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Reset. Heal. Grow.
Sexual Abuse in Ayahuasca Ceremonies: What a Major Survey Revealed
Nobody wants to start a conversation about ayahuasca with the word abuse. The brew is sacred to the people who carry the tradition, and life-changing for many who sit with it. But if you're weighing whether to fly to Peru or Costa Rica and hand your nervous system over to a stranger in the dark, the most useful thing a writer can do is tell you the truth — including the parts the glossy retreat brochures skip. A few years back, a community-led survey took on exactly this taboo. The findings are sobering, occasionally hopeful, and genuinely useful for anyone considering an ayahuasca retreat. I want to walk you through what came back, what it means for your decision, and how to use the information without either dismissing plant medicine or romanticising it. For years, whispers circulated through the plant-medicine world about facilitators crossing lines — touching participants inappropriately during ceremony, soliciting sexual contact under the guise of healing, taking advantage of people in deeply altered states. Some stories made it to journalism. Most didn't. The combination of remote jungle settings, language barriers, power asymmetry, and the assumption that a shaman is somehow above reproach made it remarkably easy for misconduct to go unreported. In response, a working group within the broader ayahuasca community drafted a free, downloadable safety guide — translated into fourteen languages and distributed across retreat centres, tour agencies, and tourism offices in Peru. The companion legal resource breaks down, country by country, what your rights are if something happens in Peru, Brazil, Costa Rica, Bolivia, or Mexico. By early 2023 the guide had been downloaded nearly 29,000 times. That's not a niche document. That's a quiet movement. The survey came next. Launched in 2020 in English and Spanish, it asked a simple question: are people in the community aware that this happens, and is the safety guide actually changing how they behave? Out of 2,071 people who started the survey, 745 completed it in a way that allowed their answers to be analysed. The drop-off is normal for online surveys, especially on sensitive subjects — some people don't have skin in the game, some find the questions uncomfortable and bail. Of those who finished, roughly 60% identified as female, 38% as male, and the rest as something else. Here's the figure that stopped me when I first read it: 83.1% of respondents already knew that sexual abuse can and does occur in ayahuasca settings. Only 16.9% had no idea. That's a community that has, at least at the level of awareness, accepted there's a problem. More uncomfortable: 52.1% had direct or indirect experience with sexual misconduct in these settings. Either it had happened to them, to someone they knew, or they'd heard credible accounts of it happening to others. About half. Let that sit for a second. The pattern of what people reported is worth understanding. The more covert behaviours — verbal sexual advances, hands lingering where they shouldn't, the ambiguous touch a facilitator might brush off as healing work — turned up far more often than overt sexual assault or rape. That's consistent with what we know about predatory behaviour generally. It rarely starts with the worst-case act. It starts with small boundary tests, in a setting where the person being tested is too altered, too disoriented, or too culturally deferential to push back. Around 94% of respondents said the guide gave them clear, helpful examples of what abuse in these settings can look like. That's a strong response to an educational document. More interesting is the behaviour question: 32.8% said reading the guidelines actually changed how they approach ayahuasca ceremonies. If a third sounds modest, consider what's being measured. A consultant in the sexual-violence field noted that in forensic psychology, even a 5% behavioural shift from an intervention is considered significant. Getting a third of respondents to admit — in writing, on a survey about a taboo subject — that they're doing things differently is, by the standards of the field, a serious result. The 169 people who wrote in their own words about what changed gave us the most useful map. Here's roughly how the themes shook out, in order of how often they came up: A small but striking group — about 4 out of 130 — said the guidelines made them question whether they wanted to do ayahuasca at all. That's a legitimate response to honest information. Not every reader of this article should book a retreat. Some shouldn't. You're probably here because something in your life feels stuck — addiction, depression, trauma, a pattern you can't seem to break — and ayahuasca keeps coming up in your reading. That's a real and valid reason to be looking. Plant medicine has helped a lot of people. It has also been the setting for harm. Both things are true. The job is to filter for centres that take the second part seriously. From the survey and from my own time reporting on this, here's what to actually look for when you're vetting a place: One of the more thoughtful responses in the survey came from people who'd started seeing shamans as humans rather than gods. That reframe matters. The plant itself doesn't care about your money or your status. The human pouring it for you might. Cultural reverence is a beautiful thing, and it's also exactly the dynamic predators exploit. You can hold deep respect for a tradition while still treating any individual practitioner as a person who needs to earn your trust. Bringing a friend is underrated. So is staying somewhere with other participants you can talk to between ceremonies. Isolation is the abuser's friend. A buddy who'll notice if something seems off — and who'll back you up if you need to raise a concern — is one of the most effective safety measures available, and it costs nothing. And one more thing the survey hinted at but didn't quite name: integration matters here too. If something happens that doesn't sit right, you need somewhere to bring it. A therapist who knows about psychedelic experiences, a trusted integration circle, a friend who'll listen without trying to fix it. Don't sit alone with a confusing memory for months. That's how harm calcifies. The point of all this isn't to scare you away from ayahuasca. Plenty of people have profound, safe, transformative experiences every week. The point is to make you a harder target — informed, skeptical of the right things, and clear about what a reputable container looks like. The community is, slowly, getting better at this. The survey itself is evidence of that. Awareness is up. Conversation is up. Some behaviour is genuinely changing. If you've read this far and you're still drawn to the work, take that seriously — both the pull and the responsibility to choose well. For readers who want to take this further, a range of vetted ayahuasca retreats can be browsed on our marketplace here. Read carefully, ask the hard questions, and trust your gut when something feels wrong. The medicine will still be there once you've found the right place to meet it.
Psychedelics for Depression and Addiction: What the Research Actually Shows
Picture a quiet room in Manhattan. A low brown couch, a small Buddha statue, hand-painted dishes on a side table. It looks like someone's grandmother's living room from 1974. It is, in fact, the setting where some of the most surprising mental-health research of the last decade has unfolded — a place where cancer patients have swallowed a capsule of psilocybin and walked out hours later describing the experience as one of the most meaningful of their lives. This is the strange, hopeful frontier of psychedelics and psychedelic-assisted therapy. After decades of being treated as cultural contraband, substances like psilocybin, ayahuasca, ibogaine, and MDMA are being studied seriously again — and the early data on depression, anxiety, and addiction is hard to ignore. If you've found your way here because you're quietly wondering whether plant medicine might help with something you've been carrying for years, you're not alone. A lot of people are wondering the same thing. The reason scientists keep using words like “breakthrough” and even “surgical intervention” when they talk about psychedelics isn't hype. It's that a single dose, given in the right setting with trained support, seems to do what years of daily SSRIs sometimes can't — particularly for people stuck in the deepest grooves of despair. In one well-known trial at NYU and Johns Hopkins, cancer patients with severe end-of-life anxiety were given psilocybin alongside therapy. The majority reported sustained relief from depression and existential dread months later. Not a slight improvement. A genuine shift. Many of them ranked the experience among the top five most meaningful events of their entire lives — comparable to the birth of a child or the death of a parent. That's an unusual thing to hear from a clinical trial. Pharma research doesn't usually produce results that read like a memoir. Here's a way to think about depression that helped me understand why psychedelics seem to do what they do. Imagine your brain as a city, full of roads. Some are well-worn highways used a thousand times a day — your habitual thoughts, your self-criticism, your story about why you're not enough. Other roads are barely paved, rarely traveled. In a depressed brain, the highway traffic gets stuck. Rush hour, all day, every day. Researchers at Imperial College London have shown that psychedelics appear to do something genuinely strange — they reduce traffic on the overused routes and send neural activity skittering down the empty ones. Connections form between regions of the brain that normally don't talk to each other. The cogs, as one researcher put it, get loosened. That loosening is often what people describe afterward. The rumination quiets. The sense of being trapped inside one narrow story about yourself softens. For a few hours, the mind escapes the rut — and sometimes, the new perspective sticks. The addiction research is where things get especially interesting. Addiction, like depression, is partly a story of stuck patterns — the same circuits firing, the same craving, the same coping behavior on repeat. Substances like ayahuasca, ibogaine, and psilocybin appear to interrupt those loops, sometimes dramatically. Ibogaine, derived from the iboga root of West Africa, has the longest underground reputation for treating opioid dependence. People who've gone through ibogaine treatment often describe a long, difficult inner journey — sometimes 24 to 36 hours of intense visions — followed by a striking reduction in withdrawal symptoms and cravings. It's not magic, and it's not without serious cardiac risks that require medical screening. But for people who've tried everything else, it's often the first thing that's actually worked. Ayahuasca, the Amazonian brew built around the Banisteriopsis caapi vine, has a different shape but a similar effect on certain people. The ceremonies are long, communal, and held by experienced facilitators in traditions that stretch back generations. Many participants come specifically because of addiction — to alcohol, to cocaine, to the quieter addictions of overwork and self-loathing — and leave with a fundamentally different relationship to whatever they were running from. The category of plants and brews used this way is sometimes called the master plants: teachers in the Amazonian sense, not chemicals to be consumed casually. That framing matters, because it shapes how the experience is approached — with preparation, respect, and a willingness to actually listen to what surfaces. This is the question almost everyone researching a retreat wants answered honestly, so let's be honest. A psychedelic ceremony — whether it involves ayahuasca, psilocybin, or San Pedro — is not a euphoric night out. It can be uncomfortable. It can be physically demanding. With ayahuasca specifically, vomiting (called la purga) is common and considered part of the healing. People often describe an initial wave of fear or disorientation. One man I spoke with, a sailor who'd done a Johns Hopkins psilocybin trial, compared the early part of his experience to falling off his boat in open ocean — looking back and finding the boat gone, then the water gone, then himself gone. Terrifying, in the moment. He came through it, with help from his facilitators, into something he still can't quite describe — a sense of being witness to life itself, free from the constant management of being a self. That arc — through difficulty, into something larger — is common. It's why a good retreat isn't just about the medicine. It's about who's holding the space. If you're considering a retreat, this is where to spend your attention. The medicine matters less than the container around it. Here's what experienced facilitators and seasoned participants tend to look for: One more thing: be skeptical of anyone who promises outcomes. Real facilitators talk about possibilities and risks. Sales pitches talk about transformation guaranteed. It depends entirely on where you are and what plant you're talking about. In the United States, psilocybin is federally illegal but decriminalized in cities like Denver, Oakland, and parts of Oregon, where supervised therapeutic use is now permitted under state law. Ayahuasca is federally illegal except for specific religious exemptions granted to the União do Vegetal and Santo Daime churches under a 2006 Supreme Court ruling. Outside the U.S., the landscape opens up. Peru, Costa Rica, the Netherlands, Jamaica, Mexico, and Brazil each host legal or tolerated retreat scenes for various plant medicines. Most serious retreat-seekers end up traveling, both for legal reasons and because the lineages are stronger where the plants come from. Plant medicine isn't for everyone. People with personal or family histories of schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or psychotic episodes are generally advised to avoid classical psychedelics. Certain heart conditions rule out ibogaine. SSRI users typically need to taper off well before drinking ayahuasca, under medical guidance. And then there's the harder caveat: a single ceremony, no matter how profound, isn't a cure. It's a doorway. Whatever you see inside still has to be carried back into your daily life — your relationships, your work, your habits. The people who get the most lasting benefit are almost always the ones who do the integration work afterward, often with a therapist who understands psychedelics. For readers who want to take this further, a range of curated ayahuasca and plant-medicine retreats can be browsed on our marketplace here. Whatever you decide, take your time with the decision — this is one of those choices that rewards patience and punishes impulse.
Mushrooms and Brain Health: Can Psilocybin and Functional Fungi Help Prevent Alzheimer's?
Watching a parent forget your name is a particular kind of grief. It arrives in pieces, over years, and by the time you understand what's happening, the person you knew has already started to fade. For families with a history of Alzheimer's, that grief tends to carry a second weight — the quiet question of whether the same thing is waiting for them. That question is fueling one of the more interesting corners of the current psychedelic and plant medicine conversation: the role of mushrooms — both the functional kind like Lion's Mane and the psychedelic kind like psilocybin — in supporting long-term brain health. It's a thread that runs from cutting-edge neuroscience labs to grandmothers microdosing in suburban kitchens, and it's worth pulling on if you're someone trying to protect your mind for the decades ahead. The standard medical answer to Alzheimer's has, for decades, been a shrug dressed up in a lab coat. A few drugs slow symptoms modestly. None reverse the disease. And the cruel structural problem is this: by the time symptoms appear, the underlying damage has been building quietly for twenty or thirty years. If you want to do something useful, you have to start long before anything feels wrong. That timeline is what's pushed a lot of curious, science-literate people toward mushrooms. Functional varieties — Lion's Mane, reishi, cordyceps, chaga — have been used in East Asian medicine for centuries. Lion's Mane in particular has caught researchers' attention because of compounds called hericenones and erinacines, which appear to stimulate nerve growth factor in the brain. In plain English: they may help neurons grow and stay connected. That's exactly the machinery Alzheimer's destroys. Then there are the psychedelic mushrooms, which work on a different but related axis. Psilocybin, the active compound in magic mushrooms, has been shown in early studies to promote neuroplasticity — the brain's ability to rewire itself and form new connections. Researchers at Johns Hopkins and Imperial College London have spent the past several years documenting how a single high dose can reset patterns of depression that have resisted every other treatment. The implications for cognitive aging are still being studied, but the early signals are interesting enough that serious money and serious scientists are paying attention. This trips people up, so it's worth being clear. Not all medicinal mushrooms get you high. In fact, most don't. Both categories are mushrooms. Both are being studied for brain benefits. But they work through very different mechanisms and demand very different commitments from the person taking them. Functional mushrooms are a daily habit, like a vitamin. Psychedelic mushrooms — taken at ceremony doses — are an event you prepare for, integrate from, and don't take lightly. Microdosing has gone from Silicon Valley curiosity to something your aunt might be doing. The basic idea: take a sub-perceptual dose of psilocybin (usually around a tenth of a recreational dose) on a schedule — say, every third day for a few weeks — and observe what happens. People report sharper focus, lifted mood, reduced anxiety, and a softer relationship to old mental ruts. Veterans use it for PTSD. Mothers use it for the relentless cognitive load of parenting. Older adults are starting to use it specifically with brain longevity in mind. The research here is genuinely early. Placebo effects are real, dosing isn't standardized, and most of what we know comes from self-reports rather than controlled trials. That said, the consistency of those reports across very different populations is hard to dismiss entirely. Companies and academic labs are now running proper studies to figure out what's signal and what's noise. If you're considering microdosing, a few honest cautions: legality varies wildly by where you live, dosing without scales and proper sourcing is a recipe for inconsistent experiences, and microdosing isn't appropriate for people with certain mental health conditions or on certain medications. It is not a magic bullet. It is, at best, one tool in a much larger toolkit. Here's the part the supplement industry would prefer you skip. Mushrooms — functional or psychedelic — are not going to save a brain that's being neglected in every other way. The boring stuff still matters more than anything in a capsule. Mushrooms slot into this picture as a possible enhancer, not a replacement. The person taking Lion's Mane while sleeping four hours a night and living on takeout is not going to outrun their genetics. For some people, the entry point isn't a daily supplement but a single, carefully held psychedelic experience — often within the container of a retreat. Psilocybin retreats in legal jurisdictions like the Netherlands, Jamaica, and increasingly parts of the U.S. offer multi-day programs where participants prepare, journey under supervision, and integrate what came up afterward. Ayahuasca retreats in Peru, Costa Rica, and elsewhere offer something related but distinct — a longer, often more challenging plant medicine arc with deep indigenous roots. Why would someone worried about Alzheimer's consider this? A few reasons. The neuroplasticity window opened by a full psychedelic experience appears to last weeks, not hours. The psychological work that often happens — releasing long-held grief, untangling patterns of depression, reconnecting with purpose — has its own protective effect on the aging brain. And for people with a strong family history, the experience of facing mortality directly, which most ceremonies provoke in one form or another, tends to clarify priorities in ways that change everyday behavior. None of this is a guarantee. Retreats vary enormously in quality, screening, and safety, and the wrong setting can do more harm than good. If you're exploring this path, vet facilitators carefully, be honest about medications and medical history, and pay attention to whether the program treats integration as seriously as the ceremony itself. For readers who want to explore this further, curated psilocybin and plant medicine retreats can be browsed on our marketplace here. The science of mushrooms and brain health is real, promising, and nowhere near settled. Lion's Mane and other functional mushrooms have a plausible mechanism and a long traditional track record. Psilocybin has produced some of the most striking results in modern psychiatry. Microdosing is interesting and under-studied. None of it is a substitute for sleep, movement, diet, and human connection — and none of it can rewind damage that's already done. But for someone in their thirties, forties, or fifties watching a parent disappear into Alzheimer's, the question isn't whether mushrooms are a miracle. It's whether the accumulated weight of small, intelligent choices made over decades can shift the odds. The current evidence says yes, probably, and that fungi — humble, ancient, and increasingly well-studied — deserve a real seat at that table.
Iboga and Ibogaine: What an Honest First Retreat Actually Looks Like
The first thing anyone who has sat with iboga will tell you is that it doesn’t feel like the other plant medicines. Ayahuasca moves like a river. Psilocybin opens like a door. Iboga sits you down in a hard chair, switches on a projector, and walks you through your own life — frame by frame — without much sympathy and without much hurry. If you’re researching an iboga or ibogaine retreat because something in your life has stopped working — an addiction you can’t shake, a depression that won’t lift, a grief you can’t name — it’s worth understanding what you’d actually be signing up for. This isn’t a glamour piece. Iboga is one of the most physically demanding psychedelics and plant medicines a person can take, and it’s also one of the most effective tools we currently know of for breaking certain kinds of addiction. Both of those things are true at once. Let’s get into what that really means. Iboga is the root bark of Tabernanthe iboga, a shrub native to the equatorial forests of Gabon and the surrounding region. In Bwiti tradition — the spiritual practice that has used iboga for centuries — it’s considered a master plant and a teacher, not a party drug or a quick fix. Ceremonies are long, sober, and structured. They’re also nothing like an ayahuasca ceremony, even though both fall under the broad banner of plant medicine. Ibogaine is the principal alkaloid extracted from the bark. It’s the form used in most clinical and semi-clinical addiction-recovery settings, particularly for opioid dependence. The science here is genuinely interesting: ibogaine appears to reset certain neural pathways involved in craving and withdrawal, and many people who go through a single session report that the physical pull of opioids is dramatically reduced afterward. That’s not marketing. That’s what shows up in interviews with participants and in the small body of clinical research that exists. The trade-off is that ibogaine is cardiotoxic in a way most psychedelics are not. It can affect heart rhythm, and people have died from it — almost always when proper medical screening was skipped. This is the single most important fact about ibogaine, and any retreat that doesn’t require an EKG, bloodwork, and a serious medical questionnaire before accepting you is a retreat you should walk away from. Most ayahuasca ceremonies run four to six hours. An iboga session runs anywhere from twenty to thirty-six. You don’t sleep. You don’t move much. You lie on a mat or a low bed in a quiet, dim room, and the medicine takes you somewhere very specific. People describe the early hours as a kind of buzzing, with a high-pitched ringing in the ears and a sense that gravity has doubled. Then the visions start — but not the kaleidoscopic geometry of mushrooms or the spirit-realm of ayahuasca. Iboga visions tend to be cinematic and biographical. Old memories. Faces of people you wronged. Decisions you made at nineteen that you’ve been pretending not to think about. It plays them back without commentary, and you watch. One person I interviewed described it as “sitting through a documentary about myself, produced by someone who has access to every file.” That’s about right. The medicine doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. It just shows you what’s there, and lets you draw your own conclusions. The physical side is no joke either. Nausea is common. Ataxia — loss of coordination — is universal; you genuinely cannot walk. Most people don’t want to. You stay lying down, eyes closed, for the entire experience, with a facilitator nearby monitoring vital signs and occasionally bringing water. The population at iboga retreats skews different than at ayahuasca centers. You’ll meet fewer wellness tourists and more people who have run out of other options. In rough strokes: What unites them is a particular kind of seriousness. Iboga isn’t a weekend. It’s closer to elective surgery on your psyche, and the people who choose it tend to know that going in. This is the use case that gets the most attention, and rightly so. For opioid dependence specifically, ibogaine appears to interrupt withdrawal in a way nothing else really does. Participants describe coming out of a session no longer feeling the physical craving that had defined their daily life for years. The window this opens — usually a few weeks to a few months — is when the real work happens. The medicine doesn’t do the work for you. It makes the work possible. Recovery rates vary wildly depending on what happens after the session. Retreats that send you home with no follow-up have poor long-term outcomes. Retreats that integrate ibogaine into a longer program — aftercare calls, therapy, sober community, sometimes a follow-up booster session — show much better numbers. The choice of retreat matters more than almost anything else. It’s also worth being honest: ibogaine isn’t magic. Some people relapse. Some find it doesn’t take. Some have profound experiences that don’t translate into behavior change. Psychedelic-assisted recovery is a tool, not a cure, and any retreat that promises a cure is misrepresenting what they can offer. This is the section to read twice. Iboga and ibogaine retreats vary enormously in quality, and the consequences of choosing badly are higher than with other plant medicines. Cost varies. A serious ibogaine-for-addiction retreat with proper medical infrastructure typically runs between five and ten thousand dollars for a week or two. Traditional Bwiti ceremonies in Africa can be less expensive but require considerably more cultural adaptation. Free or very cheap iboga is almost always a warning sign. Iboga rewards preparation. In the weeks before a session, most retreats ask you to taper off pharmaceuticals (under medical supervision), eat clean, abstain from alcohol and other substances, and start journaling about what you’re bringing to the medicine. The dieta is less elaborate than ayahuasca’s, but the principle is the same: arrive empty so the medicine has room to work. Mentally, the best preparation is honesty. Sit down before you go and write — actually write, on paper — what you want to look at. The patterns you’re tired of. The fears you’ve been avoiding. Iboga will likely show you all of it anyway, but going in with your eyes already open changes the quality of the experience. Afterward, expect to feel scoured. Many people describe a few weeks of unusual clarity, followed by the slow return of regular life. What you do with that clarity window is the whole game. Therapists who specialize in psychedelic integration are worth their weight in gold during this period. If you’ve read this far, you’re probably not casually curious — you’re weighing a real decision. For readers who want to take this further, a range of vetted ibogaine and iboga retreats can be browsed on our marketplace here. Whatever you decide, decide slowly, ask hard questions, and choose the people running the ceremony as carefully as you’d choose a surgeon. With this medicine, that’s not an exaggeration.
Psilocybin Therapy in Oregon: What Legal Access Actually Looks Like
A few years back, the idea of legally sitting with psilocybin mushrooms — in a licensed space, with a trained facilitator, without breaking any laws — sounded like wishful thinking. Then Oregon happened. In November 2020, voters there passed Measure 109, and the state became the first in the U.S. to create a regulated framework for supervised psilocybin use. The rollout has been slow, messy, and fascinating. And if you're someone weighing whether psychedelics might help with depression, trauma, or just a stuck patch of life, what's unfolded in Oregon matters. This isn't a political post. It's a practical one. I want to walk through what Oregon actually legalized, how it fits into the broader psychedelic renaissance, where it leaves people who can't fly to Portland, and what to keep in mind if you're considering plant medicine or psilocybin in a retreat setting. There's a lot of hype out there. The reality is more interesting — and more nuanced — than the headlines suggest. Here's the short version. Measure 109 didn't make psilocybin legal in the way alcohol or cannabis is legal in some states. You can't walk into a dispensary and buy dried mushrooms. You can't grow them at home for personal use without risk. What the measure created was a tightly controlled service model: licensed facilitators, licensed service centers, and clients who go through a preparation session, a dosing session, and an integration session — all on-site, all supervised. You don't need a diagnosis to participate. That's a meaningful detail. Unlike most clinical trials, where you have to qualify with treatment-resistant depression or end-of-life anxiety, Oregon's framework treats psilocybin services as a wellness offering open to adults. Whether that's a feature or a bug depends on who you ask. The state's Psilocybin Services program took its time to write the rules. The first licensed service centers opened in 2023, and as of 2026 there's a working — if still small — network of providers across the state. Prices for a full session run from about $1,500 to $3,500, sometimes more, which is a real barrier and one of the loudest criticisms from advocates who pushed for decriminalization instead of (or alongside) legalization. Oregon didn't happen in a vacuum. For years, researchers at Johns Hopkins, NYU, Imperial College London, and elsewhere have been publishing studies showing that psilocybin — given in a supportive setting, with proper preparation — can produce striking reductions in depression and anxiety, including in people who haven't responded to conventional treatment. The cancer-patient studies got the most press, but the work on major depression and on alcohol-use disorder has been just as compelling. That research is what cracked the door open. Decriminalization measures in Denver, Oakland, Santa Cruz, Ann Arbor, and a growing list of other cities pushed it open further. Then Oregon legalized supervised access. Colorado followed with Proposition 122 in 2022, which created its own regulated framework plus broader decriminalization of several plant medicines, including DMT and mescaline. The picture across the U.S. is now a patchwork. Federally, psilocybin remains a Schedule I substance. State by state, city by city, the rules shift. If you're researching options, the legal landscape where you live is worth checking carefully — not because anyone's likely to kick down your door, but because where the law sits affects which providers operate openly, what kind of training they've had, and what recourse you have if something goes wrong. People imagine a lot of things when they hear “legal mushroom therapy.” The reality is quieter than the imagination. A typical session at an Oregon service center looks something like this: It's not a party. It's not a quick fix. People who walk in expecting fireworks sometimes leave underwhelmed; people who walk in with humility and a real question often leave changed. Your experience depends on dose, set, setting, and frankly your nervous system on the day. The medicine doesn't perform on demand. If you're researching psychedelic options seriously, you've probably noticed that psilocybin isn't the only path on the table. Ayahuasca retreats in Peru, Costa Rica, and increasingly in legally permissive corners of Europe; ibogaine clinics in Mexico for people working through opioid addiction; San Pedro and huachuma ceremonies in the Andes; psilocybin retreats in Jamaica, the Netherlands, and now Oregon. Each tradition carries its own culture, its own risks, its own kind of work. Psilocybin tends to be the gentler doorway. The experience is usually shorter, the body load lighter, the integration arc more manageable for first-timers. Ayahuasca is longer, more physical (yes, the purging is real), and rooted in lineages worth understanding before you sign up. Ibogaine is a different animal entirely — powerful for addiction interruption, but with real cardiac risks that require medical screening. The point isn't to rank them. The point is that the choice should match what you're actually working on. Someone navigating grief and mild depression might find a supervised psilocybin session to be exactly the right size. Someone wrestling with deep generational trauma or long-term substance dependence might be better served by a longer-format plant-medicine retreat with experienced facilitators. There's no universal answer here. Whether you end up booking a psilocybin session in Oregon, an ayahuasca retreat in the Sacred Valley, or something else, the same questions apply. The legal status of a place is one signal. It's not the only signal, and sometimes not the most important one. Cost is real. So is travel. So is the question of how much time you can take afterward to actually let the experience land. A weekend session jammed between two stressful work weeks is a waste of money and an unkindness to yourself. I've sat across from a lot of people considering their first psychedelic retreat. The ones who tend to do well aren't the bravest or the most spiritually fluent. They're the ones who know why they're going. Not in a grand way — just specifically. “I want to look at what happened with my father.” “I want to know if I can stop drinking.” “I've been depressed for three years and nothing has moved.” A clear question makes for clearer work. The ones who struggle are usually running from something rather than toward something, or they've heard psilocybin called a miracle and they want the miracle. The medicine doesn't reward that posture. It tends to show people exactly what they've been avoiding, which is rarely comfortable and almost always useful in the long run. Oregon's experiment is still young. The price point will likely come down as more centers open and competition grows. The model itself — supervised, integrated, deliberately slow — is probably closer to what responsible psychedelic care looks like than either the underground or the pharma-clinical-trial extremes. Whether you go that route, choose a traditional ayahuasca retreat abroad, or stay home and read a few more books before deciding, the honest move is the same: get specific about what you want, get honest about your medical realities, and don't outsource the decision to a marketing brochure. If something here is sitting with you and you want to look at concrete options, a curated range of psilocybin and plant-medicine retreats can be browsed on our marketplace here. Take your time with it. The retreat will still be there next month, and the question of whether you're ready is worth more than a quick yes.
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When MDMA Cracked Open a White Supremacist: What One Study Reveals About Psychedelic Healing
A man named Brendan walked into a research lab in early 2020. He was, at that point, a known figure in American white nationalism — he'd helped organize the Charlottesville rally three years earlier, and his name was already a liability in his own life. The study he signed up for had nothing to do with hate or healing. The researchers wanted to know whether MDMA made human touch feel more pleasant. That was it. A small, almost banal question. Then Brendan took the dose. And somewhere in the next few hours, something in him cracked open. He went home, wrote a note to the team, and told them — in so many words — that he was done. Done with the movement. Done with the worldview. He wrote that he now knew what he needed to do, and suggested they Google him to understand why that mattered. They did. And the researchers were, understandably, alarmed before they were astonished. This story keeps surfacing in conversations about psychedelics, addiction, and the broader question of whether plant medicines and synthetic compounds like MDMA can actually shift the architecture of a person's beliefs. It's a striking anecdote. It's also wildly easy to misread. So let's slow down and look at what happened, what it might mean, and what it almost certainly doesn't. The trial, run by Harriet de Wit at the University of Chicago, wasn't a therapy protocol. There was no facilitator guiding Brendan through trauma, no integration coach waiting on the other side. It was a touch-perception study — neutral, clinical, fluorescent-lit. Brendan received MDMA and did the tasks. The transformation, such as it was, happened on his own time, in his own head. What he reported afterward was simple and almost embarrassed: the drug made him feel love, and in the warmth of that feeling, the rigid scaffolding of his ideology stopped making sense. He described asking himself, in the middle of the experience, why am I doing this? The question wasn't intellectual. It came from somewhere lower, somewhere more honest than argument. He didn't renounce his beliefs that afternoon in any dramatic public way. The shift was quieter, and it unfolded over months. He distanced himself from his old network. He started talking, carefully, to people he'd previously written off as enemies. The researchers, who only learned about his background after the fact, ended up watching one of the strangest case studies in psychedelic science assemble itself in real time. No. And anyone who tells you it does is selling something. Here's the thing about MDMA and the classical psychedelics — ayahuasca, psilocybin, LSD, San Pedro, ibogaine. They don't carry content. They don't have politics. They amplify whatever is already inside a person and crank up the emotional volume on it. A 2021 paper in Frontiers in Psychology made this point bluntly: psychedelics are non-specific amplifiers. Give the same dose to a hateful person and a generous one, and you'll get more hate or more generosity, not a clean reset. What seems to have happened with Brendan is more interesting than a chemical exorcism. The MDMA didn't delete his beliefs. It opened a window — briefly, vividly — onto another way of feeling about other people. And once you've felt something, you can't quite un-feel it. The seed of doubt gets planted. Whether it grows depends on everything that happens after. Researchers studying MDMA-assisted therapy for PTSD have noticed something similar. The drug's role is to soften the defensive crust around painful material so the person can actually look at it. The looking is what does the work. The compound is the door, not the room. If you've ended up on this page, there's a decent chance you're carrying something heavy — an addiction that won't budge, a depression that's settled in like weather, a pattern in your relationships you can see clearly and still can't change. The Brendan story matters to you for one specific reason: it suggests that even deeply embedded ways of being can sometimes shift faster than we think. Plant medicines and psychedelics — including ayahuasca and the so-called master plants of the Amazon — work on a similar logic. They don't deliver answers. They loosen the grip of a worldview just enough for the person to glimpse alternatives. People in ceremony describe seeing their addiction from the outside for the first time, or recognizing that a story they've been telling themselves since childhood was never actually true. Ayahuasca, in particular, has a reputation for showing people themselves with uncomfortable clarity. What's worth saying out loud: this softening is real, and it's also dangerous if it happens in the wrong setting. Brendan got lucky. The researchers were thoughtful, the dose was clean, and he had enough inner ground to do something constructive with the experience. Plenty of people don't. A weekend retreat without proper screening, or a ceremony led by someone with more charisma than skill, can leave a person more raw than healed. I've sat in a lot of ceremonies and talked to a lot of facilitators, and the honest version of the retreat conversation looks like this: Costs vary wildly. A week-long ayahuasca retreat in Peru might run anywhere from $1,500 to $4,000 depending on the center, the lineage, and the level of medical and psychological support on-site. Ibogaine programs — which are used specifically for opioid addiction in some clinics — tend to run higher because they require medical monitoring. Psilocybin retreats in legal jurisdictions like the Netherlands or Jamaica sit in a middle range. Brendan's story isn't a feel-good fable about a magic pill that fixes broken people. It's something quieter and more useful. It's a reminder that the human capacity for change isn't always proportional to the size of the problem. Sometimes a person carries a worldview for decades and then, in the space of a few hours, sees through it. That doesn't happen because of a chemical. It happens because the chemical briefly lifts the defenses we use to avoid feeling things — and what's underneath those defenses, in most of us, is closer to love than to hate. Closer to grief than to anger. Closer to a desire to belong than to a need to be right. Whatever you call it — the self, the soul, the deeper layer — it tends to be more humane than the personality we've built on top of it. For people considering plant medicine to address addiction, depression, or patterns that feel cemented in, this is the honest promise. Not a cure. Not a guarantee. Just the possibility that what feels permanent might be more porous than it looks, given the right setting and the right support. For readers who want to take this further, a range of vetted ayahuasca and plant-medicine retreats can be browsed on our marketplace here. Brendan, last anyone heard, was still doing the work. That's the part of his story that gets quoted least and matters most. The drug opened a door. He's the one who kept walking through it.
Inside Oregon's Legal Psilocybin Experiment: What It Means for Psychedelic Retreats
Something quietly historic is happening in Oregon. While most of the United States still treats psilocybin mushrooms as a Schedule I substance, this one state on the Pacific coast is busy building the country's first legal, regulated framework for psilocybin services. Not decriminalisation. Not a research carve-out. An actual, licensed system where adults can sit with psilocybin under the care of a trained facilitator. For anyone weighing a psychedelic retreat — especially folks who've been reading about psilocybin for depression, end-of-life anxiety, or stubborn patterns that no amount of talk therapy has shifted — Oregon matters. It's the closest thing we have to a working blueprint. And the people building it are doing so in real time, in public, with all the messiness that involves. Back in 2020, voters passed Measure 109, the ballot initiative that authorised the creation of a legal psilocybin services program. It didn't legalise mushrooms in the supermarket sense. What it did was open a narrow but very real door: adults aged 21 and over could, eventually, consume psilocybin at licensed service centres under the supervision of trained facilitators. No prescription required. No specific diagnosis required. That last part is what makes the Oregon model genuinely novel. Other psychedelic pathways being developed in the U.S. — MDMA for PTSD, psilocybin for treatment-resistant depression — are medical models, gated by diagnosis and FDA approval. Oregon's program is a services model. The state regulates training, product, and venues, but the experience itself sits closer to a ceremony than a clinic visit. That distinction matters more than it first appears. Two main bodies have done the heavy lifting. The Oregon Psilocybin Advisory Board drafted recommendations covering everything from facilitator training requirements to product testing standards. The Oregon Health Authority, through its Oregon Psilocybin Services division, turned those recommendations into actual rules. The first legal sessions began taking place in 2023, and the program has been expanding — and learning hard lessons — ever since. A program like this doesn't appear out of nowhere. It's the product of a small, identifiable group of people — campaign organisers, attorneys, regulators, therapists, and entrepreneurs — who spent years pushing the boulder up the hill. A few names worth knowing if you're trying to understand how this market actually works. Tom Eckert and the late Sheri Eckert were the chief petitioners behind Measure 109. Tom went on to chair the advisory board during the early rulemaking, then stepped away amid questions about board-member conflicts of interest — an early reminder that this industry has the same political mess as any other. He now directs work at InnerTrek, one of the larger psilocybin-facilitator training programs in the state, and at the Sheri Eckert Foundation, which funds scholarships for people who want to train as facilitators but can't afford the tuition. Sam Chapman managed the Measure 109 campaign and now leads the Healing Advocacy Fund, a nonprofit that's stayed deeply involved in implementation. David Bronner — yes, the soap guy — poured roughly $2 million of Dr. Bronner's money into passing the measure and has continued funding training programs, harm-reduction work, and equity initiatives. His company has put tens of millions into drug-policy reform over the years, which is not the kind of detail you forget once you've seen it on a bottle of peppermint castile. On the regulatory side, André Ourso and Angela Allbee at the Oregon Health Authority have been the people actually translating a ballot measure into a working program. Ourso previously oversaw the rollout of Oregon's cannabis market, which gave the state at least some institutional muscle memory for standing up a regulated controlled-substance industry. Allbee manages day-to-day operations of Oregon Psilocybin Services, which is the part of state government that issues the licences and writes the rules. One of the most interesting fights inside Oregon's program has been about facilitators — who they are, how they're trained, and how much it costs to become one. This isn't a side debate. It's the whole ball game. Jon Dennis, an attorney and cofounder of the Entheogenic Practitioners Council of Oregon, has been a persistent voice arguing that religious, spiritual, and community-based practitioners should have a meaningful role in the legal program. His worry — and it's a reasonable one — is that if facilitator training is structured like a graduate degree, with the price tag to match, the only people serving clients will be affluent therapists, and the cost of a session will price out the people who most need access. Angela Carter, a vice chair on the advisory board, has pushed similar equity and harm-reduction priorities from inside the regulatory process. At the same time, organisations like Fluence — cofounded by Ingmar Gorman and Elizabeth Nielson, both psychologists who worked on MDMA-assisted therapy trials — have been building rigorous clinical-style training programs aimed at therapists who want to add psilocybin work to their practice. Both visions are defensible. Both are getting built. How they coexist will shape what an Oregon psilocybin session actually feels like. Here's the practical takeaway for someone in the research phase. Oregon's legal program is not a retreat in the Costa Rica or Peruvian-jungle sense. Most licensed service centres offer a single session — preparation meeting, dosing day, integration meeting — rather than a multi-day immersive experience. Prices have settled in the rough neighbourhood of $1,000 to $3,500 for the full arc, depending on the facilitator, the venue, and the dose. That's lower than some international retreats and considerably higher than others. If you're weighing your options, a few honest things worth holding in mind: Colorado followed Oregon's lead with its own psychedelic-services initiative, passed in 2022 and now rolling out. Other states are watching closely, drafting bills, and quietly preparing legislation. The federal picture remains murky — psilocybin is still Schedule I, and the DEA hasn't softened its public stance — but the state-level momentum is real, and it's not slowing down. What Oregon proves, more than anything, is that a regulated psychedelic services market is possible. Not easy. Not without its conflicts of interest, equity gaps, and growing pains. But possible. For readers who've spent years assuming plant medicine meant flying to South America or knowing the right underground guide, that's a meaningful shift. It's also worth saying plainly: a legal framework doesn't make psilocybin right for everyone. People on certain antidepressants, people with personal or family histories of psychosis, people in acute crisis — these are situations where a thoughtful provider will tell you to wait, or to look at other tools first. The most useful question isn't where to do this work but whether now is the time, and with what kind of support around you. If you're somewhere in that weighing phase, it can help to see what's actually on offer — different settings, different traditions, different price points — before committing to anything. A curated set of psilocybin and plant-medicine retreats can be browsed on our marketplace here, which is a low-pressure way to compare what's out there while you keep doing your homework. Oregon's experiment is young. The facilitators are still learning. The regulators are still adjusting. But the door is open in a way it wasn't five years ago, and the people who pushed it open deserve some credit for that — even when the politics behind the scenes have been less than tidy.
What Ibogaine Actually Teaches You: Lessons From the Other Side of Treatment
People come to ibogaine for one reason, usually. They want the addiction to stop. Whether it's heroin, fentanyl, methadone, alcohol, or some tangled combination, the pitch is almost too clean: one long session with a powerful African root, and the withdrawal vanishes. The cravings quiet down. The story ends. Except it doesn't end. That's the part nobody puts on the retreat brochure. Ibogaine isn't a finish line — it's a strange, exhausting, sometimes unbearable doorway. And what people actually learn on the other side of it is often very different from what they expected to learn. This piece is for anyone weighing ibogaine treatment for addiction, or trying to understand what a friend or family member just went through. Plant medicine doesn't hand you a new life. It hands you information. What you do with it is the rest of the work. Ibogaine is a psychoactive alkaloid found in the root bark of Tabernanthe iboga, a shrub native to West Central Africa. The Bwiti tradition in Gabon has used iboga ceremonially for generations — initiation, ancestor work, deep personal reckoning. Outside that context, ibogaine became known in the West for something more specific: it appears to dramatically interrupt opioid withdrawal and reset the brain's response to certain addictive substances. The mechanism is still being studied, but the lived experience is striking. People who've been physically dependent for years describe walking out of a session without the bone-deep sickness they expected. Cravings, in many cases, drop to a whisper. That's the part that gets attention — and rightly so. For someone who's been trapped in a cycle, the idea that one treatment could break the physical hold is staggering. But here's where the misunderstanding starts. Interrupting withdrawal is not the same as curing addiction. The substance does something profound to your nervous system. It does not, on its own, repair the reasons you started using in the first place. Most psychedelic experiences clock in at four to eight hours. Ibogaine runs longer — often 24 to 36 hours from first dose to the point you can walk steadily again. The first phase is sometimes called the visionary state, and it's where the famous “life review” happens. Memories surface, sometimes in vivid sequence, sometimes scattered. People describe watching their lives from the outside, observing choices they'd buried for decades. The second phase is more cognitive — quieter, more reflective. You're processing what came up. The body is doing heavy lifting too: ibogaine slows the heart rate significantly, which is why reputable clinics require an EKG, blood work, and continuous cardiac monitoring. This is not a substance to take in a friend's living room. The cardiac risks are real, and most ibogaine-related fatalities trace back to inadequate medical screening. By the third phase, you're tired in a way you've probably never been tired. People talk about a kind of grey clarity that lasts for days. The body is exhausted; the mind is unusually quiet. And then — this is the part nobody warns you about enough — you have to go home. If you read enough first-person accounts, certain themes show up over and over. Not in the marketing copy. In the honest reports — the ones written months or years later, when the dust has settled. That last point is the one most people underestimate. The session is dramatic. The integration is mundane. And mundane is what changes a life. This question comes up constantly from people researching plant medicine for addiction, so it's worth addressing directly. Both ayahuasca and ibogaine have been studied as tools for addiction recovery, and both have produced remarkable case reports. They are not interchangeable. Ibogaine is, by most accounts, the more medically demanding of the two. The cardiac risk is higher. The session is longer. It's particularly effective at interrupting opioid dependence — something ayahuasca generally is not designed to do. If your primary issue is physical dependence on opioids, ibogaine is the more direct intervention. Ayahuasca tends to work differently. It's better suited to longer-arc work — depression, trauma, behavioural addictions, alcohol patterns, the existential layer of why-am-I-like-this. Many people who first encounter plant medicine through ibogaine eventually find their way to ayahuasca ceremonies for ongoing integration work. The two can complement each other across years, not weeks. Master plants — the broader category these medicines fall into — share something important: they show you things. They don't decide for you. Whichever path fits your situation, the work after the ceremony is what determines the outcome. This is where I get blunt. The ibogaine world has reputable clinics doing careful, life-saving work. It also has cowboys. The difference between the two can be the difference between recovery and a coroner's report. If you're seriously considering treatment, look for these markers: Mexico and Costa Rica host most of the legal, medically-supervised clinics serving North Americans, since ibogaine is unscheduled in those countries. The legal status in the United States is more restrictive — ibogaine is a Schedule I substance there — which is why most treatment-seekers travel. If you're reading this because you or someone you love is stuck in addiction, here's the honest path forward. Do your research slowly. Talk to people who've been through it — not just the ones the clinics put forward, but the harder-to-find ones who'll tell you what didn't work. Get a real medical workup before you commit. Build your aftercare plan before you book the session, not after. And don't expect ibogaine to do the work that therapy, community, and time are supposed to do. The people who do well with ibogaine treatment tend to share a particular quality: they treat it as the beginning of something, not the end. They line up integration support, change their environment, take the post-session window seriously, and accept that the medicine has shown them what to do — but it's still on them to do it. If something here resonates and you want to explore further, a curated selection of ibogaine and plant-medicine retreats can be browsed on our marketplace here. Take your time with the decision. The right retreat, at the right moment, with the right aftercare around it — that's what changes things. Not the medicine alone.
Ibogaine for Addiction Recovery: What 36 Days Clean Actually Looks Like
There's a particular kind of quiet that settles in around the fifth week after an ibogaine treatment. The acute work is done. The visions have faded into something you half-remember, half-feel. The cravings — if they're going to creep back — usually start testing the locks somewhere around here. This is the stretch nobody warns you about, and it's also the stretch that decides whether the whole thing took. People come to ibogaine for one reason more than any other: they want out of an addiction they've tried to escape a dozen times before. Opioids, mostly. But also alcohol, stimulants, benzodiazepines, and the harder-to-name patterns that don't show up on a tox screen. The plant medicine community has long whispered about ibogaine as the closest thing we have to a reset button. The science is starting to catch up. And the lived experiences shared by people in early recovery — the raw, unpolished ones — are often more useful than any clinical write-up. Ibogaine is an alkaloid found in the root bark of the Tabernanthe iboga shrub, native to Central Africa. In the Bwiti tradition of Gabon, it's used in initiation ceremonies that have nothing to do with addiction. Western medicine stumbled onto its anti-addictive properties almost by accident in the 1960s, when a heroin user named Howard Lotsof noticed his cravings simply weren't there after taking it. What happens neurologically is still being mapped, but the broad strokes are these: ibogaine appears to reset opioid receptors, interrupt the conditioned cravings that keep relapse cycles spinning, and — most strikingly — produce a long, dreamlike review of your own life. Many people describe it less as a trip and more as an interrogation. Memories surface unbidden. Decisions get re-examined. The reasons you started using in the first place tend to show up in the room with you. It's not gentle. A full flood dose lasts somewhere between 24 and 36 hours, with the most intense phase usually in the first 8 to 12. People describe nausea, ataxia (you can't really walk), and a relentless interior monologue. The phrase you hear over and over from people who've done it: I wouldn't do it again, and I wouldn't undo it. Here's roughly what the recovery arc looks like for someone using ibogaine to come off opioids or another long-running dependency. Individual experiences vary enormously, but patterns repeat: That milestone — the one-month-plus mark — is when people on recovery forums tend to post for the first time. They want to mark the moment. They also want to know if what they're feeling is normal. The answer is almost always yes. Here's the part the more honest practitioners will tell you and the marketing brochures usually won't: ibogaine is a powerful interrupt, not a cure. The treatment can pull you out of physical dependence and give you a remarkably clear view of the patterns that drove your use. But it doesn't rebuild your social life. It doesn't fix the relationship that's been collateral damage. It doesn't pay your rent or restructure your evenings. The people who stay clean — and there are many — almost universally do three things after treatment: A treatment without integration is, as one facilitator I spoke with put it, like getting a heart transplant and skipping physical therapy. The surgery worked. That doesn't mean you can run yet. This is where the stakes get serious. Ibogaine has real cardiac risks — it can prolong the QT interval, and people with undiagnosed heart conditions have died during treatment. It's a Schedule I substance in the United States, which means legitimate treatment happens primarily in Mexico, Costa Rica, the Netherlands, South Africa, and a handful of other jurisdictions where it's legal or unscheduled. A few things to look for, and a few red flags that should make you walk away: Ask to speak with past clients. A confident provider will connect you. Ask what their protocol is if something goes wrong medically. Ask how many treatments they've done and what their experience is with your specific substance of dependence — ibogaine for opioid recovery is well-mapped; ibogaine for stimulant or alcohol recovery is a different conversation. Most people arrive thinking the substance is the problem. By day three of an ibogaine experience, most have revised that opinion. The substance is what they were using to manage something — grief, an old wound, a chronic anxiety, a sense of not belonging in their own life. Ibogaine has a particular knack for showing you the thing underneath the thing. That can be the most valuable part of the whole experience. It can also be the hardest. Reading other people's accounts of post-treatment life, you notice a pattern: the addiction was loud, but underneath it was often a depression, a trauma, a relational pattern they hadn't known how to look at. Sobriety made all of that visible. The work of recovery, properly understood, is the work of attending to what was hiding behind the using. This is why integration matters so much, and why a one-week clinic stay is the beginning of a longer process — not its conclusion. Some people pair ibogaine with subsequent work using other plant medicines, ayahuasca being the most common, often months later, to keep deepening the inner work. Others go in the opposite direction and lean entirely on therapy, community, and stillness. Both paths can work. Neither works automatically. Talk to people who've done it. Read the long, honest accounts — the ones that include the hard parts, not just the breakthroughs. Speak with at least two providers before you choose. Get cleared by a cardiologist who knows what you're planning. Don't go alone if you can help it; having someone meet you on the other side, even just for the first week, matters more than most people realize. And give yourself a real plan for the months after. Where will you live? Who will you call when it's hard? What will you do with the time you used to spend using? These questions are not optional. They're the actual treatment, in a way the substance itself can never be. For anyone weighing this seriously, a curated selection of ibogaine and plant-medicine retreats with vetted medical protocols can be browsed on our marketplace here. Thirty-six days is a real milestone — but it's a beginning, not a finish line, and the people who treat it that way are the ones who tend to still be free at day three hundred and sixty.
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