The continued exploitation of this fragile species for its DMT encapsulates narcissism itself.

Until recently, the Sonoran desert toad, Incilius alvarius (formerly Bufo alvarius) was not on my wildlife-watch radar. Then an email from the owner of a group of psychedelic retreat centers operating in Latin America, Portugal, and the Netherlands brought the greenish brownish warty native of the Sonoran desert to my attention. He was writing to let me know that the personality disorder of narcissism, the toxic world-killer which has brought life on Earth to an environmental and climatological precipice, could be cured – with psychedelics. Specifically with “Toad Venom.”

“With expert guidance and facilitation, psychedelics can help us… be collectively healthy, happy, and harmonious in the stewardship of our planet,” he wrote.

Curious, I clicked on a link for a “Transformational Bufo Alvarius Retreat (5-MeO-DMT, Toad Venom).” According to the ad, “5-MeO-DMT, also known as the sacred toad medicine, is a beautiful teacher that can lead to profound transformation when facilitated by experienced guides,” and they would be offering dimethyltryptamine (DMT) in its 5-MeO-DMT – toad form – as the chemically mediated gateway to this process.

As something of an expert in identifying displays of cognitive dissonance, the suggestion that exploiting a toad in the interest of curing Homo sapiens of his most reprehensible trait was not sneaking past my cognitive threshold.

Toads, Poaching, and Indigenous Use

I love amphibians. I always have. When I lived in Kenya as a teenager, the red legged Hyperolius viridiflavus flashed from reed to reed in the dam below the house; on a trip to Madagascar, I observed the tomato frog, Dyscophys antongilii, sequestered in a storm drain in a village; near my former home in the Sierra Nevadas, the mountain yellow-legged frog, Rana muscosa chirped in mountain lakes every spring. 

Worldwide, amphibians are the most threatened class of vertebrates on the planet. Although thought to be abundant in its home range of the Mexican state of Sonora and parts of Arizona, the Sonoran desert toad is on endangered species lists in both California and New Mexico. In Arizona, a fishing license grants collection of up to ten live Sonoran toads. Shipping them to another state or abroad is illegal and prosecutable, as is possession of the psychedelic 5-MeO-DMT.

Prohibition against toad possession has not stopped poachers though. In Arizona, poachers were caught on camera dumping toads into plastic bags in a wildlife conservation area.

Increased toad poaching and illegal transport across state borders and the US-Mexico border has recently triggered the Lacey Act, which prohibits import, export, sale, acquisition or purchase of fish, wildlife or plants transported, or sold in violation of US, Indian or international law. Law enforcement agents for the US Fish and Wildlife Service (USFWS) confirmed they are currently carrying out an investigation. Whether their efforts are successful in reducing illegal trade remains to be seen.

DMT is a trace neurotransmitter found in mammalian lungs and brains, as well as in numerous plant species. The DMT molecule was first synthesized in a lab in 1931 by Canadian chemist, Richard Manske. Its natural occurrence in plants was not confirmed in Western science until microbiologist Oswaldo Gonçalves de Lima did a biochemical study of Mimosa hostilis in 1946 after observing the Indigenous Pancuro Tacarutu (Brazil) ceremonially drinking an intoxicating brew* called vinho da jurema distilled from the plant’s root bark. In 1956, Hungarian chemist and psychiatrist, Stephen Szara extracted DMT from Mimosa hostilis, gave himself an intramuscular injection of it, and experienced a “psychotic effect to the serotonin metabolism.”

The now discredited hypothesis that Indigenous groups used a hallucinogenic compound derived from toads was put forth by anthropologist Dr. Jeannette Runquist, and reported in a 1981 issue of Omni Magazine. She described decapitated toad skeletons buried near excavations of ancient Cherokee encampments in North Carolina, and wrongly inferred that what was, in fact, food waste as the telltale sign of Indigenous mysticism.

“Food trash was taken for psychedelic magic,” said Robert Villa, Research Associate, Tumamoc Desert Laboratory, Tucson, Arizona, and President of the Tucson Herpetological Society. “Toads were skinned and eaten as survival food, as part of the ordinary diet.”

Despite claims on the part of modern healers, there is no evidence in the archeological record of toads being used ceremonially by Indigenous groups in the Americas.

“For such a significant smoke, there would have to be some record of it,” said Mr. Villa. “Even though Indigenous cultures can be good at hiding things from outside inquisition, this is too significant to go unnoticed,” he said. “The significance of the toad in Indigenous culture isn’t what people want to believe,” said Mr. Villa. One of his goals is “to stop the appropriation of Indigenous culture around the Sonoran desert toad. All of the archeological leads are dead ends.” Using the abundant depictions of toads in Mesoamerican culture to bolster the specious claim that the toads were used in psychedelic rituals represents cultural hijacking.

For ancient cultures, the life cycle of the Sonoran toad embodied rebirth and renewal. Its seasonal appearance – they spend ten months of the year underground, emerging briefly in July and August during the rainy season to mate and reproduce –  as well as its complex life cycle, which involves metamorphosis from a water-dwelling, gill-breathing, fish-like tadpole to land-dwelling, four-legged adult toad adds to its supernatural aura.

“They were thought to interact with gods of the underworld,” said Mr. Villa. In Sonora, locals avoid them as toxic. Among the Indigenous groups in northern Mexico, their appearance is associated with the arrival of seasonal rains. Disturbing them is an accursed act which can disrupt weather patterns. “You could incur damages from the gods in the form of drought or flooding if you harass a toad,” he said.

The evidence, according to Mr. Villa and other scientists who have explored the natural history of Incilius alvarius, indicates extracting and smoking toad-derived 5-MeO-DMT is a post-industrial phenomenon. It has nothing to do with cultural tradition. In recent years, however, “smoking toad” has become the new psychedelic fad, making Incilius alvarius the latest must-have in the growing list of psychedelic consumables. And in response to increasing demand from the tourism and retreat industries, one Mexican coastal group whose members have subsisted on tourism – mostly selling ironwood carvings to foreigners – have begun peddling Sonoran toad medicine to foreigners.

“The Seri, or Comcaac [an Indigenous group living on the mainland coast of the Gulf of California] adopted toad magic and medicine as a tourism item. They’re trying to make a living by facilitating people smoking this stuff. It’s not part of their history,” said Mr. Villa.

There is hearsay evidence, according to Mr. Villa, that regional cartels have begun exploiting this practice as well, as further means to extort locals in the interest of serving what is becoming a global trade.

Bufo alvarius: the Psychedelic Toad of the Sonoran Desert

The entry of toad medicine into modern psychedelia is itself a twisted tale. Back in 1981, the Omni article piqued the interest of one reclusive resident of Denton, Texas, named Ken Nelson. While studying at the University of North Texas, Mr. Nelson commenced an earnest inquiry into toad skin secretions. He came across the work of the Italian toxicologist Dr. Vittorio Erspamer, whose most important contribution to neuroscience was the identification and synthesis of the neurotransmitter, serotonin. As a toxicologist, Dr. Erspamer was most interested in the exudate from amphibian parotid glands as a possible source of new medical drugs. His chemical analysis of the venom from 40 toad species serendipitously yielded the finding Nelson had hoped for: one species, Incilius alvarius synthesized a DMT-containing substance. Mr. Nelson documented his discovery and techniques for extracting, drying and smoking 5-MeO-DMT in his 1984 pamphlet: “Bufo alvarius: the Psychedelic Toad of the Sonoran Desert,” which he published privately under the pseudonym, Albert Most.**

Unwittingly, Mr. Nelson opened a Pandora’s box. Since then, a fabricated sacred mysticism has evolved around Incilius alvarius and the DMT squeezed from its glands. Despite the explicit wishes of Mr. Nelson, an ardent conservationist, who towards the end of his life expressed concerns about the ecological repercussions from misrepresentation of his work, use of 5-MeO-DMT has skyrocketed in recent years. Even though DMT can be fabricated in a lab with legal, commercially available chemical precursors, many practitioners – such as the retreat proprietor – adhere to a new age belief that there is something mystically special about DMT extracted from live toads.

I questioned the proprietor of the psychedelic retreat about the authenticity of his claims about 5-MeO-DMT. Why could he not use the lab-formulated version? Endangering the life of a wild animal in order to cure narcissism did not jive with his stated intentions. This fat little toad about the size of my hand was the embodiment of nature itself; and yet he as a Caucasian, self-styled psychedelic healer was exploiting it as a commodity. The toad had no say in its own destiny.

The proprietor responded by invoking an unknowable mystical consciousness with which he and his associates – the people responsible for collecting toad venom – were imbued. “We know what we are doing is for the good of humankind, in keeping with the sacred spirit of those who have preceded [us] in this practice,” he said. Those who collect the toad, he said, are performing a consecrated task. One of his practitioners, a Swedish man who guides DMT sessions at his retreats, described collection and use of the toad as a sacrament: “I only order [5-MeO-DMT] through sources I know,” he said. “It’s energy medicine, so the energy has to be right.” The source, he said, was a Mexican friend who has tribal connections and harvests the medicine directly. He would never use toads gathered the way he’d seen in videos – en masse and thrown in garbage bags.

“My sources milk toads once a year. They do it with respect and prayers. They put the toads back in the same location. They mark the toads so they don’t milk them several times.” Safety and purity, he said, were of the utmost importance.

Knowing what I know, the invocation of sacred ancestral spirits looked a lot like chicanery. The toad was the prima facie victim of narcissism. 

Identification with the Divine as a way to aggrandize oneself out of personal responsibility is, unfortunately, an all-too-common maneuver in psychedelic circles. This reflexive hopscotch affords participants the luxury of justifying anything they do: their particular psychedelic experiences are so sacred and important, normal rules do not apply. Any rules, all rules – whether psychological, medical, scientific, or ethical.

“Piaget’s concepts of schema and assimilation (vs. accommodation) seem relevant for understanding many of the less desirable potential outcomes of psychedelic use, including worsened narcissism, spiritual bypassing, guruism, unethical business practice, and bad music taste,” noted psychotherapist Max Wolff wryly in a tweet.

Assimilation occurs when we modify received information to fit with our existing knowledge and assumptions. Accommodation occurs when we reshape our perceptions in response to problems posed by the environment. We restructure what we already know so that new information can enter our universes. In the psychedelic space, real learning is so rare it is nothing short of miraculous. Most of the time, psychedelic experiences are no more transformative than a day trip to Disneyland.

Although practitioners and hobbyists argue they don’t harm the toad when they milk its glands, Mr. Villa points out toads are harmed when they are handled and moved; and collecting and transporting the toads is tantamount to killing them. “They’re very territorial,” he said. “Imagine if someone picked you from your house, put you in a sack and then moved you to the Saudi Arabian desert and left you there. Would you survive? Would you know how to get home?”

Toad Populations and a Moral Travesty

The biggest impediment to toad conservation, said Mr. Villa, is the absence of real population data. “To identify the problem, we have to have a snapshot of the past, a baseline. We don’t have that.”

The toad’s life cycle itself presents a challenge to population assessment. For most of the year, mature adults live underground in a quiescent state. They emerge when it starts raining, and there’s a breeding frenzy. Adult toads are conspicuous for about a month, then they go underground again. Tadpoles can be seen swimming in surface ponds until they mature. If there’s a lengthy drought, the subterranean toads survive in a state of something like suspended animation for years, making live populations hard to count. Years can pass when very few are observed. A rainstorm, and there are thousands where there were none.

“We think they live a long time,” said Thomas R. Jones, Ph.D., Amphibians and Reptiles Program Manager for the Arizona Department of Game and Fish. “We don’t think three or even more years of poor rainfall affects the toads. They persist. When it finally rains, they come back out again,” he said.

The Arizona Department of Game and Fish has been monitoring a population at one site, but the data don’t account for the toads’ vast range, which stretches from the Sonoran desert in northern Mexico through Arizona and parts of New Mexico. Climate change, habitat destruction, and increased poaching add further obstacles. A local population in southeastern California was extirpated decades ago. None have been observed since the 1970s.

Counting their numbers does not address the fundamental problem with exploiting the toads, though, as reducing an amphibian member of the Sonoran desert ecosystem into raw material in service of a global supply chain is a moral travesty.

“Solutions most people conceive of as viable are implicitly biased by capitalism,” said Mr. Villa. “You might hear: ‘We’ll just breed them in captivity.’ In Hungary, there’s a small-scale operator doing it. Most captive breeding programs fail in some way.” There’s the problem of crowding, of waste water contamination, and of the captive animals becoming reservoirs for amphibian diseases like chytrid. The idea of breeding something to exploit is itself repugnant to Mr. Villa.

“There are more cogs than people really understand when it comes to this,” said Mr. Villa. “Few people have the ability to contemplate whether what they’re consuming is directly exploiting Indigenous people or an ecosystem. Does someone smoking 5-MeO-DMT in an east coast city consider whether they’re directly or indirectly exploiting someone down the supply chain?”

Chemists who formulate DMT have concluded there is no qualitative difference between psychedelic trips using the lab-made product and 5-MeO-DMT extracted from the toad’s parotid gland. Although the argument has been made that other compounds such as bufotenine, another tryptamine psychedelic found in low concentrations in some toad secretions, can contribute a certain je ne sais quoi to the experience, repeated testing of Incilius alvarius secretions yielded negligible bufotenine concentrations. There is no entourage effect. Furthermore, chemically and metabolically, formulated DMT is far purer. Samples of the dried toad secretion typically contain about 30 percent 5-MeO-DMT by mass. The remaining 70 percent is composed mostly of salts, proteins, and other high molecular weight chemicals. In other words, it’s saliva.

To suggest there’s anything special about 5-MeO-DMT flouts an established, well-respected component of the psychedelic tradition. More than any other factor, the subject’s own mindset – part of the psychedelic “set and setting” equation – determines how the trip goes.

5-MeO-DMT extracted from Incilius alvarius won’t cure narcissism. Projecting our spiritual expectations onto a toad only harms the toad.

*Goncalves de Lima, O. (1946). Observacio es sobre o “vinho de Jurema” utilizado pelos indios Pancaru’ de Tacaratu’ (Pernambuco) [Observations on the “vinho de Jurema” used by the Pancaru’ Indians of Tacaratu’ (Pernambuco)]. Ariquivos do Instituto de Pesquisas Agronomicas, 4, 45–80.

**Most, Albert. Bufo alvarius: the Psychedelic Toad of the Sonoran Desert. 1984; updated 2020. Venom Press. Denton, Texas. The 2020 updated edition contains detailed instructions for synthesizing DMT in a lab.

By Court Wing

Leading psychedelic researcher, Robin Carhart-Harris, speaks with a participant in a psilocybin for depression trial on the potential of psychedelics.

After our Op-Ed, “Re-evaluating the Results of the Recent Trial of Psilocybin vs Escitalopram for Depression”, came out, the author, Court Wing, followed up with Dr. Carhart-Harris to discuss the results and the public’s perception of them in more depth.

The two have an intimate conversation that spans from how Carhart-Harris’s work began, how his theories, like the REBUS model, took shape, and what other applications psilocybin may have for treating mental, spiritual, and physical health conditions.

The interview has an interesting twist because Wing participated in an NYU trial of psilocybin for major depressive disorder and experienced full remission from a recurrent battle with depression after his first dose of the magic mushroom compound. Wing shares a lot of his first hand experience with Robin Carhart-Harris on how the trial he participated in changed his mood state and mindset, and what the possible neurochemical changes felt like subjectively.

Court Wing: Is this, in any way, in the arc of what you expected to see when you started out this research?

Robin Carhart-Harris: Wow. Hmm… Maybe it is. Or… no it’s not. No. [laughs] I mean, after a few years, you start to realize the therapeutic potential, or I did.

Initially, it was like, psychedelics are fascinating tools… Powerful tools to revolutionize our understanding of the mind and the brain. That’s what drew me in. And then I was like, “Oh, and the therapeutic application is actually very compelling.” Once I caught onto that (and this was probably sort of midway through my PhD in the late noughties, you know, late 2000s). Then, I remember, Ben Sessa was trying to get a psilocybin for alcoholism study going at Bristol, where I was doing my Ph.D. We had meetings with seniority, who basically weren’t interested in our idea. And then I said, “Leave it ten years,” and we’ll be able to do this research. I think someone said once, “You overestimate what you can achieve in a year and underestimate what can be achieved in ten.”

That rings true. The changes in a decade have been colossal so it’s been beyond expectations, really.

CW: Personally, it’s hard not to feel a great deal of gratitude for the work that you’ve all done. As you know, I went through the NYU psilocybin study for major depressive disorder a year ago. And [now I’m in] total remission. I mean, just so unexpected. And I read the research, I saw the reports, I read the review paper of the neural mechanisms, which actually was the first thing that truly excited me because I had lost track of the prefrontal cortex atrophy and seeing words like neurogenesis, synaptogenesis, dendritic arborization; it’s like, that’s part and parcel of what I had been studying in things like chronic pain for the last ten plus years. But to go through it and to feel a physical absence of the depression; I don’t have a better term for it. Like a missing burden.

Anyways, what type of data were you seeing [early on] that made you want to pursue this on a study level? Because it’s one thing to hear about this stuff occurring anecdotally, but then to [say], “Boy, there’s enough traction there that I think we really have something”?

RCH: Yeah, yeah. I think if we rewind to the end of the 2000s or even earlier, mostly in terms of mental health data, it was abstract. It was the work done in the 50s and 60s that we looked at as a historical curiosity.

It wasn’t enough to put that and Indigenous use in [a] healing context. It wasn’t enough to put that together in my mind and think, “Oh, this is really compelling.” So a few things made the difference. And I think sometimes you need to (even though I’m a scientist, and I shouldn’t say this, in a way), you do sort of need to see things with your own eyes. And what made a big difference for me was doing our own brain imaging research.

Taking healthy volunteers, looking in their brains and seeing things that were suggestive of an antidepressant effect, and then listening to them say, “I feel lighter. I feel unburdened.” And then thinking, well, now this seems really tangible. And that makes sense in the context of Roland [Griffiths]’s work in healthy volunteers, and Charlie Grob’s work in end-of-life anxiety.

So then we started piecing things together for a UK Medical Research Council grant. And that got through. And the reviews were remarkably good. I don’t know, but I imagined some fellow researchers in this space were allowed to review our proposal and did us a favor, because the reviews across the board were top marks. And I think, then the UKMRC were in a difficult situation, because [they thought], “How do we reject this when everyone’s saying this is really top quality research that they’re proposing?” And actually, we proposed a double blind randomized control trial then in 2012 that we couldn’t complete until 2021 because of the difficulties of actually doing the research. We ended up doing that open label trial that was published.

But I would say, a turning point for me was the first patient in our TRD [Treatment Resistant Depression] trial. She just responded remarkably. She visibly became a different person from heavy, head down, minimal eye contact, tearing up when starting to open up, no smiles—gosh, no, just frowns. And then, after the treatment, the warmth and the color and the smiling and a beautiful smile came on her face. And it was just a wonderful, beautiful thing. It’s such a privilege to be able to do that for someone. And that was a massive turning point. It was like, “Oh, my goodness, this really works.”

CW: Yeah. It’s startling, trying to describe to people the one-day turnaround quality of this. And I think it’s actually very much undersold, because I told the researchers, Dr. Stephen Ross at NYU and my facilitators afterwards. You know, I went through the MADRS scores, which you are now more than familiar with [laughs], and at the end of the session, one of the facilitators [asked me], “So how do you feel?” And I’m like, “Oh, good.” And then I did a deeper scan, like reflexively, and I was like, “Good.” Like, I could tell it was gone. And I was like, “That fast? Honest to God, that fast?” And they’re like, “Well, we’ll know when you’re unblinded.” But in retrospect, if I had been given the chance to take the original MADRS evaluation again, my scores would have gone higher. Because now in the absence [of depressive symptoms], I can tell how much more severe they were. It’s a strange thing.

One thing that you’ve said a couple times here, and perhaps it’s a figure of speech, but I believe there’s a somatic quality to it. And since you brought up the fMRI studies, you mentioned people discussing feeling lighter, feeling unburdened, like there’s this description of the condition that has this feeling of extreme heaviness or being bogged down. So there’s some aspect that involves this interoceptive quality where there’s obviously slower reaction times and things like that, but what do you think is operating there? Because I remember, in the fMRI studies, you guys were a little bit surprised by seeing the type of changes in blood flow that were going on. I believe, [you] expected one thing and instead ended up with something else. Do you have any thoughts to that area?

RCH: Yeah, yeah. I’ve often thought (and experience has endorsed this view) that we often intuit mechanisms through our language, the way we’re describing the experience, and whether or not there’s some kind of priming effect or not. Maybe it is [priming], but also, I’m not sure it really matters, when ultimately you do the research and see that it’s endorsed. But the analogies that you’re used to hearing today (the popular ones, or the well-used ones) around heaviness and being bogged down; it’s all weight related. There’s heaviness, there’s weight. You know, you get bogged down. So there’s a gravitational pull to the depression, which means it pulls you in and you can’t get out very easily. And I think (I’ve got to intuit, because we don’t know yet, but) it’s something to do with synaptic weighting, and that certain circuitry gets weighted. If we really zoom in on a very low level, it’s probably the synaptic weighting certain connections belonging to certain circuitry associated with heavy introspection. [They] get heavily weighted in depression.

What happens? Well, that’s another fascinating question, and maybe a different question. But let’s just say that that’s the character. On a descriptive level, that’s the character of chronic depression and a depressive episode is that you get stuck. Literally, you get stuck in a certain sort of dynamic configuration because that heavy synaptic weighting is the reinforcement of that.

CW: So is this the energy minima that you and [Karl] Friston are describing in your paper? 

RCH: Yeah, it’s very relevant. In people’s people’s mind’s eyes, they can imagine a landscape. And in a depressive episode, you literally have a depression in that landscape. And if you imagine a ball being able to move in this landscape, and that being your mind at any given time, then in a depression, the ball is spending a disproportionate amount of time in the depression in that landscape. It falls in very easily, [and it’s] very difficult to get it out. And so what psychedelics are doing is just pushing up that depression and flattening the landscape.

CW: Right. I’ve heard the ski slope analogy. So either we have fresh powder that’s either filling up the depression, or we have some sort of artificial means like a snow plow that’s smoothing everything out. So if we were to just roughly characterize the nervous system as biasing towards efficiency, even if that depressor, that enemy energy minima is more efficient, it’s not necessarily more effective anymore in our daily lives. At some point, it was the 2A adaptation toward some high priority event, but now it’s become maladaptive… I listened to that lecture by Andrés Gómez Emilsson of QRI [Qualia Research Institute]. There’s this discussion of criticality with the mind and with a depression. It’s almost, to some degree, like an event horizon, almost. Right? The pull is so strong, it’s very hard to get out of there. So why is it, once that landscape is flattened, as these new neural connections in the functional connectivity are occurring, why does it resort into a better, healthier connection? I mean, if this quality of openness is being promoted, why are we defaulting back to something that’s more useful, something that’s healthier, something that’s more, I guess, effective, as well as efficient?

RCH: Yeah. I actually do think that the fresh covering of snow is a good analogy. So if you’re born into this world, and you haven’t been affected by life in any particular way, you have a very smooth, fresh ground of snow there. And I suppose, what’s happening with the psychedelic experience; I mean, this is very mechanistic, and is not putting much on the therapeutic component and so, that’s a little dangerous to put it all on, like, “The brain resets.”

CW: Sorry. Yeah, well, the intent makes a huge difference. That’s clear.

RCH: It does. And so, you could have the snow falling, and you can manipulate things in a way that potentially could even reinforce certain circuitry. But that doesn’t happen, because the contextual; the environment in which you have the psychedelic experience is nurturing in the way that it should be for a newborn coming into the world: You’re not trying to heavily indoctrinate them or drive them in any particular direction, other than to care for them and just say, “You are safe, and I will hold you as we move through life.”

But you know, things could go in a horrible direction there. Horrible kinds of things could happen that could start to reinforce a certain shape to the snow. And so anyway, I think it’s a mix. It’s a mix of the fresh falling of the snow [and] shaking the snow globe, [which] is the one [metaphor] that I came up with personally. But the fresh falling of the snow is like an old neuroplasticity analogy. And there is something called the plasticity paradox, which says that plasticity, in and of itself, isn’t necessarily healing, but if the plasticity comes and is utilized in a positive way (and so in the context of psychedelic therapy, it’s utilized and honest in a therapeutic way), then you have the magic sauce.

And so I like to say these days in as many interviews as I can [is] that psychedelic therapy is fundamentally a combination treatment. It’s not just shaking the snow globe. You could shake the snow globe in someone already psychologically unstable, and when the snow settles, it might not be a great picture. But you shake the snow globe in someone who’s ready for this to happen, and it happens in a perfectly nurturing, supportive environment, then the snow is going to settle. I think you can feel quite confident that the snow is going to settle in a healthier way.

CW: Do you think beyond just the psychiatric applications, which seem quite vast still—I mean, honestly, the smoking cessation and cocaine addiction early results… are just completely astonishing—but do you think there are lateral applications? Obviously, I’m quite invested in the changes that are possible, I think, for chronic pain of a potentially non-nociceptive type, but even for nociceptive chronic pain. I have to give credit here to Dr. Brendan Hussey. I saw his presentation on your REBUS model back in July with a MAPS Canada Journal Club, and he had an amazing slide deck. And, I, myself, personally, had a very deep revelation on March 6th, which was the day after I went through [psilocybin-assisted therapy] (March 5th [was] my dosing day) where it’s like, all of these things suddenly opened up where it’s like this can change this whole picture here. Once I saw Brendan’s work describing yours and I had a visual, [I realized] the REBUS model completely overlies the descriptions for the last decade and a half of what’s going on in chronic pain, in terms of how a pain neurosignature is formed. Have you thought about it at all? I think it’s like, beyond psychological.

RCH: Well, that’s fascinating. Maybe there’s some things there that I don’t know that I could learn. We are planning a chronic pain trial in fibromyalgia with psilocybin therapy.

It’ll start at the end of this year at Imperial. I’m moving to UCSF, but that trial will carry on with the money that I was lucky enough to bring in.

[It relates to] the REBUS model in the sense that the precision weighting is exactly what we’re talking about here. Assumptions are heavily weighted. Certain assumptions—you might call them pathological assumptions, you might even call them adaptive assumptions, defensive assumptions—deserve a bit of compassion, because the body of [the] mind is doing its best to try and stabilize things in a way. So in a sense, depressive episodes, eating disorders, image disorders, chronic pain, they’re often the body and the mind trying to do their best defensive strategies. But we’d rather not have them, you know? And then that takes some bravery, doesn’t it?

Perhaps this is most acute in something like anorexia, where the [adaptation] is so maladaptive, it’s killing people often. It’s ego-syntonic for the sufferer, meaning they don’t see themselves as suffering, like, “This is good, this is working.” And so, it’s adaptive, maladaptive, it depends how you look at it, but to most eyes, it’s maladaptive. But it takes bravery, because [people think], “Oh my goodness, you’re going to take away this thing that I need?” like in an addiction. Like, “I’m not ready to give this up, I need this!”

You know, and there’s sort of irony there: “I’ll die without it.” It’s like, “No, you’ll die with it.” But that’s the sort of pivot, isn’t it? And again, it brings us to the requirement. Sometimes, actually, a conscious decision needs to be made to let go, both in the experience itself, but also the decision to have the treatment in the first place.

CW: You spent the better part of a week, pre-publication [of the “Psilocybin vs. Escitalopram for Depression” trial], going through this long explanation of how someone should look at a study as both proposed and then executed, and then how the results are interpreted, and how a journal can also interpret those things. But you took it upon yourself, I think, slightly unusually, to kind of let people know: Really go to the tables, go to the appendices, that’s where you’re going to see the striking numbers. And there’s been many expert reviews saying, “Well, okay, they were wise to in fact not do an adjusted comparison, because then it doesn’t account for the random chance possibility that it’s just a statistical anomaly,” right?

At the same time, honestly, I met someone who also went through the same trial I went through up at Yale, [being treated for] 26 years of major depressive disorder and [then experiencing] full remission. We couldn’t stop going on about the MADRS [depression rating] scores. I understand the QIDS [depression symptomatology scale] one, and now there’s a little buyer’s remorse in there about like, “Ahh, why [did we choose] this one [for the psilocybin vs escitalopram study]? Why this one [QIDS]?”

RCH: [laughing] I know.

CW: And there’s been some criticism that in the prereq, if I’m saying it correctly, where there was kind of one expected outcome that was supposed to be measured, and they [New England Journal of Medicine] were saying there is one way that was registered with the US boards and another way with the UK boards, and that, in the paper itself, it didn’t actually discuss those things. But it doesn’t feel like you guys were pulling a dodge or anything like that. And I think even if people just look at the QIDS remission and response rates and the secondary outcomes; I mean, I am trying not to fanboy all over the place, but it’s so commensurate with what happened for me and what other people have described.

RCH: Yeah. It was a very interesting experience. We certainly didn’t in any way, or could be accused of pulling a dodge. I would say one way to look at how all of this has gone is that we played it so straight, and so the miss on the primary has to be reported because it was pre-registered ahead of the trial to be the primary.

Do we regret choosing the QIDS as the primary? Well, of course we do. And now we understand. Actually, and this could be sort of sour grapes, speaking to a bias in favor of psilocybin, but I do believe it’s not a great measure. And you just have to look at that forest plot that I’ve now pinned to my Twitter page, to see that it’s an anomaly. It looks like a false negative. And I think the right interpretation is that it’s likely to be a false negative and these two conditions do separate.

So we played it very straight. Was it bad luck? Well, if you believe that the ground truth is that psilocybin is the better treatment, and that hasn’t come through because of the miss on the primary, then yes, it’s bad luck. And so part of the effort in trying to get ahead of the messaging was just that; to try and keep people closer to the results themselves, and to say, “Look at the results in some detail.” And that’s quite unusual, I think, for researchers to do.

CW: Yes!

RCH: They’re often more wanting people to hear their narrative. And I was sort of, in a sense, saying, “Look beyond the narrative (because it wasn’t our narrative, it was the editor of the journal), and look at the results. And you decide.” I felt that we were made to spin the results in a way that misled the reader, that didn’t accurately represent the results. And that bothered me. So I felt I had to communicate to people early on, and I couldn’t say it at that stage, because I couldn’t reveal the results. 

So all I was saying to people was trying to explain the nature of the stats, and then say, you know, if there’s anything you do here, just look at the results in detail, and go to that supplementary appendix. The way we were treated in terms of not being allowed to include that forest plot, what’s the agenda there? Hiding results? It’s very questionable. And I’ve stopped short of getting conspiratorial about it, but it’s almost like, “Well, let’s move that out of the way, and, you know, lift this one up, it’s missed on the primary.” And there was so much more to see.

It was an unusual experience. And it felt like the power of [the] deep establishment wanting to frame things a particular way, like, “Nothing to see here. Carry on, everything’s as usual everybody. SSRIs are for everybody.” I don’t know.

CW: It certainly wasn’t your first rodeo. It’s not as if you were fresh to letting results out or doing deep, intimate work with a well-received theoretical basis, right? And yet, they’re almost acting like, “Well, these young fellows, what a nice idea they have,” or something like that.

RCH: Yeah, [it’s] one of the issues with doing psychedelic research. [It’s] almost by saying, “I’m a psychedelic researcher,” [that] you’re seen as somehow a lesser scientist.

And the deep establishment has that position on things. I actually think there’s some published work on this where people have looked at the opinion of scientific peers on those who declare whether they’ve had a personal psychedelic experience or not, and it does transpire that peers view people disclosing their personal uses as suggesting that they’re a weaker scientist in some way. And that’s kind of frustrating, but it is what it is.

But there are some very high standards that we’re being assessed by here, standards that haven’t always been in place. As SSRIs have developed and got through, there’s been a lot of scandal and bad practice in terms of the data on SSRIs. So playing it very straight as we did, and, in a sense, underselling the results, I’m kind of okay with, because I know in time, the truth will [come] out. And the whole area has been getting so excited and expectations are so high that a little bit of moderation at this stage with this particular trial is probably a good thing. So I sort of accept it somewhat reluctantly, in terms of the way the paper was framed. But it got into the New England Journal of Medicine.

CW: Yes it did.

RCH: And that was really important.

CW: And even if it was a moderate, conservative, staid description of the results, the results were like: It [psilocybin] was just as good as our standard of care [SSRIs] right now. And the appendix; that’s why I wrote the Op-Ed for Psychedelics Today, just to say, look, he’s been telling us, and anyone who’s gone through this, that went into full remission, can say this is not even remotely close to the same thing. I almost wonder if the quality of remission that we’re discussing between the SSRI and psilocybin, if, internally, it’s two different types of remission? Because I’ve been on the other stuff, and this is not that. It isn’t.

RCH: The one result that’s most impressive is probably the remission rates. What we’re seeing with the escitalopram (and this probably reflects a more general rule) is improvement in symptom severity, but not reliably into remission. I think that’s it. If remission is ultimately what you want with a treatment, which of course it is—to be free of the disorder—then you’re much more likely to achieve that (twice as likely to achieve that) on the most conservative measure on the trial with the psilocybin.

CW: I think [on] day two of the study, there [were] approximately (depending on which score you used), something like 25 to 30 plus people [who] had stopped being depressed on day two. I truly envied the fact that you guys were running a two-dose study, because it did seem like, from my perspective, even though things had gotten remarkably better [for me], that a second dose would have made a big difference.

RCH: What time point, Court, do you think a second dose would have made [the] most sense?

CW: I think you guys have got it right on the money. Honestly.

I think three weeks. It’s like you have that first week where you’re just kind of in this freefall, like, “My God, is it really this simple?” And then starting to incorporate it in the following week, you know, kind of like, “Is this stable?” Probably doing a lot of reality checking. And then [you’re] just waiting for that ghost of the previous condition to kind of re-emerge. And then by week three, you’re now actually starting to incorporate all this and it’s like, “I have more questions.” I keep regretting the time I didn’t spend under the eyeshades. [laughs]

Honestly, you know, at a certain point, there [were] things [I was] so compelled to talk about, you know? I wasn’t psychedelically naive. 25 plus years earlier, someone had led me on a set-and-setting transpersonal session with [a] high-dose [of] LSD, and that had been remarkable, honestly, for years. But this was… the psychological material that emerged, it’s like, I had no idea [that] the things that came up were going to, and so a second session, like, by week three, it’s like I had formed enough around what had occurred in the first session. It could have been five weeks and that would have been fine.

But I think if you’re talking about things in the course of treatment, like say, spatial summation vs. temporal summation, I think to kind of maintain that intensity level for that neuroplasticity to really gel, usually you need novelty and intensity. And I think Andrés Gómez Emilsson could probably argue this quality of valence. I think three weeks seems just about right. I don’t know. I’m thinking of Ros Watts, and she’s like a bodhisattva on the planet, I swear. Every time I hear her voice, it’s so calming and reassuring. But I think in the three week period, beyond that, you start to get almost lonely for your therapist and the session, if that makes sense. So, you know, it’s just like, “Ah, good. I finally got to go back to that thing again.”

It’s an extraordinary time [considering] what’s just happened with the MDMA and PTSD studies. And I think that’s about their spread there, too. They have three sessions. And I think (don’t quote me on this) it’s something like three weeks apart.

RCH: Right, okay. Maybe we intuited things the same way.

CW: Yeah.

RCH: It’s a promising time.

CW: Yeah, it is. I’m sorry, we’ve come to time and I don’t want to chew up any more of yours. You’ve been very generous. And just once again [nervously laughs]… See, I used to be very reactive. When I’d say things like this, it was impossible not to get choked up and I’m kind of struggling to be a good representative here, but honestly, it’s [holding back tears]… quite a life.

RCH: Yeah, I hear you Court.

CW: I took mine [psilocybin-assisted therapy] 10 days before the lockdown in New York City. I can’t imagine… I’ve been inside with my boys for a year. I can’t imagine what would have happened if it had been the placebo…

Anything in closing? And also I should [mention], Kyle and Joe, and now Michelle, at Psychedelics Today, were extraordinarily welcoming. They’ve created such an incredible community with so much information there, and really a very broad spectrum. This brings in a very large tent of people. But any final thoughts to offer or anything that’s emerged from the studies in terms of like, lateral effects that have surprised you or anything like that? I’m fascinated to see what else is going to be changed by this quality of openness being enhanced. Because that really, that’s so many things besides just like, no longer being locked in iterative rumination. It’s a whole spectrum of life possibilities and cultural assumptions.

RCH: Yeah. There’s a lot of other measures in the paper, the secondary measures. The REBUS model has a focus more on the relaxing of the top-down, but when you talk to people, often the pertinent statement is, “The things that came up.” I think that’s an important space to get a better handle on in the future. What is that? You know, what is that mechanistically, “The things that come up”? I’d love to understand that better. I mean, I’m mechanistically minded, so I tend to go there.

But it’s been wonderful to chat to you and I very much am moved by what you told me. And I’m so pleased that you’ve had the experience that you’ve had, and it’s helped you as it has. It’s wonderful to hear that. It makes it all worthwhile, what we’re all doing.

This interview has been edited for clarity and grammar.

About the Author

Court Wing has been a professional in the performance and rehab space for the last 30 years. Coming from a performing and martial arts background, Court served as a live-in apprentice to the US Chief Instructor for Ki-Aikido for five years, going on to win the gold medal for the International Competitors Division in Japan in 2000 and achieving the rank of 3rd degree black belt. In 2004, Court became the co-founder of New York’s largest and oldest crossfit gym, and has been featured in the New York Times, Sunday Routine, Men’s Fitness, and USA Today. He is also a certified Z-Health Master Trainer, using the latest interventions in applied neuro-physiology for remarkable improvements in pain, performance, and rehabilitation. You can find out more on his website: https://courtwing.com .

By Sean Lawlor

Could taking and integrating ketamine in groups make psychedelic therapy more accessible?

As psychedelic-assisted therapy continues marching into the mainstream, the issue of how absurdly expensive the treatment is continues to present countless difficulties. Of the strategies practitioners are taking to circumvent this problem, one of the most promising—and underreported—approaches is offering psychedelic-assisted group therapy.

Despite promising preliminary research using psilocybin in small groups to treat depression in cancer patients and MDMA-assisted therapy for couples where one partner has PTSD—and ignoring the fact that psilocybin-containing mushrooms are traditionally taken in group ceremonies in Mexico—ketamine is the only psychedelic medicine that’s already legally used in  psychedelic-assisted therapy. Let’s take a look at the emerging world of group ketamine-assisted psychotherapy, its benefits as well as drawbacks.

Group Ketamine-Assisted Psychotherapy

Though traditionally used as an anesthetic, ketamine, an Essential Medicine of the World Health Organization, is now widely being prescribed off-label by qualified practitioners to treat a host of mental health diagnoses, including depression, addiction, PTSD, and chronic pain.

Ketamine-assisted psychotherapy—“KAP” for short—is a growing mental health treatment option for people who meet diagnostic criteria. In line with most psychedelic therapy protocols, KAP involves a sequence of medicine sessions, in which clients take the substance with the mental health professional present, and sober therapy sessions referred to as “preparation” and “integration.” Through KAP, many people are finding healing where prevailing mental health treatments have fallen short.

Also in line with most psychedelic therapy protocols, KAP is really freaking expensive.

Though ketamine’s effects are relatively short-acting compared to MDMA and psilocybin, therefore requiring fewer therapist hours to pay for, sessions still cost several hundred dollars. Ongoing treatment can quickly climb into the thousands.

Even ketamine “infusion centers,” which involve no therapy, tend to charge $400-$600 for each intravenous infusion—and they typically make it clear that lasting symptom relief only occurs after several rounds. At such centers, folks may receive infusions in group rooms, but oftentimes it’s more akin to the way you’d find yourself sitting on a sterile lab chair next to some stranger at a plasma donation center, while someone who doesn’t want to hear about your problems sticks a needle in your vein and leaves. While this might help some folks, costs remain abundant.

Group ketamine-assisted psychotherapy is different. Though there is currently no published research on group KAP’s efficacy, ketamine’s legality via prescription allows therapists to smoothly translate the modality into groups. As group members can then split the price of the therapist’s time—the largest contributor to high costs of treatment—the overall cost decreases significantly.

Raquel Bennett, Psy.D., is a psychotherapist and researcher who specializes in ketamine-assisted psychotherapy, who also teaches our masterclass on ketamine ethics as part of our Navigating Psychedelics for Clinicians and Therapists course. She practices in Berkeley, CA, where she runs the KRIYA Ketamine Research Institute. Bennett has been studying the therapeutic properties of ketamine since 2002, when a personal encounter with the medicine sparked her awareness of its powerful antidepressant properties. That was over a decade before infusion centers started popping up, well before “ketamine-assisted psychotherapy” was a term.

“I was studying this long before it was cool,” Bennett tells Psychedelics Today with a laugh.

Motivated by a desire to lower cost and increase accessibility, Bennett began facilitating ketamine groups with her medical partners in 2016. The same motivation also prompted the Wholeness Center, a leading ketamine therapy clinic and psychedelic research site in Colorado, to offer ketamine therapy groups as well. Scott Shannon, M.D., who founded Wholeness in 2010, teamed with colleague Sandra Fortson, LCSW, to offer the clinic’s first ketamine therapy group last year.

“One of the most prominent reasons why I endorse and am exploring group therapy is that it solves one of the greatest drawbacks of the psychedelic model right now, which is that psychedelic therapy is a treatment of the affluent,” Shannon tells Psychedelics Today. “Instead of offering KAP for three or four hundred dollars a session, group therapy brings the cost down closer to a hundred dollars a session, which is a big difference.”

Fortson elaborates on how significant that difference can be: “Clients are looking at a savings of almost 50% for a 5-week KAP group curriculum—including medical clearance, intake, 3 experiential sessions and final integration session.”

At the time of writing, Shannon and Fortson have facilitated two groups, each spanning five sessions. They are currently planning for a third and foresee group KAP as an important option in the Wholeness Center’s future psychedelic therapy offerings.

What Group Ketamine Therapy Looks Like

Bennett breaks down the process of ketamine-assisted psychotherapy into four essential steps: 

1. Patient selection 
2. Patient preparation 
3. The medicine session  
4. Follow-up care

At the preliminary level of patient selection, legal concerns must be taken seriously. “In order to participate in a ketamine group, you still have to fully meet the criteria for a clinically necessary treatment,” Bennett explains. “It’s currently not legally defensible for a person to participate in a group just because they want a ketamine experience.”

Both Wholeness and KRIYA use a cohort model where the same participants come together at scheduled times, and their series of sessions begins and ends together. Throughout that process, the group engages in both ketamine and non-ketamine sessions together, the latter of which involves working through their challenges and implementing insights into their lives with the support of the therapist(s) and fellow group members.

Shannon and Fortson have limited their cohorts to four people due to COVID-19 restrictions and social distancing protocols. Going forward, Shannon envisions groups of eight participants, which would require two therapists present. At KRIYA, Bennett has found that five or six participants with two clinicians is an optimal ratio.

At the Wholeness Center, participants sit on bean bag chairs in socially-distanced corners of a large room. During the ketamine sessions, members are given eyeshades along with their measured doses. Specifically-curated music plays through speakers, and Shannon and Fortson remain present in the space, supporting as needed and facilitating conversation if appropriate—and if possible, for at higher doses of ketamine, folks often temporarily lose their capacity to form words with their abruptly-nonexistent mouths.

There are three primary routes of administration in ketamine-assisted psychotherapy: 

1. Lozenges (held in the mouth)
2. Intravenous (IV) administration 
3. Intramuscular (IM) injection

All three require an MD’s prescription, and the latter two require a nurse or doctor for administration. Dose ranges vary significantly in each route—though low-dose sessions are often orally administered, while high-dose sessions typically come through IV or IM.

Each route yields a unique experience in terms of onset, depth, length, and intensity. Different routes of administration and doses are associated with the treatment of different conditions—in individual KAP, for example, high-dose IM treatment is often regarded as uniquely effective for suicidality. At KRIYA, doses and routes of administration are determined based on individual and group assessments.

“As providers, we need to be clear about what effects we are going for, and then make our dose recommendations based on that,” says Bennett. “That varies depending on the needs of the group and what we’re trying to accomplish.”

Regardless of dose and route of administration, ketamine sessions at KRIYA follow a consistent protocol. “Our ketamine groups include an opening ritual, time for sharing, the ketamine administration, quiet rest, and a potluck meal, with more time for sharing,” Bennett explains. 

The frequency of group sessions at KRIYA varies. “For some cohorts, the participants come once per month for four consecutive months. In other cohorts, the participants come once per quarter, four times in a year,” describes Bennett.

A capacity for fluidity and openness is called for on the part of the therapists, along with a willingness to learn from the groups and attune to the members’ needs.

“Sometimes, we ask people to share something that feels heavy on their heart, and that usually opens a conversation,” Bennett says. “Then, we move to something they feel grateful for—it’s very helpful to invite people to enter a positive mindset as the medicine is wearing off, because that then seems to linger. Other times, we are quiet and simply hold the space as people spontaneously work on what they need to work on.”

At the Wholeness Center, ketamine groups have thus far followed fixed, five-session structures. Shannon details the process:

“We start with a prep session, where we get to know each other and build rapport. The second session is a low-dose oral experience, which doesn’t put people in a full, dissociated state. It reduces their inhibitions, opens up their heart; what we find is that people actually bond very well during that session. They feel safe and secure. In the third session, which is a moderate-to-higher-dose oral session, they begin to have deeper, fuller psychedelic experiences. We really encourage people and give them the instruction that they can come in and out at will. If they want to come into more consensual reality, they can talk with us, connect with us, or their peers even—or they can go inside if they’re feeling pulled to explore.

“That third session begins to give them the taste of the more full-fledged psychedelic experience,” Shannon continues. “In the fourth session, they have a high-dose IM experience, where they’re going to fully dissociate and go into their personal inner space. People reenter the group space at various times as they’re ready and able, and come back and process it. Then, the fifth session is an integration session.”

Unlike the varied frequencies of KRIYA’s groups, the Wholeness Center’s groups meet once a week. Shannon is not attached to that model and expresses that future groups may follow different formats. Likewise, Bennett remains open to new possibilities. Even after all her years of ketamine research, she reflects, “We are always learning and trying things to find the most effective strategies.”

How to Establish a Safe Group Culture

For an effective group, a culture of safety and trust must be established. One way of doing that is to create “homogenous” groups, where all members share common struggles, such as depression or anxiety. The Wholeness Center, for instance, is in the process of creating a KAP group to treat PTSD experienced by COVID first responders, as well as a group for alcohol addictions.

At KRIYA, Bennett is not attached to homogeneity as a necessity, yet she recognizes that disregard for commonality among group members can be detrimental to the group’s safety, and therefore efficacy. 

“It is possible to have somebody in the group who is on such a different page than the other folks that it really puts the group out of balance,” she explains. “We try not to do that.”

Bennett circumvents issues related to group imbalances by focusing on preliminary assessment. She describes the assessment process as an under-regarded component of psychedelic healing, the “magic for helping people to get better in the fastest and most cost-effective way.” If therapists take a first come, first serve approach to their groups, imbalances are bound to emerge, negatively impacting trust and safety.

“Not everyone is a good candidate for group treatment,” Bennett candidly states. “Ketamine is a fickle medicine. People need to feel physically and emotionally safe in order to have big and beautiful and expansive experiences. They need time to relax into the space and develop trust with us.”

For example, Bennett has found that people with complex trauma are better suited for individual work, noting that these folks “are often better served by having the individual attention of the therapist.”

Shannon underscores the necessity of a detailed intake process to ensure safety. When group safety and assessment are sufficiently prioritized, however, he has found that ketamine presents very little risk to individuals or groups in a therapeutic context.

“People are screened ahead of time for concerning medical or psychiatric issues,” Shannon says. “We haven’t seen any safety issues in our groups so far. I think that reflects our experience with KAP in general—that it’s a low-risk, quite safe medical process.”

For folks who have been properly screened and assessed, Shannon has found that the drop in individual attention from the therapist that groups entail does not negatively affect the healing process.

“I think we overrate the value of having an expert in the room, and we underrate the importance of connection and community in our current mental health paradigm,” he reflects. “My observation is that although the attention of the practitioner is more divided in a group, that is more than enhanced by the sense of community and safety and support that comes with it.”

Healing in Community

On top of assessment, non-ketamine preparation sessions help establish the safe and supportive group environment.

“People spend time getting to know each other in the preparation sessions before the medicine is introduced,” Bennett explains. “We’re not just throwing people in and shooting them up. That would be totally unethical.”

The cohort model contributes to participants’ sense of safety through rapport and consistency. When safety is established, Bennett has found that groups are not only consistently effective, but offer a host of benefits she did not anticipate.

“In individual treatment, people often felt very alone, that they were the only person on earth dealing with whatever problem they were living with,” she explains. “In the group, people quickly found that there were other people who had similar issues and challenges. That in itself is healing.”

Shannon and Fortson have observed the same trend. Fortson shares, “While it is difficult to explain, there is something about the sense of connection and support that is fostered in a group environment, specifically as it pertains to KAP, that seems to greatly expand the therapeutic benefit experienced by participants.”

Shannon notes this “enhanced response” is influenced by participants’ magnified expectation of hope, as well as something more primordial.

“With the pandemic, and really just in modern society, one of the major plagues we’re facing is a sense of disconnection, isolation, and removal from our social roots as herd animals,” he reflects. “A primary reason I like group therapy so much is that it really makes use of the power of community and group process.”

This unmeasurable component of community healing is emerging as a trend of group psychedelic therapy. The Forbes article linked in the introduction indicated that the cancer patients who receive psilocybin treatments together “frequently develop a sense of community and mutual support that can enhance their recovery and overall well-being.”

Implications of Ceremony in the West

An intriguing argument sometimes leveraged on behalf of group psychedelic therapy hinges on its potential correlation to group entheogenic healing ceremonies practiced by countless cultures for millennia. While it would be imprudent to propose a generalized, catch-all comparison between the two, given drastic differences in cultural context, traditional plant medicine healing ceremonies testify to both the safety and the power of group psychedelic journeying when held in an intentional and meaningful container. Base-level similarities between these processes—i.e. community healing through visionary journeys—suggest the possibility of a ceremonial, rite-of-passage element to group psychedelic-assisted psychotherapy.

Now, I am not advocating for psychedelic therapists to buy rattles and drums and chant songs from other cultures they do not understand. That would be very bad. My suggestion—which I am not the first to make—is that outside the boundaries of important issues related to appropriation, there are archetypal processes of ceremonial rites of passage that have factored prominently into countless cultures through the ages, and their general lack of existence in Western society may have some connection to the rampant isolation, existential confusion, and struggles of purpose and maturity afflicting so many people in this hyper-individualized capitalist paradigm.

It strikes me as significant that countless Western people are traveling to distant countries to experience sacred plant medicine ceremonies of cultures about which they know nothing, seeking a kind of spiritual healing and renewed sense of meaning their lives lack. Could group psychedelic therapy play a role in patterning these forsaken archetypal ceremonial processes into Western culture?

What kinds of ceremonies could fit into and emerge out of a Western therapeutic context? Can such rituals respectfully incorporate wisdom shared by other traditions, while establishing a unique and authentic identity? How might ceremonial rites of passage, held in a safe therapeutic container, help heal the complex, multitudinous mental health struggles unique to our techno-capitalist world?

These questions are way too massive to attempt to answer here. The fact that group psychedelic therapy raises them, however, highlights an added layer of its potential significance.

Diversifying the Psychedelic Space

The decrease in cost has the obvious benefit of making the treatment accessible to more people. A hope is that such increased access will invite more diversity to the space of psychedelic healing, which remains strikingly un-diverse. In 2018, Dr. Monnica T. Williams and her co-authors demonstrated that between 1993 and 2017, 82.3% of participants in psychedelic therapy trials were white. While no research has been conducted on diversity in the practice of ketamine-assisted therapy, it is unlikely that results would be much different.

It would be erroneous, however, to suggest this lack of diversity is related exclusively to cost and implicit bias among practitioners. It’s also about safety. In my recent interview with MAPS-trained therapist Dr. Joseph McCowan, McCowan reflected, “People of color desire to do what is safe prior to contributing to research or science, or even healing themselves. Right now, psychedelic spaces, due to their illegality and the stigma they carry, are not safe.”

While offering more affordable treatments is a great start, white therapists must educate themselves on unique struggles and barriers related to mental health in communities of color, as well as the socio-political factors—i.e. the ramifications of the War on Drugs—that keep these barriers standing. Further, they must use that education to create more safety. Only then can the decreased cost offered by modalities such as group KAP really help diversify the landscape of psychedelic healing.  

Training and Ethical Considerations for Group Ketamine Therapy

As the field currently stands, there are no regulated training requirements for clinicians to facilitate ketamine-assisted psychotherapy. Theoretically, so long as an M.D. prescribes the medicine to the client, any therapist can offer ketamine-assisted psychotherapy. Many are disturbed by this lack of regulation, and an increasing chorus of voices is calling for higher ethical standards for ketamine therapy practitioners to abide.

Bennett is a leading voice on the ethical front. She recently authored this article on ethical guidelines for ketamine clinicians that was published in the Journal of Psychedelic Psychiatry, which establishes the importance of assessment, medical safety, preparation, training, and maintaining professional conduct for providers.

As with other psychedelics, ketamine should not be taken lightly or offered carelessly. It is a powerful substance that can consistently facilitate healing experiences when offered with care; at the same time, it can have destructive consequences when handled carelessly. If facilitators are unprepared to work with deep and painful unconscious content that can unexpectedly erupt in clients under its influence, they are putting clients at risk of retraumatization that could leave them in a far worse state than before. At a broader level, reports of such egregious harms could do significant damage to the still-vulnerable field of psychedelic therapy in general.

Many practitioners advise therapists who intend to offer KAP to experience the medicine themselves. Both KRIYA and Wholeness have run groups for mental health professionals who meet specific criteria; Bennett shares that KRIYA’s professional participants “reported that their direct experiences with ketamine vastly increased their understanding of how to use this tool with their own clients.”

If therapists do not meet criteria to experience ketamine therapy themselves, a number of trainings in KAP now exist, many of which involve an experiential component. Shannon and Fortson, for instance, helped found the Psychedelic Research and Training Institute (PRATI), a nonprofit organization that currently offers several KAP trainings each year. Over the course of the three-day intensive, therapists are given the opportunity to experience both a low-dose and high-dose ketamine session while dyad partners practice skills in the facilitator role.

“For clinicians who want to do group work with ketamine, it is strongly recommended that they get specialized training,” Bennett emphasized. KRIYA has compiled a list of reputable trainings for those interested in learning more.

Group Ketamine-Assisted Therapy: Summarizing the Journey

In the new mental health frontier of psychedelic-assisted therapy, group psychedelic therapy represents an even newer frontier. With its potential to lower cost and invite the healing power of community into psychedelic therapy, group ketamine-assisted therapy calls for more attention in both research and ethically-minded practice. It will not be for everyone, and it is far from a panacea, but the modality holds tremendous promise to help people with a whole lot more than lowering their bill.

And even if a lowered bill proves to be the sole benefit, that’s still a huge accomplishment for the current landscape of psychedelic therapy.

About the Author

Sean Lawlor is a writer, certified personal trainer, and Masters student in Transpersonal Counseling at Naropa University, in pursuit of a career in psychedelic journalism, research, and therapy. His interest in consciousness and non-ordinary states owes great debt to Aldous Huxley, Ken Kesey, and Hunter S. Thompson, and his passion for film, literature, and dreaming draws endless inspiration from Carl Jung, David Lynch, and J.K. Rowling. For more information or to get in touch, head to seanplawlor.com, or connect on Instagram @seanplawlor.