What Anxiety Taught Me About Plant Medicine and Fatherhood
and its not what you think!
It’s 2am and I can’t fucking sleep.
I’m walking around, breathing, trying to calm myself down.
Chamomile tea’s on the boil. I check my pulse—it’s racing a little.
One of my kids starts crying. In my mind I’m thinking, “That’s the last thing I need.”
I’m supposed to be the protector, the father, the strong masculine pillar.
But right now?
I feel weak.
I feel useless.
I feel scared.
And yeah—it happens to all of us.
There are phases in life when we get hit hard—mentally, emotionally, spiritually.
For me, it was being broke, living in a foreign country, with two small children and a heavily pregnant wife...
in a house that, let’s just say, had a presence.
I’m not afraid to talk about it anymore.
In fact, writing this now, with every keystroke—I feel a little more healed.
I can trace this stuff back.
23 years old. Just back from Afghanistan.
Running around South America with a nervous system fully on fire.
For years, I numbed it with alcohol.
I told myself I was fine. That I wasn’t weak.
The army trains you for that. Take out the target and move on.
It teaches you to be emotionally numb, but hyperaware of everything around you.
You can read a room, sense threat—but not your own internal world.
And it sure doesn’t teach you how to release trauma.
It teaches you that PTSD is weakness.
I drank plant medicine for the first time in 2010—long before it was cool.
Back then, after ceremony, drinking alcohol was… normal.
In some places, it was considered a way to “cool” the system down. And to be honest, it does work.
Plant medicine is hot. Cooked at high temperatures. Grows in places with a lot of sun.
So yeah, a few beers after ceremony made sense.
And it felt good.
But all it was doing was delaying the work.
Putting the dishes in the sink and saying, “We’ll clean tomorrow.”
Meanwhile, the mess kept piling up.
We didn’t even know what “integration” was.
Integration was just life.
It was chopping wood. Laughing. Shirt off in the sun. Drinking water. Being. Smoking tobaccos and chewing Coca leaves.
Looking back, I still agree with all of that—except the alcohol part.
I come from a family of alcoholics.
I remember the last time I drank.
I was in Spain visiting friends. One of the locals working on the house was out on parole.
I had my last beer with him and it was warm.
His name was Octavio.
The anxiety came after that.
Slow at first. Then stronger.
And I didn’t get it.
“Why the fuck am I feeling this?”
“I’m good. Nothing’s wrong with me.”
Turns out—I had just removed my two main regulators: plant medicine and alcohol.
And now, my nervous system was fully online.
That’s when I learned:
If I wanted to walk this path with more integrity—
if I wanted to continue to help others—
I had to heal myself first.
So I began.
I prayed more.
I prayed for my life.
For my peace.
I went into nature.
I changed my mindset.
Changed my diet.
Changed how I slept.
How I related to my kids.
I learned to breathe again.
And even then—it still didn’t feel like it was all working.
So we moved.
Back across the Pacific.
Back to Colombia.
To land. To roots.
I left Australia having gained a daughter…
and something else:
Clarity. Perspective. Growth.
There’s a cycle some people fall into with plant medicine—
Drink. Heal. Drift.
Drink again. Heal a little. Drift more.
And suddenly, the “work” is piling up behind you.
We need healthy relationships.
With the plants, yes—but also with:
Ourselves.
Our families.
The sun.
The fire.
The water.
The land.
Healing doesn’t come from just drinking.
The medicine tests you.
It will put you in uncomfortable situations—so you can grow.
One elder told me:
“When it gets hard… pray harder.”
That’s it.
Be humble. Be prayerful.
Want to live a good life.
Want to think well.
Walk the earth in a good way.
So if you’re feeling scared—
If you’re anxious, overwhelmed, depressed…
That’s okay.
Those are real things.
But there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.
Visualise that light. Walk toward it.
Step by step. Prayer by prayer.
Think well.
Breathe deeply.
Take care of your body, your mind, and your spirit.
You are okay.
You’re going to be okay.
Todo está bien.
P.S That’s why I coach—because suffering is hard alone.
If you ever need someone to walk with you, I’m here.