“The Courage to Feel Again: Psychedelic Pathways to Healing After Trauma”

Healing after military sexual trauma, bullying, harassment, or sexual violence is not a straight road. It curves through shame and fury, through flashes of memory that arrive uninvited and long stretches where nothing seems to change. For many people, the conventional map, talk therapy, medication, peer support may be the only form of relief. For others, it has not gone far enough. That is the space where interest in psychedelics and microdosing has grown: not as a rebellion against evidence or safety, but as a searchlight for those still wandering at the edge of what mainstream care can currently reach. The promise that draws survivors toward psychedelic-assisted approaches is deceptively simple: these experiences can soften rigid patterns in the brain and in one’s story about oneself, creating a window in which learning, connection, and emotional processing become more fluid. People living with trauma often describe feeling stuck, held fast by hypervigilance, frozen by avoidance, or locked into a looping narrative of self-blame. Psychedelics are thought to temporarily relax the defences that keep those loops spinning and to loosen the grip of fear on the nervous system. In that loosened state, with careful preparation and skilled support, survivors may be able to revisit what happened with fresh courage, to create new associations, and to reconnect to parts of themselves that once felt lost. To appreciate why this matters for survivors of military sexual trauma in particular, it helps to understand the special tangles in that kind of pain. MST happens inside a system that depends on trust and cohesion; when assault or harassment occurs, the betrayal cuts through identity, purpose, and community. Reporting can feel unsafe; retaliation and disbelief are not abstract worries but lived realities for many. The hyperstructured environment of military life, where rank, mission, and unit come before the individual, can multiply the silence that follows. If the attack occurred in a deployed context or under conditions of war-readiness, sensory triggers may be everywhere: a smell of fuel, a door slam, a time-of-day routine. Survivors of bullying and harassment, inside and outside the military, face another sort of erosion: small daily cuts that teach the body to expect danger and the self to shrink. Psychedelics do not erase any of this but by reshaping how memory and fear talk to one another, they might help survivors reclaim authorship over their own minds. A central distinction in the current landscape is between “macrodosing” psychedelic-assisted therapy, one or a few high-dose sessions held in a highly structured therapeutic container and “microdosing,” the practice of taking very small, often sub-perceptual amounts of a substance on an intermittent schedule. The first approach seeks a deep, catalysing experience, sometimes described as a “journey,” with a carefully trained guide and extensive preparation and integration. The second approach aims for gradual shifts in mood, attention, and embodied presence over time, with minimal alteration of ordinary functioning day to day and both are often discussed for trauma, and both carry distinct potentials and risks. In guided, higher-dose settings, survivors sometimes describe an experience that allows them to witness their trauma without being consumed by it. The story is not wiped away; rather, the frame widens. Participants report encountering compassion, for themselves and even for those who harmed them, not as an excuse but as a form of release. Where shame once curled inward, a different feeling, often described as dignity, can stand up. The emotions that were too hot to touch may become bearable. New insights arrive: “I survived.”and/or “It wasn’t my fault.” “I’m allowed to be angry and safe at the same time.” Afterward, the work continues. Integration is the art of turning a single peak moment into a foothold for everyday life, through therapy, peer groups, journaling, movement, and changes in relationships as without integration, even a beautiful experience can fade like a dream but with it, survivors can practice moving differently: less constrained by triggers, more aligned with values, better able to sleep, to set boundaries, to ask for help. Microdosing, by contrast, has been framed by some survivors as a way to lift a fog that never seems to burn off. The appeal lies in the possibility, still under active study, that tiny, carefully spaced amounts of a psychedelic might gently support mood, ease anxious rumination, or increase a felt sense of connection to one’s body and environment. People pursuing this route often say they feel a few degrees more resilient: stressors still happen, but their nervous systems have a bit more room to respond rather than react. For those recovering from sexual violence or chronic harassment, this can be meaningful. The small moment in which you choose to ground yourself instead of dissociating can change an entire day. Yet neither path is a cure-all, and neither is appropriate for everyone. Survivors are not a single group as experiences and identities intersect: gender, race, rank, sexuality, disability, immigration status, and more. Some people have medical histories, medications, or family backgrounds for which psychedelics are contraindicated. Others may be drawn to the idea but find that the actual experience is too intense or destabilising, especially without trauma-informed preparation and follow-up. The truth that must anchor any ethical conversation here is consent, full, informed, enthusiastic consent, and the guarantee that choosing not to pursue psychedelics is every bit as valid and honourable as choosing to explore them. If there is a movement that exemplifies a careful, veteran-centered approach, it is the work of the Heroic Hearts Project in the United States and the United Kingdom. Founded by veterans and built with their needs at the forefront, Heroic Hearts connects former service members with carefully selected psychedelic programmes in jurisdictions where such work is lawful. Their model emphasises rigorous screening, pre-retreat education, and robust post-experience integration, often within a peer community that understands military culture from the inside. The United Kingdom branch extends this ethos on British soil and in coordination with UK veterans’ networks, ensuring that cultural context and local resources are part of the healing arc. The organisation does not simply point people toward an experience and walk away; it scaffolds the journey, from clarifying intentions to processing what arose, and it trains peer mentors to keep the language and values of service present throughout. For survivors of MST, harassment, or bullying, that coherence matters. It signals: you are safe here; your story belongs; your service is respected; your boundaries are primary. Beyond logistics, the cultural translation Heroic Hearts offers is an intervention in itself. Many survivors from military backgrounds distrust mental health systems that have, at times, seemed to pathologise them without understanding them. A veteran-led program can meet that skepticism head-on, not by dismissing clinical rigor but by pairing it with the rituals, humour, and directness that soldiers, sailors, aircrew, and marines recognise. When shame has taught someone to isolate, a cohort built of peers with similar scars can lower the cost of coming forward. When betrayal has taught someone that chain of command cannot be trusted, the simple act of being welcomed by fellow veterans who will not minimise or sensationalise their story can begin to reverse the lesson and when fear has taught the nervous system that surrender equals danger, a container where surrender is reframed as courage, and where consent is actively upheld. Such conditions create a world in which real healing work is even possible. The question of why psychedelic experiences might specifically assist survivors of sexual violence has several answers. One is biological; as traumatic stress imprints not only on memory but also on the body: disturbed sleep and startle responses, altered patterns of inflammation, shifts in the delicate dance between the sympathetic and parasympathetic branches of the autonomic nervous system. Early research suggests that psychedelic states can, for a time, increase the brain’s plasticity and reconfigure patterns of connectivity associated with rigid, self-referential rumination. In plainer language: they sometimes help people get out of their own way long enough to try something new. Another answer is psychological. Psychedelics often amplify awareness of emotion, sensation, and meaning; they can allow a person to feel grief without being shattered by it and to encounter rage without losing their grounding which for a survivor who has learned that emotions are dangerous, or whose prior attempts at disclosure were met with disbelief, the chance to feel deeply in a protected space can be a rare gift. There is also a spiritual dimension, which need not be religious. Many survivors, particularly of sexual violence, carry a rupture in their relationship with their own bodies. The body becomes the scene of the crime, a place to escape, a thing to control, a vessel to numb. Psychedelic experiences can, for some, restore a sense of the body as an ally. A survivor might notice the breath with gratitude, or feel warmth in the chest that has nothing to do with attack or defense. They might, even briefly, experience their body as part of a living world rather than a battlefield. These are subtle shifts, but they matter. If healing is a practice, not a prize, then any practice that turns toward the body with gentleness is worth attention. Still, it would be irresponsible to write only of benefits simply because psychedelics are powerful. They can open doors that were closed for good reasons. Surprises, emotional, autobiographical, even perceptual, can surface and for someone with trauma, this can be healing; it can also be overwhelming. That is why preparation and integration matter as much as the session itself, and why trauma-informed facilitators are non-negotiable. It’s also why peer support organisations and veteran-specific programs like Heroic Hearts are so important: they weave in safety from the culture of the participants outward, rather than trying to retrofit safety from a clinical checklist alone and the legal landscape is complex. What is permitted in one jurisdiction may be prohibited in another. Ethical programmes ensure that participants understand the law, the risks, and the alternatives. Similarly, microdosing deserves its own cautions. The idea of small, steady gains is attractive, and some people report exactly that: improved mood, less reactivity, greater motivation to exercise or to complete therapy homework. Others notice little or feel worse, jittery, irritable, or emotionally raw. Without clinical oversight, some may be tempted to “self-titrate” in ways that drift toward unsafe use or improper combinations with other medications. The most promising possibilities still require the same accountability as any intervention: clear intentions, honest tracking of effects, consultation with healthcare providers, and a willingness to stop if harm outweighs benefit. Even then, microdosing, like any tool, is best framed as an adjunct to a broader plan that might include therapy, peer support, medical care, creative expression, and meaningful work or service. Psychedelics are lenses; they do not replace the photographer’s eye or the labour of developing the picture. An often overlooked question is what healing looks like in community. Survivors do not recover in isolation. The chain of experience moves through partners, families, units, workplaces, faith circles. Programmes that include group preparation and integration can help shift the social field around a survivor, not only the survivor’s internal world. Veterans often speak of missing the camaraderie of service even if the institution failed them. Psychedelic communities that honour that longing, while firmly safeguarding boundaries, equity, and consent can provide a place to practice trust again. The group becomes a mirror where members see their strength reflected and their pain respected. In that mirror, shame softens; in that softening, choices widen. Ethics must remain the foundation as power dynamics are acute when survivors are present. Facilitators must be accountable, transparent, and trained to recognise and prevent reenactments of harm. Clear policies against staff-participant relationships, strict confidentiality, accessible complaints processes, and a commitment to diversity are not extras; they are the frame that keeps the canvas from tearing. Veteran-led organisations often understand this instinctively, because they have seen what happens when bad actors exploit chain of command. Heroic Hearts’ focus on peer mentorship and on partnering with practitioners who respect military culture helps to encode protective norms: consent is explicit and ongoing; disclosures are handled with gravity; cultural humility is expected; and aftercare is a promise, not a pamphlet. Another layer of ethics concerns equity as not all survivors can afford to travel to legal jurisdictions or to pay for private retreats. Not all have employers who will grant the time away, or families who can absorb the labour they usually do. If psychedelic-assisted healing becomes yet another wellness luxury reserved for the well-resourced, then its social promise will have been betrayed. Part of the work, then, must be advocacy: for research, for legal clarity, for insurance coverage where appropriate, for veteran benefits that recognise the unique burdens of MST, for outreach to communities who have been harmed by similar experiences and who deserve to benefit from any new era of care because healing that leaves people behind is not healing; it is curation. It is also essential to weave in the realities of intersectional harm. Survivors from intersectional communities all carry particular patterns of stigma and disbelief. Psychedelic programmes that do not address this will replicate it. It must include staff who reflect the diversity of those they serve and curricula that name systemic harms instead of individualising them as only then can a MST survivor relax enough to do the work. For MST survivors, reaching out to a veteran-led programme such as the Heroic Hearts Project in the USA or the UK can provide a culturally attuned doorway into the conversation, from there, the work unfolds step by step: clarifying intentions, assessing medical considerations, understanding legal constraints, deciding whether macro- or micro-level approaches align with their goals and values, considering timing, and, crucially, building a plan for integration long before any substance is taken. Integration is where the survivor’s agency cuts deepest: choosing practices that make sense for them is essential if insight has the room to become habit. Yet, for those who never choose to engage with psychedelics at all, there is still something to take from this emerging field: the insistence that healing is plastic, that identity is not fixed by what was done to you, that collective care matters, that awe, whether induced by a medicine or by a sunrise, can interrupt despair. Psychedelics, at their best, remind people that meaning is a renewable resource. It belongs to ritual, to art, to friendship, to grief shared in community, to a culture that finally admits what it has too often denied: that sexual violence is not an individual failure but a collective one, and that supporting survivors is not charity but duty. When a survivor of military sexual trauma walks into a space run by veterans for veterans, when they meet facilitators who are clinically skilled and humble, when they encounter a group that will not turn away from their pain, they may begin to imagine a future that does not revolve around what happened. Psychedelic experiences, whether held as a single, profound session or approached incrementally through microdosing, can offer a catalyst for that reimagining. They can help loosen the knots that bind memory to shame. They can help light up the neural pathways of connection and courage. They can remind a person of their own capacity to feel and to choose but a catalyst is not a destination. The destination, if there is one, looks ordinary from the outside: a night of sleep uninterrupted by alarms from the past; a conversation with a friend answered with laughter; a date where consent is explicit and joy uncomplicated; a workplace where dignity is non-negotiable; a morning where the mirror shows someone alive and unafraid. Psychedelics, guided with care and situated within a community that understands, may help more survivors get there. The work of the Heroic Hearts Project in the United States and the United Kingdom points toward a model that combines legal prudence, cultural competence, and deep respect for the agency of those who served. It is not the only path. It is, for some, a true one. The emerging field will mature. Laws will change, for better or worse. Studies will clarify what helps and for whom. Stories will accumulate, including those of people for whom psychedelics were not helpful and those for whom they were transformative. Through it all, the lodestar must remain the survivor’s autonomy and safety. Healing after sexual violence requires not only new tools but a new ethic, one that centers consent, honours complexity, and keeps faith with the possibility that people can become whole again. Psychedelics are not magic. They are, at best, a disciplined form of hope, and hope, when held in capable hands, is sometimes exactly what a survivor needs to take the next step.

Note: This blog explores possibilities and emerging ideas. It isn’t medical advice, and psychedelic substances are restricted or illegal in many places. Survivors deserve safe, lawful, trauma-informed care. Anyone considering any new treatment should consult qualified clinicians, weigh risks carefully, and never feel pressured to try something that isn’t right for them.

Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist