There's a reason the buffalo heads toward the storm.
Not around it. Not away from it. Through it.
Because they know this: the shortest path to the other side isn't the easiest one. It's the most direct.
I'm sitting here in the Sacred Valley, watching how people live. Really live. Not the Instagram version. Not the retreat center fantasy. Just... living. Sitting around. Being with each other. Being with themselves. None of them are out there chasing ceremonies every weekend. They're just here.
And I'm thinking about my second ayahuasca ceremony. Four years after my first. I walked in with trepidation, a knot in my stomach. My girlfriend at the time was with me. It was her first ceremony, so there was this added weight of wanting to hold space for her while knowing I had my own shit to face.
Then I see this couple. They're laughing, loose, setting up their instruments like they're at a music festival. "We come every two weeks," they tell me, grinning. "This is our party time."
I was jealous. They looked so free. So happy. So unburdened.
I didn't have language for it then, but I do now: spiritual bypassing.
Here's what I've come to understand over the last decade of plant medicine, meditation retreats, and working with teachers on embodiment and relationship:
Most of us—myself included—have been looking for peak experiences when what we actually need is integration.
We want the high. The breakthrough. The cosmic download. The moment where everything makes sense and we feel connected to the universe.
But we don't want to sit with the muck afterward.
We don't want the slow, unsexy work of taking what we learned in that expanded state and actually weaving it into the fabric of our daily lives. Into how we speak to our partner when we're triggered. Into how we show up at work when we're bored. Into how we handle our finances, our bodies, our responsibilities.
Integration is initiation. It's a rite of passage. And like all true initiations, it should feel a little scary. A little heavy.
Because integration means you can't look away from yourself anymore. You can't keep playing victim to your circumstances. You have to take ownership of every aspect of your life. The cards you've been dealt. The choices you're making with those cards.
You become the active creator of your life instead of passively moving through it toward an unconscious death.
When you're avoiding this work, it shows up in subtle, sneaky ways.
The emotional cheating on your partner.
The way you keep signing up for the next retreat, the next ceremony, the next teacher, because surely THIS one will finally fix you.
The responsibilities you keep dodging because "I'm still healing" or "I'm not ready yet."
But when you're actually doing the work of integration? When you're building integrity into your body, your life?
It also shows up in subtle ways. But generative ones.
You feel more empowered to take charge of your life. You feel capable of handling whatever gets thrown at you. Not because you're superhuman, but because you've sat with enough of your own darkness that you're not afraid of it anymore.
You stop shaking and hyperventilating when you're alone with yourself.
That's when the real healing happens.
I've learned this: there's a whole system that capitalizes on you thinking you're broken. Entire industries built on the premise that you need fixing. One more ceremony. One more workshop. One more certification.
But here's what you might not know about yourself yet:
There's nothing inherently wrong with you.
You just need to learn how to be with yourself. In the quiet. In the mundane. In the muck.
Peak experiences are beautiful. I'm not saying don't do them. I'm saying: what are you doing with them afterward?
Are you integrating the lessons into your spine, your relationships, your daily choices? Or are they just escape hatches for your psyche—brief respites from the life you're avoiding?
Because integration is what builds integrity. They're the same word, really. Same root.
When you integrate all the parts of yourself—the shadow and the light, the wound and the medicine—you become whole. Integrated. A person of integrity.
You show up the same way in private as you do in public. You say what you mean. You mean what you say. You can be trusted—by others, yes, but more importantly, by yourself.
The buffalo doesn't bypass the storm because it knows: going through builds a strong head. A sturdy body. The capacity to endure.
So I'm asking you:
Where are you bypassing?
How does your body feel when you're just sitting in the muck, no ceremony to distract you, no teacher to guide you, no peak experience to save you?
What are the lessons you've integrated from your last few transformative experiences? Have they actually changed how you live? Or have they just given you better stories to tell at parties?
Integration should feel a little heavy at first. A little scary. Because no one taught us how to take real responsibility for our lives. But that's exactly why it's initiation work.
The storm is coming either way.
The only question is: are you going to head toward it, or keep looking for a way around?
Ish
P.S. If this piece landed in your body—if you felt that recognition of where you've been bypassing, where you're ready to stop seeking and start integrating—I have a few 1:1 coaching spots open for the rest of the year.
This isn't about adding another peak experience to your collection. This is about doing the integration work that builds real integrity into your life. The work of sitting with the muck. Of weaving your insights into how you actually show up in your relationships, your purpose, your daily choices.
I work with men and couples who are done performing and ready to embody. Who want to stop abandoning themselves and learn to stay rooted even when it's uncomfortable.
If you're ready to head toward the storm instead of around it, reach out.
P.P.S. I am also running my Men's Rites retreat in Peru next year. It's a chance for you to get up close and experience some of the magic of these lands. The page is up and accepting applications. Special deal for my existing 1:1 clients.
