The travel gods blessed me with an empty middle seat on the seven-hour red-eye to Amsterdam. Physically, I had plenty of room to stretch out and relax. Mentally, I was a nervous wreck. My Ego understood exactly what was at stake on this trip, and so did my wife when she kissed me goodbye. I never said it out loud, but we both knew the truth. If the psychedelics didn’t work, I was hitting the self-destruct button.
As the rest of the cabin began dozing off, my asshole Ego decided to manifest himself in seat 16B. This time, he took the form of the nightmare passenger who strips down to his bare feet and talks your ear off the entire flight. I pretended I didn’t speak English, but that didn’t stop him from interrogating me. “Psychedelics, wow! Aren’t you afraid you’ll end up in a mental institution? Do you think Mr. T will find you in Amsterdam and kick your ass? What are you going to do if the psilocybin doesn’t work? You pussied out the last time you tried to kill yourself. Six bucks and my left nut says you still won’t have the guts to pull that trigger. Seriously, fifteen strangers? I thought you hated people?”
Del Griffith was right! I had spent most of my life avoiding people, especially in groups. To stay safe, I deliberately kept my relationship circle small. Fewer people equaled fewer problems. Yet here I was, flying halfway around the planet to trip balls with a bunch of people I barely knew.
Realizing the Advil PM should have knocked me out by now, I slipped on my headphones and fired up The Irishman on Delta’s infotainment system. I normally don’t watch mob movies, but I was praying Scorsese’s three-and-a-half-hour mafia marathon would buy me some peace and quiet from Del.
I came in a day early so I’d have time to shake off the jet lag. I’ve been to Amsterdam several times, but the city completely loses its magic when you’re forced to abstain from every fun, delicious, and naughty vice it has to offer. Honestly, I might as well have been vacationing in Cleveland. Still, I woke up Thursday morning feeling surprisingly decent after a night of aimlessly wandering the dimly lit canals. I choked down some shitty hotel coffee, packed my bag, and took a short taxi ride to Central Station.
Thanks to our weekly Zoom calls, I immediately recognized a few faces at our designated rendezvous point. We exchanged awkward pleasantries, killing time while we waited for our transportation. A few minutes later, we all piled into a nondescript black van and began our drive toward the tiny coastal town of Zandvoort. The ride was so suffocatingly quiet I worried the rest of them could actually hear my Ego screaming to pop the door at the next red light and make a run for it. We arrived forty-five minutes later—miraculously with the exact same number of passengers we started with.
Our home for the next five days would be “Het Lichthuis” (The Lighthouse). Built in 1928 as a Protestant church, it had since been converted into a bougie retreat center for rich hippies. Much like the famous Van de Venne painting, the location was still being used a century later to fish for souls—just from a slightly different river bank. My internal philosophizing was cut short when a couple of staffers came out to greet us and help unload the van. We dropped our bags in the hallway and received a brief tour of the facility.
The main sanctuary had been transformed into something that felt more like a swanky spa than a historic Reformed church. Stepping inside, my gaze was immediately drawn up into the heavens of the massive A-frame ceiling. The planks were painted a crisp, bright white, contrasting beautifully with the rich, dark mahogany beams. The upper reaches at each end of the triangle had been enclosed to create two private lofts, complete with large shutters that could be opened to overlook the space below.
Winter light flooded the room through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows on both sides. With the pews long gone, the space felt incredibly open and inviting. At one end sat an enormous, well-appointed kitchen that would be the envy of any Michelin-starred chef, flowing seamlessly into a communal dining table large enough to seat our entire group.
The center of the nave was anchored by a slightly elevated platform jutting halfway into the room. It featured a massive stone fireplace surrounded by seating on three sides. Tucked all the way in the back was a cozy lounge area—a collection of plush couches and leather chairs designed for journaling and quiet reflection.
The decor leaned heavily into a curated Zen aesthetic: massive potted plants, vibrant rugs, eclectic artwork, and, of course, the obligatory lotus-posed Buddha cradling a flickering candle. There was even a bizarre nine-foot-tall polar bear statue crafted from old burlap (which, oddly enough, would make a cameo in one of my journeys years later). The entire setup was undeniably stunning—but it had better be when you drop this kind of coin.
Retracing our steps through the entrance, we headed down a short hallway to the sleeping quarters. There were a few private rooms reserved for attending couples and the facilitators, but since most of us were flying solo, we were relegated to one of the two gender-segregated bunk rooms. Each featured four or five twin beds, a private bathroom and shower, and a small kitchenette. I tossed my backpack onto the bed tucked safely in the corner—a strategic move so I could keep a watchful eye on my new bunkmates.
I settled in quickly, taking a brief moment to wander around outside before lunch—mostly because my Ego wanted to map out an escape route in case we had to bail under the cover of night. Soon, it was time for our first of many vegan meals. As the name of my blog implies, I’m a Hesitant Hippie, so my digestive system was woefully unprepared to process the various grasses, fruits, and seeds laid out for our sustenance. I didn’t know it at the time, but my morning dump back at the Marriott was the last time I’d shit for a week.
The time had finally come to officially kick off the on-site program. We gathered in the “ceremony” room, located down a short hallway off the side of the sanctuary. I imagine it was where they used to hold receptions back when this was still a functioning church. You entered through a small kitchenette—likely where they used to keep the potluck dinners warm as mourners traded fond stories of the deceased while nibbling on Helena’s famous bitterballen.
It was a large, bright, almost square room with hardwood floors. The far wall was made entirely of windows, broken only by a center windowed door leading out to a small private deck. Above, four individual square skylights were arranged into one massive square, allowing natural light to spill down into the space.
Dominating the far left corner of the room sat a gigantic Anthurium “Jungle King.” Its long, broad, ruffled, bright-green leaves spilled from a massive black pot, swallowing the space with a serious “Feed me, Seymour!” kind of energy.
Apparently, hippies never learned to appreciate the convenience of chairs, instead choosing to do almost all of their work in various uncomfortable positions on the ground. Small meditation cushions lined the perimeter of the room, and we were asked to cop a squat so we could start our first session. Something about that plant was magnetic, so I claimed the butt pillow directly in front of him—his elongated leaves almost caressing the back of my neck.
We spent the first hour doing introductions, covering basic housekeeping details, and reviewing the agenda for the next five days. Our main facilitator, Daan, was the epitome of a Dutch hippie—a thin, unassuming guy with a crunchy aesthetic and a gentle demeanor. Since I started losing my hair in my early thirties, I was especially jealous of his man bun. His last order of business was to partner each of us with the facilitator who’d be our direct support for the remainder of the retreat. He went clockwise around the room, calling out names and making the pairings. What happened next was utterly inconceivable.
Sitting in the 11 o’clock position meant I was one of the last assignments. A co-facilitator was positioned right between us, so Daan scooched forward a tiny bit before he said, “And Hank, you will be working with me this week.” As he shifted his weight to get a better look at me, his pant leg lifted ever so slightly, and that’s when I saw…
Daan was wearing OCTOPUS socks!
WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK! Exactly four people on the planet know about Frank, and I am absolutely certain I hadn’t mentioned him to anyone at Synthesis. Hell, I’ve never even seen a pair of octopus socks before today. Yet here I am, 4,000 miles from home, on a psychedelic retreat, surrounded by strangers, and my therapist just happens to be wearing blue socks covered in bright orange octopuses? The sheer improbability of this coincidence was like a power surge that tripped the main circuit breaker in my brain. It took everything I had not to lose it in front of the entire group.
Later that afternoon, I broke down sobbing in my first private session with Daan. I told him all about Frank, SOAP, and his socks. Before saying a word, he held the space with a long, beautiful pause, allowing the moment to fully sink in for both of us. Then he smiled with the serene amusement of someone who had already peeked behind the cosmic curtain and suggested that time might not even be linear. What if all those moments of synchronicity weren’t breadcrumbs to follow, but were instead the memories of future Hank being experienced by current Hank? Messages or memories, this realization punctured my intellectual resistance and allowed me to finally surrender into this experience. I decided right there to push all my chips across the table and go all in.
I’m glad I waved the white flag early, because there is no way the Hank from this morning would have been prepared for what was next. I’ve participated in dozens of corporate icebreakers before, but this was fucking insane.
Daan asked us to clear our mats and re-form the circle, this time standing. His instructions were simple: close your eyes, hold out your hands, and guess what he placed in them. It was soft, made of some sort of fabric, slightly stretchy, long, and had Velcro on each end. I quickly deduced it was a blindfold, which we were then invited to put on.
The facilitators turned on some upbeat, chill techno-hippie music, and Daan asked us to silently explore the room… and each other. It instantly reminded me of that scene in Old School where the blindfolded naked people pop out of the closet like a goddamn magic show, doing that silly, universal, wavy “walking in the dark” maneuver with their outstretched arms. At first, I took tiny steps, hoping that if I didn’t stray too far, no one would find me—let alone touch me. My plan failed almost immediately.
Similar to my first encounter with Frank, someone finally made contact—grabbing my left wrist with both hands. Their fingers slowly traced up my arm, across my shoulder, and up my neck until they were touching my face and hair. I could feel them swaying to the beat of the music. Like a police sketch artist, I tried to take these limited bits of sensory information and construct a picture of who this anonymous person was so I could identify them later. Based on my own hesitant exploration, I assumed it was a woman, but I couldn’t be sure. Before I could finish my mental drawing, they let go and disappeared into the darkness, just like Frank did in my first journey.
I hated every second of this activity. For me, sight is about more than just navigating the physical world—it’s my primary defense mechanism for judging, and avoiding, other people. Since physical touch is decidedly not my love language, I shuddered the instant another person made contact. Deprived of my vision, I froze in fear. What if I tripped? What if I accidentally grabbed a woman’s boob? I desperately wanted to surrender to the experience, but my brain refused to shut off; it just kept processing, calculating, and scheming. I let out a huge sigh of relief when the photons finally hit my retinas again.
We reformed our circle, and Daan explained why he asked us to perform this eyeless experiment.
First, he hoped it would build trust with the facilitators. They kept their sight and were scattered around the room, making sure we wouldn’t bump into something and hurt ourselves or others. If we got close to a hazard or strayed too far, they would gently correct us back toward the group. He shared that this is exactly how they would protect us when we were deep in the mystery of the medicine—gentle corrections meant only to keep us safe. A well-trained facilitator should never direct you toward a specific outcome or inject their own interpretation of what they think is happening. It’s your unique journey, not theirs.
The second reason was to get us comfortable wearing them before our big ceremony. Sure, the trippy visual of a gigantic iridescent praying mantis with huge tits shooting laser beams out of its nipples might be a fun image for the final day of Burning Man, but it can be incredibly distracting when you’re trying to use these substances therapeutically. The blindfolds help to push the experience inward.
The final—and most important—lesson was learning to accept the present moment exactly as it is. This work is more somatic than intellectual; you have to turn off your brain and let the medicine seep into your soul. The entire time I was blindfolded, I just wanted to see again, and my desire for things to be different only increased my suffering. As Daan shared, “The more you resist, the more it persists.” If something strange, scary, or ineffable appears, just turn and face it with genuine curiosity and unconditional acceptance. It probably has something to teach you.
And with that nugget of wisdom, our first day came to an end. Our resident chef had prepared another delicious meal fit for a young, growing llama, but I was feeling far more tired than hungry. It had already been an incredibly emotional day, and we hadn’t even touched the medicine yet. I decided to skip dinner, opting instead to journal in front of the fire before finally calling it a night.
As my eyelids grew heavy, I fully expected my ego to start berating me about what a huge mistake we had made coming here. I guess he was off somewhere plotting his revenge, because he didn’t have a single thing to say. In that rare moment of silence, I felt a profound sense of accomplishment. No matter how this week ended, it took a tremendous amount of courage just to get here. To spend $8,000 after losing my job. To leave my family for a week. To share this deeply personal experience with complete strangers. To consume these sacred plants.
Instead of that shitty, judging, patronizing asshole in my head, I heard something I’ve never heard before—a kind, nurturing voice that quietly said, “I’m proud of you, Hank.”
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