Treefort Music Festival—the hippest event in the capital city of a Red state. Having attended a few of the free-stage shows in the past, this year’s festival was my first taste of the 5-day marathon. January and February were the training wheels, with concerts and late night disco dancing strategically priming our near-30-year-old bodies with the endurance they’d need.
Treefort prides itself for a truly family-friendly environment, offering far more than just music—Yogafort, Foodfort, Artfort, Comedyfort, Filmfort, Ecofort. You get the idea. When I read the description for a “Sacred Breathwork Ceremony,” I was intrigued and added it to the list.
Friends and readers of past newsletters know I appreciate what I’ll just call alternative forms of medicine and therapy. The United States leads the world in healthcare spending, while actual health outcomes place the US among the lowest of all OECD countries. And we’re still without universal health insurance…. A broken system creates its own demand for new modes of operation. Breathwork had long been on my radar, but I’d never formally given it a try. An introductory session, to help recover during the restless Treefort weekend, felt like a great opportunity to do something new.
A friend and I walked into the building and found nearly 50 people already crammed into a roughly 15x60 foot room—essentially a basement, with a window at one end. An local yoga instructor introduced the couple who’d be leading the session, followed by their own ten minute or so preamble about breathing techniques and various feelings/emotions/experiences one might have during the session.
This particular session, I’ve since discovered, was holotropic breathwork and involved laying flat on one’s back and breathing rapidly in and out of the mouth. A sort of controlled hyperventilation, it’s common to produce tingling sensations in the hands, feet, and face, as well as altered states of consciousness from which insights can be gleaned and/or traumas overcome.
The couple who’d guide us then matter-of-factly mentioned there’d be loud, bass-heavy music, lights turned off, and drums and essential oils administered throughout the session. The music, they explained, would transition from dark, discordant, “evil” sounds toward more peaceful, angelic music, symbolizing the conquering of some internal demon.
At one point near the end of the introduction, one of the guides told us to raise our hand should we feel uncomfortable or need assistance leaving the crowded room, rather than attempt to walk in the dark, over and through the bodies strewn across the floor. They then continued, “But nobody should need to leave. We’re going to have a great journey.”
Between the cramped environment and the insubstantial introduction and description of the session, my alarm bells went off. I had a sense of what type of session this would be and I began to guard myself. In this realm of “spiritual,” metaphysical voyaging, one might hear the expressions, let go and be open to the experience—but in a room full of 50 strangers and guides I met minutes ago?
I’ve done my fair share of psychedelics, I meditate from time to time, and I generally appreciate inward reflection. But as much as I’m grateful for the mind expansion of my 20s, I’ve also learned to approach internal journeys with a grain of trepidation. Add in mental health struggles throughout graduate school and I’ve become well aware of my psychological frailties.
My knowledge of psychedelic therapy is not exhaustive by any means, but it’s fairly extensive compared to the typical person. During senior year of undergrad I designed my own elective course on “The History and Therapeutic Potential of Psychedelics,” I’ve read various canonical books in the field of psychedelic studies, and subscribe to and regularly read the Substack newsletter “The Microdose,” which highlights developments in the field of psychedelic policy. And I listen to a lot of Joe Rogan. Jokes aside, I’m hopeful about the future of psychedelic medicine, but hold an overly-cautious, non-recreational view toward their use.
Holotropic breathing isn’t the same as psychedelic-assisted therapy, but I’ll argue that any form of medicine or therapy that actively seeks and encourages altered states of consciousness requires similarly stringent preparation and safety measures. From my understanding, the most rigorous protocols for psychedelic-assisted therapy include:
Multiple preparatory sessions with a therapist, discussing the physical and psychological effects.
Questionnaire’s about one’s medical history, guidance for setting clear goals and intentions, and direction on how to navigate any potential troubling aspects of the experience.
The actual drug session(s), including closed eyes, soft music, and a therapist (and medical staff) close by throughout
Multiple hour-long integration sessions, during which patient and therapist process the experience/outcome in a traditional talk-therapy format.
Proper preparation, guidance (with an appropriate guide-to-patient ratio), and post-experience integration. Each of these vital aspects was missing from what I would deem a safe, responsible breathwork experience.
Midway through the first half of the session, deeply entrenched in the soundtrack from hell, a guide came up to me and began hitting a handheld drum maybe three inches from the surface of my chest. Other guides walked the room, aggressively yelling, WHAT ARE YOU HOLDING BACK?! I thought I heard weeping from someone around me.
The reverberations from the drum were somewhat physically pleasing, although overwhelmingly intense, and it sent my psyche spiraling toward anxiety and fear. Why, and fear of what, I’m not sure. I can’t say I’ve experienced a full panic attack, but I’ve had what feels like the beginning of one many times. I sat up, looked around and assessed the path to the exit, but felt a stigma of leaving and decided to “stick it out.” I tempered my breathing, diluting the experience, and hung on as the tempest raged about.
Long story short, I made it through with only a minor internal freakout. The music faded away, the lights turned on, and crowds of people began hugging one another for having shared such a profound experience. My friend and I gathered our belongings and swiftly left, yearning for open air and sunlight.
On the street, they told me that they’d been the one crying. Yet, the abrupt end to the session and the lack of any reconciliation left her feeling vulnerable and confused. We then hugged for what felt like an entirely different reason than the others.
To some, this may read as an account of my naivete. With a predisposition toward anxiety, what did I expect? My defense: the organizers of a beginner-level breathwork session, in the midst of a hectic festival, should know better than to casually merge therapeutics with recreation. Ultimately, this feels like one of those Yes, and scenarios, in which various sides of the truth have a part to play.
This experience has not diminished my belief in the therapeutic effects of altered states of consciousness in the slightest. Instead, this is a narrative about two eager, young breathwork practitioners who didn’t meet their uninitiated audience where they were at. 49 of the 50 people in that room might have had a profound experience, but it only takes one psychological mishap for that to be all for naught.
This experience symbolizes everything that the alternative therapies renaissance stands to lose. Like a classic retelling of the 1960s, with figures like the Merry Pranksters and Timothy Leary, stirring crowds and riling authorities with their frivolous behaviors and messaging like Turn on, tune in, drop out. The presence of a drug isn’t the only pre-requisite for safe and responsible implementation. Our minds can be dangerous enough.
Great article Kyle!! Glad that you're ok.