry, greater discernment, and a willingness to ask the hard questions.

As this practice rapidly expands—often with a certain naïve optimism—I believe it is essential to take a critical look. Let’s be willing to ask the hard questions. What exactly are we opening ourselves up to? If these medicines inherently lead to healing or enlightenment, wouldn’t we be much further along as a society after their resurgence in the ’60s? If set and setting are so crucial, how can we responsibly engage in this work without a deeper understanding of the broader energetic field we are stepping into? We are currently assessing the short-term benefits of one to three ceremonies for individuals struggling with mental health issues, but what are the long-term effects on those who turn to this as their primary spiritual tool?

At this point, I am clear: for the vast majority of people experimenting with plant medicines, regular and frequent use is not in their best interest. The problems within the field are being overlooked or outright dismissed—especially by the nouveau spiritual communities that have embraced these practices uncritically. I believe that those who are truly committed to spiritual advancement should be mindful of their engagement with these substances and, in most cases, limit their use.

As for me, my time with these medicines is complete. I am deeply grateful for all I have learned. I will continue to advocate for best practices and greater awareness. But unlike what I was once taught, I now see the limitations of this path and recognize that I have exhausted its benefits. Not because I stopped growing—but because I did not.

For me, my time with these medicines is complete. Not because I stopped growing as is the dogma of the field, but because I did not.