The UVU You Don't See On the News

What saddens me almost as much as the event itself is knowing that, for a long time, the only thing people will see when they type “Utah Valley University” into Google is the tragedy that just happened.

But UVU is so much more than a headline. It’s an incredibly amazing school — a place that has given me more support than anywhere else I’ve studied. The professors here are incredible: always willing to help, always accessible. I’ve even been able to ask professors who don’t teach my classes for help, and they’ve taken the time. That kind of culture is rare.

UVU is the best place I know for nontraditional students. They started as a community college and, even after upgrading to university status, they kept that same structure of accessibility and support. Education here is truly built to meet students where they are. And with so many different programs, there’s a pathway for almost every career you could imagine.

The support network is unmatched: academic coaching, learning strategists, the Math Lab, and even direct access to someone in the Dean of Students’ office. I’ve worked closely with faculty who didn’t just care about my grades but about me as a whole person. The Assistant Math Department Chair — who also happens to be the mother of someone I grew up with — has been phenomenal. UVU is also one of the very few schools in Utah that offers Statistics as its own major rather than just a math emphasis, and they even have an Actuarial Science concentration — something not even USF offered when I looked there.

Working in Dr. Kidd’s statistics lab has given me a chance to build my resume and connect with the professional world in ways I never imagined. These opportunities show how far UVU has come. Gone are the days when it was mainly seen as a springboard to transfer somewhere else. UVU stands as an amazing institution in its own right, and I’m sad that right now the outside world won’t see that side of it.

The UVU I know isn’t just the place that made the news. It’s a place where professors open their doors, where nontraditional students thrive, where opportunity is everywhere if you reach for it. That’s the UVU I carry with me — and it’s the story worth telling.

From Insult to Launchpad

 This session was the last time someone’s rude words pushed me toward treatment. For a long time, the swirl kept dragging me back—27 extra sessions worth. But when I walked into this one, I’d already been doing linear algebra problems, understanding free variables, and scoring 87% on a quiz for a class I once failed three times. The medicine didn’t show me escape—it reintroduced me to a younger version of myself: Fernando who always loved math, always loved statistics, before he even knew the depth of his trauma.

Yes, the swirl hurt. They threw cheap shots about my age, they contradicted themselves, they revealed the dysfunction of that environment. But here’s the paradox: their chaos became my launchpad. The treatment they pushed me back into is the same treatment that broke my mental blocks, got me back into school, and reminded me who I am.

Now I’m not just a student. I’m scaling an Amazon business under world-class mentorship, I’m helping my mom launch hers, I’m balancing school, work, and healing. The swirl is behind me. The grind is in front of me. And I finally understand: love isn’t in their words, it’s in how I keep showing up.

The Medicine Is In Me Now

I don’t even know where to start.

This last week hit me in a way I didn’t see coming. It showed me something I didn’t think I’d be ready to admit — I’m starting to need ketamine less and less. And I’m relying on my integration more and more.

Fernando from two weeks ago would’ve called my last two sessions total duds. Waste of time. Waste of money. And yeah, in the past, I’ve gotten pissed when my sessions were too close together or didn’t “hit” deep. But now… now I see it. I don’t need them as much as I thought.

---

The Scare That Lit Everything Up

So a few days ago, I thought my car was stolen. I’m not talking about a “oh maybe I misplaced my keys” kind of thing. I fully believed it was gone. For two days. I called the police. Filed a report.

My stepdad told me, “Go talk to the neighbors. See if they’ve got cameras.” One of them did.

Monday night, 7:21 p.m. — there’s me, driving away.
8:20 p.m. — there’s me again… walking home.

And it hit me like a brick: I drove to the grocery store… and completely forgot I’d walked back.

The whole thing set off alarms in my head. Triggered old trauma. Pulled up memories of past suicidal thoughts. It was bad enough that I booked an emergency Continued Support Care call. That’s when I met Ludwig.

---

Meeting Ludwig

This man… Ludwig… had the kind of energy you feel in your chest. Gentle. Present. Safe.

He got my ADHD. He got my healing journey. He even arranged the call so we had unlimited time — no clock ticking down in the background. And then he thanked me for sharing my story with Better U.

I cried writing this.

While he talked, I thought about my rocket session. The “protect your energy” one. The “it all starts with me” one. I even sent him the blog post link about it. Ludwig, if you ever see this — I’m sending so much love your way.

He taught me something I can’t unhear: every time you say I release…, follow it with what you want to welcome in. That’s not just setting intentions — that’s rewriting your life mid-sentence.

---

The “Dud” That Wasn’t

While I was writing about all this, ketamine took me on a full-on gratitude tour.

And I swear — I’d sat down thinking, Well, this is going to be another dud. Like the one I had three days before. But I’ve learned ketamine can be sneaky. Merciful. (I wrote about that here.)

I decided this would be my last emergency session for now. I’m saving the rest for when seasonal depression and trauma start knocking later in the year. September is officially my integration month — and by “September,” I mean starting now.

This session gave me peace with the idea that those deep, trippy rides will get fewer and further between. And that’s okay. This is integration season.

---

Memory Lane with Lacey

Lying there, thinking nothing was happening, I drifted into this memory. Back when I lived at The Ivy at Draper — a 55+ community. First with my mom, then alone because the managers loved me.

I’d walk my mom’s dog, Lacey, to the park four times a day. That little dog was like a social magnet. She helped me make so many connections. Losing her in 2022 — the night before the anniversary of my dad’s passing — hurt in a way I can’t even put into clean sentences.

Even when my Amazon business takes off and I buy my own house, I know I’m never going back to a little apartment community. But damn… that chapter, that dog… they shaped me.

---

Carrying the Medicine Inside

Better U has an integration guide that says to take your ketamine sessions and hold them inside you like a ball of energy. This “dud” session proved that’s exactly what’s happening.

It even reignited my love for statistics and math. A past session took me on a mental tour of UVU. This quiet one made me reflect. All those days of mental blocks, failing classes since my USF days — they’re over.

One of the big bosses from the Dean of Students office once told me:

“Don’t think of support as weakness. Think of it as what keeps you strong. You’ll learn new skills and get better and better.”

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The Launchpad

As much as “the swirl” hurt me at the time, they were the launchpad for my rocket. Earlier sessions told me to be kind. To protect my energy. To remember “it starts with me.” This one told me not to overextend.

And those sessions that started an hour late? They reminded me: not everything happens on my timeline.

---

This wasn’t just a session. It was a shift.

From chasing intensity…
to living in integration.
From needing the medicine…
to carrying it with me.

Not Just a Reply - A Realignment

What a Difference a Couple of Months Make

I’m now friends with my favorite Survivor contestant of all time.

This is someone I watched on national TV when Survivor was still at its peak — someone who later became a professor, then left that role to lead disaster health services at one of the most respected relief organizations in the country. In short: she’s incredibly busy. And she still made the time to send the kindest, most detailed reply to an internet stranger.

She updated me on her life. She enthusiastically offered to meet up. She took genuine interest in my Statistics degree — and asked me why I chose it. Shawna Mitchell, who I fanboyed over 22 years ago, took the time to see me.

A month ago, I went back into ketamine therapy after some relational fallouts left me gutted. Since then, everything has shifted.
My Amazon business is taking off.
My love for Statistics has been reignited.
And now, even the heroes of my teenage years are showing up in my life — not as distant idols, but as kindred spirits willing to connect.

I’m still working a job that forces me to revisit the scene of past pain. But the gravitational pull has changed. The orbit is no longer around rejection, confusion, or ghosting — it’s centered on healing, connection, and momentum.

Here’s to meeting more people like Shawna Mitchell.

In her season of Survivor, on the very episode she was voted out, Rob Cesternino said:

“You’re a genuinely kind person, and you put the needs of the tribe before your own… and unfortunately, that makes you a terrible Survivor player.”

And isn’t that the truth about this world sometimes? That kindness gets punished. That soft hearts get labeled liabilities.

But Shawna went on to build a beautiful life — far beyond that game.
And she just helped spark a new chapter in mine.

Thank you, Shawna, for reminding me what it looks like to lead with heart.
To rise with grace.
To ignite my own rocket, kite, Breakaway.

Shortly after I first saw you on Survivor, I survived four hurricanes in one month while on my Mormon mission. And now, all these years later, I’m surviving the emotional wreckage left behind by the swirl.

But this time… I’m surviving with a Christmas jar in one hand, a lit-up rocket in the other, and my torch finally burning bright again —
with Russ Landau’s Ancient Voices
and a reunited Oasis
as the soundtrack to my comeback.

My Ressurection Ride

My last ketamine session could not have ended more beautifully—or more unexpectedly.

I came in with a clear and vulnerable intention:
Remove all blockages to love.

But at first? It felt like a total dud.
Nothing happened. I sat through the entire playlist, and the medicine just… didn’t land. It was like I flushed $100 down the drain.

So I did what I often do in that liminal frustration: I started typing. Pouring out three years of context to ChatGPT—layered pain, buried memories, relational wreckage that still bleeds.

What began as a reflection on a recent rupture took me all the way back to Byte.

Back to a time I was grieving the traumatic death of my cousin…
Performing well at work but made to feel invisible and disposable…
Getting lovebombed and discarded by a coworker who once said dating me was "so different"—until she turned cold and said, “You’re no better than any other guy.”

Back to EMDR sessions.
Back to talk therapy.
Back to ADHD support meetings.
Back to crying in front of my computer with no one to talk to.

And back to the HR director who once pretended to empathize—then flipped, screamed at me, and weaponized my trauma against me.

I typed all of that an hour after I had already swallowed the medicine, convinced this session was a waste.

But the moment I finished writing and put on my eye mask—
The medicine came online.
Softly. Slowly. Sacredly.

Spotify had moved on from my carefully curated playlist to the algorithm’s recommendations. And that’s when ketamine threw me a lifeline.

It felt like I was on a carousel ride of grace.

The message was clear and immediate:

“Please be kind to yourself. You’ve already survived more than enough.”

It gave me a tour.
A tour of the last three years.
A tour of the UVU gym.
A spiritual cleansing of all the hidden places grief still lived in me.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

---

I saw how the first rocket session had already shown me expansion and escape.
I remembered the symbolism in my other sessions:

• A shitty job becoming the launchpad
• Overgiving to people who didn’t deserve me
• Christmas jars
• Breakaway, Kite, the soul of someone from 10 years ago
• The command: Protect your energy

---

And now this session connected it all.
Like a final puzzle piece locking in.

It showed me why my therapist at USF was so adamant about self-compassion.
It reminded me that since reclaiming that mindset, I’ve fallen back in love with statistics.
I’ve regained momentum in my Amazon business.
I’ve stepped into jiujitsu.
I’m building muscle, discipline, and clarity.
And I’m getting real help—real support—to finally win in this next chapter.

This time, the rocket isn’t just launching me into better relationships…
It’s launching me into better jobs, better boundaries, and a better life.

Because now I know:

• I will never again stay in a place where I’m disposable
• I will never again tolerate lovebombing, stonewalling, discards, gaslighting, or ghosting

My energy is sacred now.
And it’s time to act like it.

No more chasing people who can’t hold me.
No more giving the best of me to places that only take.
No more trying to earn the love I already deserve.

This was more than a ketamine trip.
It was a reckoning.
A blessing.
A rebirth.

Now that I’ve seen what’s better—
It’s time to be better.

A Better Me.
A Better Life.
A Better U.

---

If you'd like to become a "Better U", go to betterucare.com and use promo code NANDO84 for $100 discount at checkout.

The Phrase That Closed The Loop

I just had my final twice-a-week ketamine session—and ketamine never ceases to amaze me.

Earlier this week, I had my integration meeting with my guide, and he introduced me to that podcast I shared in my stories—the one about the gut being your second brain. It resonated deeply, especially given everything that’s been unfolding in my life.

I recently went through a painful and messy fallout with a couple of people. It left me feeling hurt, betrayed, and raw. That relational pain lingered hard this month. I knew my treatment was winding down, so I made a conscious decision to focus on relational trauma this round.

This all coincided with something unexpected and emotionally loaded: my favorite band, Oasis, reunited after 16 years. That moment stirred up a storm inside me. Grief, hope, nostalgia—and somehow, a surge of rocket energy. From there, things started aligning. There came a Christmas jar. And song after song started showing up in my life, all with a shared theme: U2's Kite, Kelly Clarkson's Breakaway, Dropline's Fly Away From Here.

I didn’t come all this way just to stay small.

I'm the guy who’s had over 60 ketamine sessions, healing layers of trauma I thought would bury me. I'm finally finishing school, balancing two businesses, training in jiujitsu. I’ve outgrown the patterns of tolerating emotional scraps and pretending that chaos is normal. This blog isn’t about petty personal tea, so I’ll leave it at that.

But here’s what matters:

As soon as I thought the words "protect my energy," I had the deepest session I’ve EVER had.

I don’t remember the visuals. I don’t remember exact details. But I remember how it felt. Everything in my system aligned behind that phrase. It became the session’s entire message. Its medicine.

A few sessions ago, ketamine showed me some brutal honesty—how I overextend, where I leak energy, how I try to earn love. This session was the follow-up. But this time, I wasn’t alone or exposed. I felt shielded from the gaslighting, the future faking, the manipulation, the deflection. I saw clearly:

I am no longer available to those people.
Their chaos is not worth re-triggering my trauma.
My energy is sacred. My rocket energy must be protected.

---

The Power of One Phrase

This session was already loaded with intention. I’d gone in asking to:

• Heal my relationship with my gut (my second brain)
• Trust myself again
• Create effortless flow in my studies, my business, and my relationships
• Let go of the need to do everything through force

But those are broad goals—big-picture shifts. The moment I thought "protect your energy," everything condensed. It was like every intention I had suddenly clicked into place behind that one phrase.

And my nervous system recognized it. My body stopped resisting. My gut finally felt safe.

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Why Ketamine Responds to Truth

Ketamine is strange and sacred. 

"Protect your energy" hit on every level:

• Somatic: It relaxed my gut and helped me drop in fast.
• Psychological: It rewired old loops about self-worth and boundarylessness.
• Spiritual: It affirmed that I’m allowed to choose peace over chaos.

It was a phrase that spoke to my trauma—but also to my readiness to evolve. And the medicine responded not with visions or voices—but with depth. Stillness. Knowing.

---

This Is Energetic Realignment

Something in me has changed. For real. I no longer feel the pull to chase the trip. This session showed me that the craving for the experience—the addiction to going deep just to feel real—is gone.

I didn’t lose the magic. I became it.

The trip lives in me now. The healing is here, not “out there.”

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Final Reflection

If you’ve been stuck in the swirl—of overthinking, overgiving, emotional chaos—your body knows. Your gut has probably been whispering to you for a while.

And if you ever enter a healing space—whether it's ketamine, therapy, meditation, or even journaling—carry this phrase with you:

"Protect your energy."

This phrase turned my session from just another check-in into a soul-level reset.

I’ll never forget it. And I’ll never again forget to honor it.

If you are ready for this type of healing, go to betterucare.com and use my promocode NANDO84 for $100 diecount on your first purchase.

The Kindness That Carried Me

This last ketamine session was relatively weak. No deep trip. But somehow, it ended up being one of the most impactful sessions I’ve ever had.

It brought me straight to my place of work 10 years ago at Progressive Leasing.  I got a text the night before — from my sweet friend Kirsi.

I’ve known Kirsi for over 10 years. We met at Progressive Leasing during a time when life was heavy. Those years weren’t easy, and honestly, neither were the years that followed. We missed each other when we were both in Florida, and now somehow, life brought us both back to Utah. Through it all, Kirsi has been one of those rare people who just gets it.

She’s the kind of friend everyone deserves to have.

Kirsi has this way of making people feel like their best selves. She brings good energy. She sees the inner work you’re doing — and celebrates it. She tells you she’s proud of you, and she means it. She doesn’t just say “I love you,” she backs it up with consistency, kindness, and actions that speak louder than words.

During the session, I kept being pulled back to her message.  And then I started thinking about everything my therapist at the University of South Florida used to say about self-compassion and connection. Suddenly the session wasn’t about visuals. It was about grace.  From my termination at Progressive to flunking out of USF, to my arrest in Georgia for forgetting to pay for my licence reinstatement fee, it felt like the cycle of pain never ends.  

The medicine helped me feel compassion for my younger self — the version of me working at Progressive Leasing, dragging around years of pain I didn’t know how to process. I mourned the fact I didn’t have access to ketamine or Better U back then. 

Usually my sessions end with a kind of celebration — this felt quieter. More subtle. But maybe that’s the point.

This time, the celebration came in the integration. In the realization. In the whisper:
You’ve carried so much. And you’re still here.

So today, I want to celebrate that.
And say a special thank you to Kirsi — for being a steady light through all these years.
For showing me what true support looks like.

If you feel ketamine therapy is right for you, go to betterucare.com and use my promo code NANDO84 to get $100 off.

Kite Rocket Breakaway

 I don’t remember much from my last ketamine session — and that’s common.

But what I do remember is the pattern.

The pattern of deep emotional excavation,
ripping me open one layer at a time —
only to deliver me into a space of celebration,
of light, of clarity.
The playlist.
The imagery.
The cost.
All of it crashing together in a way only ketamine knows how to orchestrate.

And this time, the medicine asked a question I didn’t expect:

“Are they really worth it?”

Not just the money.
But the reactivation of every wound,
the resurfacing of memories I’ve spent years trying to bury,
the somatic aftermath that leaves me raw for days.

It’s no secret I came back to treatment after a rupture —
a relational trauma from people I still have to see regularly.
People who once spoke of love, of plans, of shared futures,
and now respond with silence, performance, or worse — revisionist history.

But the medicine didn’t let me stay in that confusion.
It reminded me of what I already knew.
It brought me back to the rocket.
The one that launched when I chose myself.
The one powered by every truth I refused to swallow.

Kelly Clarkson told me to Breakaway.
U2’s Kite wrecked me. That song’s been on loop for days.
Especially the line:

“In summer, I can taste the salt in the sea.
There's a kite blowing out of control on the breeze.
I wonder what's gonna happen to you —
you wonder what is gonna happen to me…”

And then:

“I’m a man. I’m not a child.
A man who sees the shadow behind your eyes.”

I saw it.
I still see it.
The shadow of false promises.
The flinch in the follow-through.
The ghosting dressed up as “self-care.”
The triangulation, the petty silence, the replacement attempts.

But here’s the shift:
I’m no longer in the swirl disguised as a circle.
That game has nothing for me now.

I've been introduced to abundance.
In my Amazon business.
In Jiu-jitsu.
At UVU.
In the way the love I pour out has finally started coming back.
The medicine once told me: Don’t burn the village when the rocket launches.
But that doesn’t mean I need to tolerate shitty patterns or stay in places that shrink me.

Since starting this treatment, I’ve said I went from not being in the circle
to becoming the whole damn sphere.

And now, I’m tasting love from my homeland again.
Tasting food that reminds me I come from flavor and fire.
Being shown waterfalls, trails, rivers —
and more importantly, being seen for real by someone who doesn’t flinch at my depth.

As much as the last couple months hurt,
they became the launchpad:
for my rocket,
my kite,
my breakaway,
my expansion.

And now?

Now I’m free.
Free from feeling small.
Free from the swirl.
Free to rise without apology.

Love Circles Back With Interest: My Ketamine Jar

 

As I’ve been saying for a while now: KETAMINE REMEMBERS EVERYTHING.

I went in with two intentions — to trust myself more and to trust the universe more.
I don’t need the deep sessions as often anymore, but I restarted treatment after two months because a painful fallout cracked open some old relational wounds. This time, I committed every session in this refill to healing relational trauma. And you know what? My silent haters turned out to be my biggest blessing in disguise.

This session took me back to a movie I just watched on my birthday — Christmas Jars. It brought me into that warmth and generosity of a family giving out Christmas jars. That family radiated so much love. I saw myself in Hope — how she stood at a crossroads between the truth and her fear, between family and career, between protecting and exposing. And how those small choices came back full circle, like her birth mother getting a jar years later.

Yeah, it’s a fictional story — but it carries a real lesson: integrity and honest communication. Two things I was missing from people I thought were closest to me.

The medicine remembers everything. It even took me back to that awkward moment in the breakroom, running into one of them before I chose to sit elsewhere. The medicine showed me: I don’t hate that person.
I get to launch my rocket — but I don’t have to burn the whole village. No throwing hate.

This session made me see this is my own inner child work. And it’s also a message to other CPTSD survivors out there: Carry your own Christmas Jar.
First it was the rocket. Now it’s a Christmas Jar.

The medicine always ends by taking you through a celebratory phase before it lands — I love that part. But what really matters is what comes next: the integration.
The real work happens between sessions — the journaling, the resting, the choices about where your energy goes, what you eat, what you feed your mind. It’s about carrying forward that light you felt during the session, instead of just chasing the next one.

I’m finally learning what integration really means. And I’m not gonna forget it.”**

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“If you’ve ever been curious about ketamine therapy for deep healing, here’s something for you:

I’m partnering with @betterucare because they’ve been a game-changer for me — helping me untangle trauma, trust myself again, and integrate real breakthroughs.

They’re giving $100 off your first treatment when you use my promo code NANDO84 at betterucare.com.
This is for anyone ready to face their inner shit, not run from it.
Healing is messy. It’s raw. It’s worth it.
Use it, share it, let the medicine do what it remembers to do.

🚀💙
#Healing #KetamineTherapy #BetterU #CPTSDRecovery #Integration #NANDO84”**

Love Playlist, Tough Lesson

I've been saying it for a while now: KETAMINE REMEMBERS EVERYTHING. And today was no different. 

 Since I started this treatment, I’ve been rotating through five playlists from Better U: Heal, Grow, Love, Transcend, and Divine. Today I chose the Love playlist — I actually switched the order because I love the Transcend playlist so much. But ketamine had other plans: it showed me some tough love instead. 

 The session started so gentle. It reminded me of this pair of sisters who come into my store all the time — they’re incredibly sweet to me. Their whole world lights up when they see me. One time, I sat with one of them outside, and she just wrapped her arms around me while we talked. I know that in Latin culture, people are naturally affectionate, so I didn’t read more into it than it was — but still, it feels so fucking good to have someone’s day light up just because I exist. No proving myself. No performance. Just warmth.

 Then, out of nowhere, the medicine took me to a different setting — a memory outside of work where I used to carry so much magnetic energy. Back then, people lit up when they saw me too. But the tough love hit: I ended up choking those connections to death. That was on me.

 I know there are a couple people I’ve had recent fallouts with who’d secretly celebrate reading that line — like it vindicates them. But let me be clear: this blog isn’t about feeding anyone’s ego. It’s about integrating my ketamine experiences — and maybe saving a few lives by telling the truth about what it shows me. 

 This session showed me so much of my own emotional mismanagement. How I overextended. Overgave. Overexplained. How I poured out empathy to people who hadn’t earned it. How I handed out my heart, my words, my trust — things that should be sacred — to people who didn’t have the capacity or the respect to hold them. 

 It showed me how I sacrificed my boundaries on the altar of ‘being the nice guy.’ How every ‘nice guy’ tendency — the people-pleasing, the simping, the need to prove I’m good enough — kept me stuck in the same cycle. I’d give too much too soon, let them cross lines I should have defended, then blame them for taking advantage. But I see now: I set the table for it. That’s on me. 

 Tough love. But true love. Because the medicine doesn’t shame — it just puts a mirror in your face you can’t look away from.

 So what now? Now I let this gut punch do its job. I don’t rush back into another session just to numb the sting — I sit with it. I see it in my real life. I catch myself before I send the midnight paragraphs to people who haven’t earned my words. I slow down when I feel that urge to overgive, to prove I’m ‘good enough.’ I remember that real connection isn’t something I can force or smother — it’s something that flows when there’s safety on both sides.

 I’m learning that my words, my time, my heart — they’re worth something. Not everyone gets access. Not everyone gets the whole story. Some things stay with me. Some doors stay closed. 

 And maybe that’s the real gift: this session hurt like hell, but it reminded me I have power I keep giving away. Not anymore. I’m here to love. I’m here to grow. But I’m not here to bleed myself dry to keep someone else warm. 

 That’s my integration. And I’m proud of it.

 If you’ve been thinking about trying ketamine treatment for your own healing, I can’t promise you it’ll be easy — but I can promise you it’ll show you what you’re ready to see. 

 I do my treatments with Better U, and they’ve been a safe place for me to face this shit head-on. If you’re ready, you can check them out at betterucare.com and use my promo code NANDO84 to get started. Stay brave out there. 🫀

Lighting the Rocket Without Burning Down the Village

 I just had a really deep ketamine session which I don't remember anything from it.  

The night before I was crying watching the Oasis reunion of them playing Live Forever and the beautiful tribute to Diogo Jota at the end of the song.  The Gallagher brothers hugged on stage held hands, bowed bown to each other.  None of us Oasis fans ever dreamed of that reunion.  It was very clear this was way more than a cash grab.  The 12 year old in me cried.  

In my session, the messy and layered fallout came up again.  This was after my rocket session.  I mentioned it before how you make sure you don't scorch the earth while your rocket is launching.  And the rocket came up again in this conversation. 

I want to stand here — big, stadium-voice big — without turning my fire into a weapon.

So here’s what I know now:

• I can mourn what never was and still hope for what could be.
• I can forgive people who future-faked me, even if they never say sorry.
• I can hold the sweetness from people who do choose me — quietly — and not let my old fear chase them off. de
• I can be me — all of me — without shrinking or scorching.

The world is healing.
The brothers who swore they’d never speak again hugged on stage after sixteen years apart.
The songs still echo in stadiums long after the lights go down.
People live forever in how we choose to remember them — and how we choose to keep our own fire warm instead of burning bridges we might still want to cross someday.

If you see me lighting my rocket, remind me:
Keep it close enough to burn bright. Far enough not to burn down the village.

If you’re curious about at-home ketamine therapy, I recommend Better U. I’ve had a really meaningful experience with them.  betterucare.com Use my referral code NANDO84 if you want a discount of $100

When Culture Becomes a Cage

 I know the theme of this blog is mostly about integration — the real work I’m doing to heal old trauma and shame after my ketamine sessions.

But I can’t do that work honestly without talking about where I come from — and what it’s like to be Brazilian, living in Utah, wanting to feel at home in your culture… but finding that it’s not always as safe or welcoming as it looks on the surface.

I’ve said it before: I’m proud of being Brazilian.
I love our food, our calor humano, our wild sense of humor, the way we can make a party out of anything.
I love Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, capoeira, MPB, our hospitality, our generosity.
And like any good shadow work — I see the flip side, too: how fanatical we can be, how easily we turn faith into an identity badge you either wear perfectly or get shunned for refusing to.

You saw this in me when I obsessed over Palmeiras during the last Club World Cup — that same devotion runs deep in our DNA. Brazil is wired for faith. So what happens when you mix that with Mormonism? You get people who think they’re not just any chosen people — they’re the most chosen, living in God’s place, doing His work.

So imagine what that does to you when you’re the odd one out.

Recently I met another Brazilian. Barely knew me, and the first question out of her mouth?
“Do you go to the Brazilian ward?”
Innocent on the surface. But underneath? It throws me right into defense mode.
Now I have to explain that I haven’t been Mormon for 13 years — which, for most Utah Brazilians, basically makes me a heretic with a smile.

Same thing happened a few months back with another seemingly sweet woman.
We’d run into each other a few  times, started connecting — then she dropped, “But Heavenly Father has been so wonderful and I’m so grateful for this gospel.”

Suddenly, I’m cornered. If I tell the truth — “Hey, I’m not Mormon anymore” — the warmth evaporates. She disappeared after that.

Or the time my coworker invited me to dinner with her Brazilian friends. Beautiful food. Seemed genuine. Then they brought in the older missionary couple. Church talk dominated the whole table. Even after I’d told her I’m not LDS anymore.

I’m not here to attack anyone’s beliefs. I know these folks are sincere, good-hearted people — but they’re living in a bubble. They don’t realize how invasive these questions feel. They don’t know how they turn what should be warm, cultural connection into a trap: Are you one of us, or not?
And I’m not here to defend myself anymore either. I’m just here to live.
To enjoy real connection, to finish school, build my businesses, heal my soul, protect my peace.

But sometimes it feels like there’s nowhere to breathe. I can’t even grab Brazilian food on Sundays because everything’s closed — while back in Florida, I could meet Craque Neto at a bakery, or see Palmeiras in the Florida Cup, and nobody gave a shit what church I went to.

Even when I was a hardcore Mormon, it was hard to relate. You couldn’t open up without getting told to fast or pray it away. The church selfies, the constant Mormon quotes — they made my real questions feel taboo.

And you know what hits me the most?
I “grew up” in Utah. Not even my Utah-born LDS friends got this invasive. They knew how to let faith be personal. In this Brazilian bubble, faith is the price of admission. And if you won’t pay it, you’re out.

I know they mean well — but good intentions don’t mean they get to hijack my story.
They won’t get my healing journey. My ketamine work. My love for math. My Amazon FBA hustle. My meditation practice, my passion for Jiu-Jitsu, my obsession with music and history outside a Mormon lens.

And that’s okay.
Because the whole point of this integration is learning to trust my gut. To say No more.
No more shrinking my truth for anyone’s comfort. No more polite nods when people put me back in the box I bled to crawl out of.

I’m not here to be convenient.
I’m not here to be a testimony project.
I’m here to live free — wildly, inconveniently, beautifully free.

That’s what this healing is for.

— FG

The Rocket

After some recent relational wounds, I decided to dedicate my next block of ketamine therapy to the root of it all.

Let’s just say this:

Ketamine remembers EVERYTHING.

---

I’ve seen this before.
Once, I had a session in November that painted my mind like a timeline:

•  Orange for Halloween and Thanksgiving
•  Red for Christmas

It took me all the way back to my aunt’s house — the place I stayed when my dad was in a coma for a month and eventually passed away in October–November 2002.

The medicine doesn’t forget.
It stores the seasons, the colors, the feeling of loss.

---

And now, with the 4th of July coming — and fireworks just outside my work —
ketamine used that too.

This time, the fireworks weren’t outside.
They were inside me.
A heartbreak lit the fuse.
It hurt — but it pushed me deeper into my healing.
I’m not hiding that.

---

️ This time my love launched like a rocket

I used to say that ketamine didn’t take me to the cosmos —
it took me home.
Back to Brazil.
Back to my roots.

But this session?
It was different.
It felt like a final surge — a powerful launch.
A reminder that my heart doesn’t need to stay small just because old patterns want it to.

---

It showed me every place I’ve ever felt truly seen:
 Communities that lift me
 My training grounds
 My dreams for my Amazon journey
 My people — near and far

I went from feeling “outside the circle”
to realizing I’ve always owned my own space.
I’m not here to beg for belonging anymore.
I’m here to take up room — with my whole heart.

---

And the best part?
There was no bitterness in it.
No grudge.
Just gratitude for what was real — and clarity for what no longer needs my energy.
I felt my love rising — not staying parked behind.
Not as crumbs for anyone.
But as proof that I can stand soft and strong at the same time.

---

 What the Rocket gave me

Back in January, I went in asking for abundance in school and my business.
I thought I’d see numbers, charts, logistics.
But instead, I saw myself showing kindness when the time comes to move on.
Be kind, even when you leave — that was the takeaway.

This session gave me the same gift:

“Don’t shrink your light for anyone.
Don’t scorch the earth either.
Launch it.
Expand it.
Leave behind the proof that your heart never needed to stay small.”

---

 This is my Arena now

If you’ve ever felt like you don’t belong — trust me, you do.
Maybe not in the places you kept trying to fit.
Maybe not with the people who couldn’t hold your biggest love.
But always in the space you claim for yourself.

You don’t need permission.
You don’t need perfect people.
You just need to stand in your truth and build your own circle — your own arena — with people who meet you there.

---

If you’re ready to look at your own patterns too — if you’re ready to let your love become a Rocket instead of staying stuck — you deserve healing that goes deep.

I get my treatments at Better U — they’ve helped me see my wounds and my wings.
If you’re ready to start, you can use my promo code NANDO84 at betterucare.com for $100 off your first ketamine package.

You deserve to stand in your Arena too.
Don’t park your light.
Launch it.

– Fernando

The Arena

🥊 The Arena

I got the title of this post from one of my favorite quotes by Theodore Roosevelt:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles,
or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.
The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena,
whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood;
who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again,
because there is no effort without error and shortcoming;
but who does actually strive to do the deeds;
who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions;
who spends himself in a worthy cause;
who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement,
and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly,
so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

If you’ve never read that before — read it twice.
Because it’s not the critic who counts.
It’s not the passive onlooker, the spineless lurker, the cheap-seat heckler.
It’s the one in the arena — sweating, stumbling, daring greatly.

---

💛 Brené Brown puts it like this:

“If you’re not in the arena getting your ass kicked, I’m not interested in your feedback.”

She talks about the 3 C’s of wholehearted living: Courage, Compassion, Connection.
Courage comes from the Latin cor, which means heart.
Compassion and connection come from that same place: vulnerability — from vulnus, meaning to wound.
To be vulnerable means to risk being hurt — and to do it anyway.

---

🕊️ On the other side of wholehearted living is shame.

Shame says: “You’re not enough. Stay small. Stay hidden.”
Shame thrives in secrecy — in what goes unsaid, in the stories we twist to protect the comfort of people who’ve never stood in the ring with us.

⚡️ Here’s what I know now:

If you can’t show up in the arena when it’s messy — you don’t get to talk about how I swing my punches.
If you can’t stand with me when I’m bleeding — you don’t get a seat when I’m rising.
If you haven’t lost sleep, cried real tears, spoken the hard truth out loud — you don’t get to tell me how to do any of this.

---

🔥 Trip. Heal. Rise.

I’ll keep showing up.
I’ll keep loving hard.
I’ll keep standing in the fire when others flinch.
I’m here to live wholehearted — with people who know how to hold the line.

---

💙 If you’re ready to stand in your own arena…

I’ll always share how I got here.
My ketamine healing journey ripped my shame wide open and showed me what was mine to carry — and what never was.
If you’re curious, check out Better U — the clinic that helped me keep fighting for my life.
When you’re ready, use my code NANDO84 at betterucare.com — because the arena is no place to stand alone.

---

🗝️ The critics don’t count. 

It’s you — the one with dust, sweat, and blood on your face — who counts.
If you’re in the arena with me, you have my heart.
If you’re not, you’re just noise.

---

Trip. Heal. Rise.
See you in the ring.

Already Gone

Already Gone

I got the title of this post from a famous Kelly Clarkson song. I used to play it on repeat during the middle of a major fallout in my life.

2022 was a year from hell.

I was being severely mistreated at work.
My cousin died suddenly in a plane crash.
My brakes failed and I landed in the ER.
And while I was still trying to process all that, the girl I was lowkey dating ended things with me in the most brutal, cowardly way—ghosted me right when I needed someone most.

Even though I won a TV for a peer award—for going “above and beyond” for the customer—I was constantly reminded I wasn’t enough. My work ethic was weaponized against me. I kept showing up. Kept delivering. And kept getting cooked by managers and HR while pretending everything was fine.

I was doing all the right things: talk therapy, EMDR, ADHD support groups, improv classes. But underneath, I was just trying not to drown.

Ironically, the one person who really saw me was a customer.
She told me I should be CEO for the way I handled myself in that toxic place.
She called out what everyone else ignored: that I was holding shit together in a system that wanted to break me.  Sadly, she took her own life two years later.  

The company folded shortly after.  That felt like cosmic justice.

---

The Seed That Grew in the Fire

During that time, I would disappear to a private room just to cry for fifteen minutes. I couldn’t even say my cousin’s name without falling apart. One day, I broke down so visibly, three coworkers came to check on me. I wasn’t hiding it anymore.

I didn’t know it then, but that season of breaking was planting something in me—
a seed I wouldn’t recognize until three years later.

The seed that would grow into the decision to return to Brazil.

I had already tried to leave once. I gave my two-week notice. I was ready to go.
But I let a director reel me back in with false promises.
I stayed. And the mistreatment continued.

But that voice inside me? It never shut up.
And eventually, I started listening.

---

Rebirth through Fire

Over the last year, I’ve gone through deep healing.
A full year of ketamine treatments.
A year of journaling.
A year of emotional release.
A year of integration with counselors.
A year of clearing out the bullshit I was never meant to carry.

During that same time, I was traumatized again—hit by a car in a store parking lot at my next job. And that moment snapped something into focus:

The Fernando who tolerated everything?
He’s dead.

The new Fernando?
He’s building freedom.

I’ve learned from the best in the game how to flip products, how to make money on my own terms, how to walk away when the environment is toxic.

I’m no longer trying to survive in someone else’s system.

I’m building my own.

---

The Return

Now I’m done missing Jiu Jitsu classes.
I’m done missing Festas Juninas.
I’m done missing life.

Brazil isn’t just where I’m going.
It’s who I’ve always been.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but that year of collapse gave me the push I needed to finally come home—to my body, to my truth, and eventually, to Brazil.

I was already gone.
Now I’m just catching up.

The Handwritten Note That Completely Disarmed Me

When I started my Associate’s degree at LDS Business College, I was scared out of my mind. That season of life felt like walking into a storm with no umbrella—raw, exposed, and uncertain. I had just learned I likely had ADHD (it was confirmed later that summer), and I didn’t know what that would mean for my future. My grandpa—my mom’s father—had just passed away. I was devastated. Grief was fresh, my confidence was shattered, and I felt like I was barely holding it together.

During that time, a friend shared a song she had written when she was just 14. It was meant to comfort me—and somehow, it did. Here's the song. Something about the innocence of it, the heart behind it, cracked open a space in me that needed to feel.

Still, walking into those classrooms brought flashbacks. I remembered something my 11th-grade English teacher, Mrs. Douglass, once told our class—right in front of me:

"I told all of my classes how Fernando is an example of what not to be like."
She said that while I was fumbling with index cards for a research paper on insomnia. That moment stuck like a splinter under my skin. So when I started at LDSBC, I was carrying that shame with me.

Out of survival and desperation, I disclosed my fears to my instructors. I was terrified of them. Not because of anything they had done, but because I had internalized this deep fear of being a failure or a burden. But what I found instead was something unexpected: kindness. Genuine, patient, unwavering kindness.

I used to stay up all night pulling panicked all-nighters, sending emails to my professors explaining where I was at with my work. I felt like I was drowning, but I wanted them to know I was trying. One person in particular saved me—Matt Fellows. He was the kindest, most compassionate tutor I’ve ever had. Without him, I don’t think I would’ve made it through my Accounting classes. He didn’t just help me study; he helped me believe in myself.

The next semester, things started to shift. My new roommate was warm, outgoing, and inclusive. He started involving me in everything: mentoring new students, helping teach a class called Foundations of Learning, and even calling me into the improv team. I also started helping lead a club called Play Theory, where we used improv to teach four core principles:

1. Be 100% present

2. Let go and play

3. Say yes

4. Look outward—make your scene partner look good

It was love and connection all around me—but I didn’t know how to receive it. I isolated a lot. I was still buried in overdue assignments, ashamed of my ADHD diagnosis, and haunted by the voice of Mrs. Douglass telling others not to be like me. I’d flunked out of college before. I’d been in a relationship where I felt unseen and unworthy. And now that I had community, I didn’t know how to trust it.

People would say, Why don’t you hang out with your friends more?
But the truth is, I was terrified of being seen. I felt defective.

And yet—the love never stopped. It kept pouring in. And I had no idea what to do with it. I didn’t want anyone to think I was taking their kindness for granted, so I started writing big public thank-you notes on Facebook. It was my way of saying, I see you. I feel you. Thank you for not giving up on me. (That tradition lives on, by the way. Here’s my most recent one from UVU: UVU Spring 2024 Special Thank Yous.)

I couldn’t make sense of what was happening at the time. Matt—my tutor—wasn't just helping me with coursework. He was helping me survive. And then there was the Honor Code officer who oversaw the mentor group. He made me a coordinator because, in his words, he liked the way I made people feel. We still joke around to this day. One of my instructors even kept in touch for years and still reminds me of my potential.

Then came the end of the semester. I turned in a final assignment—a personal learning booklet. It was three days late, and I was mortified. My instructors had been generous with extensions all along, but my fear of disappointing them still had its claws in me.

And then, I opened the front cover and saw a handwritten note:

“Fernando, you put your heart and soul in this booklet. May your kind and loving heart reach out to those around you and be a blessing to them. See page 17 for a thought.”

I flipped to page 17, and he’d written how I could achieve anything I put my mind to.

That note disarmed me. It shattered something hard and cold inside me. For years, I had internalized shame as my identity. But in that moment, I felt something shift—like maybe I wasn’t broken. Maybe I was just carrying too much for too long.

Years later, a professor at the University of South Florida would echo that same truth. He once told me,

“It may be a lot to process what you are carrying, but I promise you: if you work hard, take care of your body, and have the right support, you will make it.”
He encouraged me constantly and reminded me to advocate for myself. That I mattered.

---

I still don’t have it all figured out. But I’m starting to see what those professors and mentors saw in me: someone worth believing in.

That handwritten note?
It didn’t just validate me.
It helped me rewrite the narrative.

From “What not to be like”…
to “You can achieve anything.”

Ketamine Didn’t Take Me to the Cosmos. It Took Me Home.

Ketamine Didn’t Take Me to the Cosmos. It Took Me Home.

When I started ketamine treatment, I didn’t drift into galaxies or meet spirit animals. I wasn’t floating in some psychedelic daydream. Instead, I landed right back where everything began—home. Not just emotionally, but literally: Curitiba, Brazil. The smells. The streets. The soundtrack of my youth. My body was in a chair in Utah, but my soul? It was dancing through Jovem Pan’s Eurodance playlists, walking past street vendors, sitting in the classroom where I first felt broken.

If I’m going to talk about what ketamine is helping me uncover, I have to start there—with the roots I tried to outrun. Because healing isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about returning to the parts of yourself you were forced to abandon just to survive.

---

Psyche. Delos. Soul Reveal.

The word psychedelic comes from Greek: psyche (soul) and delos (to reveal). And that’s exactly what this journey has been—a soul reveal. Not through trippy visuals or angelic downloads, but through flashbacks, echoes, and emotional muscle memory.

As a child, I was obsessed with techno and Eurodance. Jovem Pan was my life source, blasting the energy I didn’t know how to express. That music didn’t just hype me up during the day—it was my lullaby at night. It matched the storm inside me. This song? The Summer Is Magic. Still gives me chills.

Brazilians don’t do subtle. We’re loud. Expressive. Full of color, flavor, volume. You see it most in how we sing Happy Birthday—listen to this chaos. Now compare that to the American version, which, let’s be real, sounds like a  funeral. I love you, my American friends—but that birthday song was one of my biggest culture shocks. Why are we mourning someone’s life instead of celebrating it?

---

The Loud Kid Who Felt Invisible

I was a shy, undiagnosed ADHD kid growing up in Brazil. That’s not a quirky childhood anecdote—it was hell. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t sit still, couldn’t keep up. The only reason I passed third grade was because my teacher, Professora Daniela, stayed after school with me every single day. She saw something in me I couldn’t even see in myself.

Still, I felt powerless. How do you ask for what you need in a world that doesn’t feel safe?

Then came the move to the U.S.—Utah.   And four years later, ninth grade. And suddenly I wasn’t invisible anymore. I’d walk down the hallway and people would yell my name like I was a celebrity: “Fernando!!” I didn’t know how to handle it. It was like being handed a megaphone after years of being muted. And yeah—I got loud. Obnoxious. Disruptive. Still undiagnosed. Still emotionally raw. I didn’t have the tools to regulate any of it.

Then came the whiplash: I had to move again. Three moves in two years. Every time I found a sense of belonging, the rug got ripped out from under me.

But nothing compares to what broke me open during the first half of senior year. I won’t unpack it all here—but let’s just say I was spiraling. Hard.

And yet… people showed up.

I’d wake up in class to handwritten notes, cookies, even flowers—sometimes left at my house. A girl from Spanish class showed up to school, still swollen from wisdom tooth surgery, just to see me before I moved.

After I left, my Pleasant Grove friends made a damn club just to be in the yearbook. They mailed me a hoodie with my name embroidered on it. The debate team went to Georgia and hand-delivered my yearbook. Who does that?

---

Receiving What I Didn’t Know I Deserved

For the first time, I wasn’t chasing love—I was receiving it.

When you grow up emotionally neglected, you learn to perform. To people-please. To disappear in just the right way so you don’t upset anyone. But here they were—loving me just for existing. Not because I was useful. Not because I was easy. Just because I mattered.

That cracked something open.

---

The Healing of Feeling Big

I used to think my problem was that I felt too much. Too intense. Too dramatic. No brakes, no filters. Just a firehose of feelings and nowhere safe to put them.

Ketamine didn’t quiet that down. It turned up the volume. It brought me face to face with every emotion I’d shoved into the corners of my nervous system—rage, longing, grief, shame, even love. But instead of exploding, they unfolded.

I went back to Colégio Marista Santa Maria. Parque São Lourenço. Passeio Público. I saw the boy I used to be—trying so hard to be good, to be quiet, to not be too much.

And I got it. I didn’t need to stop feeling big. I just needed a container big enough to hold all of it.

That’s what ketamine gave me.

Not a high. A homecoming.

---

Psychedelic Doesn’t Mean Escaping Reality. It Means Finally Facing It.

I didn’t dissociate—I re-associated. With my pain. My story. My joy. My  worth. I finally stopped running from the boy I used to be—and started speaking for him.

This isn’t a miracle cure. It’s not a shortcut to happiness.

But it is a space to feel all the shit you’ve been too afraid to touch.

---

Ready for Your Return?

If you’re holding pain that therapy alone couldn’t crack, if you’ve felt like you’re just too much—maybe it’s time to try something different. I trusted Better U with my journey, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Go to betterucare.com and use code NANDO84 at checkout.

Start your return.

A Love Letter to My Mom – Happy Mother’s Day

Today, I want to take a break from writing about ketamine treatments—though healing might sneak in here anyway—to focus on something pure and simple: how much I love my mom. 

 My mom is the kindest, most empathetic, and loving soul I know. 

 I've watched her bring water to the mechanic working on her car, buy groceries for missionaries, and consistently go out of her way to compliment people in the service industry—always making others feel seen and appreciated. She used to feed stray cats, who became so attached to her they practically adopted her. That’s just who she is—love in action.

 I’m so proud of the work she’s doing in launching her small business, and she’s been one of my biggest cheerleaders in building mine. She’s been incredibly supportive through my ketamine integration, helping me find direction and grounding when I needed it most.

 And let’s talk about her food—absolutely delicious. She brings so much joy, energy, and comfort wherever she goes. Hanging out with her is simply the best. She's been a rock for me as I push through my final college classes, always offering encouragement and reminding me that it’s never too late to bloom.

 She also has the best taste in music. Car rides with her are like personal soundtracks to our memories—so fun and full of life. 

 When we were kids and bored out of our minds, she threw a birthday party for our stuffed animals. That kind of love sticks with you. She was also the most devoted dog mom to our beloved Lacey.

 There’s so much more I could say, but I’ll end with this: Mom, I love you with all my heart. Happy Mother’s Day. Thank you for being you!!!

Finding Creative Outlets Post Ketamine

 

If you’ve done ketamine therapy, you already know—the real trip starts after the session. The medicine cracks your emotional armor wide open, and for the next 24 to 48 hours, you’re swimming in a flood of insights, memories, grief, hope, and sometimes straight-up chaos. Especially if you have ADHD like I do, your brain’s just on. Constant downloads. Constant spinning. No off switch.

And then what?

That’s where creative outlets saved my ass.

As I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, ketamine sessions often come with journal prompts. You reflect beforehand, and then again after. In my case—someone with deep grief wounds—I was asked to write letters to loved ones I’ve lost. In later sessions, I imagined how they would write back. Sounds heavy? It is. It’s also healing. It cracks open emotional doors I didn’t know were still sealed shut.

But you don’t get to stay in that soft, spiritual state forever. Eventually, the trip fades, and you’re left with the hangover. You feel exposed, vulnerable, sometimes straight-up raw as hell. I even made the mistake of doing a session too early once to try to “fix” that feeling—spoiler: it backfired. You can’t rush integration. You have to live it.

So how do you hold yourself through that emotional storm?

You create.

Right now, I’ve got this blog. I’ve gone back to jiu-jitsu. My love of math came roaring back—and not just as an academic pursuit, but as a source of self-compassion. I even wrote about that here.

Since my cousin died, I picked up the sax again. I’ve done improv classes. I’ve thrown myself into my Amazon FBA business. I'm prepping for actuary exams. Every one of those things is a way to anchor myself after the ketamine sessions. Not to escape the pain, but to process it. To transmute it.

I’ve realized that sharing my ketamine journey publicly has added another layer of meaning. Just being real about the ups, the missteps, the breakthroughs—it gives me purpose. And it lets others know they're not crazy for feeling completely unmoored afterward.

So if you’re on this journey too, I want to say this:

Don’t let the insights rot inside you.
Create something.
It doesn’t have to be pretty.
It just has to be real.

And if you're considering starting ketamine treatment, I highly recommend checking out Better U. Use my promo code NANDO84 to get started with a $100 discount. It’s a way to support my journey and maybe change your own life in the process.

Let the medicine crack you open.
Let creativity be the way you stay open.
This is what healing actually looks like.

Jiujitsu, Ketamine, and the Art of Coming Back

Wow. That’s the only word I can think of. It took me nearly a year to understand just how truly beautiful a ketamine journey is. I don’t even know how to describe it. I wish everyone could experience this level of healing—this bird’s-eye view of your own life, where even your pain starts to make sense. Where it doesn’t crush you anymore. And I couldn’t have done it without my favorite ketamine song:

 Passage

 I wrote a previous post about it here.

 Lately, my traumas have been screaming louder than usual. I visited Pitada Brazil with my mom. It was such a sweet experience—the food was amazing. I finally shared with her a song I heard on the radio the last time I visited my grandparents.

 Then I ran into an old assistant from jiujitsu. It stirred up memories of a version of me I’d left behind. I reconnected with my instructor. I felt so good about it—like pieces of myself were finally reintegrating. I was starting to feel unstuck. So I shared a message in our group chat: a heartfelt reflection on returning to jiujitsu, how it’s become part of my ketamine integration, and how much it’s meant to me. 

 No one responded. And then my instructor didn’t reply to an important question either. 

 Cue the RSD (Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria)—that firestorm of pain when it feels like everything is crumbling, even if nothing’s technically wrong. I was triggered by everything: rude drivers, rude customers, even silence. It all touched the same nerve: “You don’t matter.” 

 So I took it into a ketamine session. I brought all of it—every unanswered message, every invisible wound. And the medicine held it all with gentleness. It reminded me: silence doesn’t always mean they don’t care. Sometimes people freeze. Sometimes life is too loud. Sometimes they’re just scared to say the wrong thing. 

 That session showed me how to embrace the messiness of relationships.

 And yeah—it still hurt. But the point isn’t to avoid pain (or assign blame or shame). 

It’s to alchemize it.

To breathe into it. To hold space for it without being consumed. 

 Jiujitsu does the same thing for me. It’s not just exercise—it’s a moving meditation. It’s breathwork. It’s discipline. It’s something deeply Brazilian that grounds me in my body and my culture.

 It complements ketamine perfectly.

 One takes me out of my body to show me the map. The other grounds me back into the terrain. 

 That’s the lesson I had to learn with ketamine: You process things. You integrate. You’re broken apart—and then you’re put back together. 

 If you’re curious about this kind of healing, I can’t recommend Better U enough. Go to betterucare.com Use my promo code NANDO84 to get started with $100 discount—it could change your life the way it’s changed mine.

The Ugly, Beautiful Truth About Healing With Ketamine

I owe my deepest gratitude to ketamine treatment.

If I had found Better U in my twenties, maybe I could’ve avoided years of silent suffering.

This week marked the anniversary of losing someone I loved dearly.
Her death didn’t just reopen old wounds — it dragged me back into the trauma I thought I had buried after my dad’s death two decades ago.

Ketamine didn’t erase that pain.
It gave me the courage to finally face it without running.

The day before her anniversary, I had the most peaceful ketamine session I’ve ever experienced.

It wasn’t beautiful because I was numb — it was beautiful because, for the first time, I could sit with everything without trying to escape.
Almost a year of integration work had brought me here.
I could feel the difference: I was at peace, even as waves of grief and love crashed through me.

But peace doesn’t mean painless.
That session cracked me wide open.

It brought so many raw emotions to the surface that I felt exposed in ways I wasn’t ready for.
I found myself overly emotional — even embarrassed by how much was pouring out in my behavior, my texts, the way I showed up.

I finally understood the real meaning of "psychedelic" — psyche: the soul; delos: to reveal.
Ketamine didn’t just reveal my soul — it ripped the cover off and handed it back to me, trembling and alive.

In my desperation to "fix" the emotional flooding, I scheduled another ketamine session almost immediately.
But it backfired. Hard.

This time, there was no psychedelic intensity, no profound revelations — just a heavy, empty feeling.
Like my mind was saying, No. Not like this.

It hit me:

I’m not in the early days anymore, when I needed sessions every few days just to stabilize.
My body — my soul — was telling me loud and clear:
Slow the fuck down. Respect the work you’ve already done.

Integration isn’t about drowning yourself in treatments.
It’s about pacing with your own healing, even when you’re uncomfortable.
Even when you’re scared you’re "not doing enough."

Pushing harder wasn’t going to save my progress — it was going to fucking kill it.

Ketamine cracked me open.
Integration is what’s rebuilding me.

Without the psychedelic highs.
Without the urgent fixes.
Without chasing an escape.

Real healing is a lot quieter.
A lot messier.
A lot more fucking real.

Better U didn’t just hand me a treatment plan — they handed me a goddamn lifeline.

If you’re ready to stop running and start healing, I can’t recommend them enough.

And if you decide to begin your own journey with Better U, you can use my code NANDO84.
It’ll save you some money — but more importantly, it’s my way of paying it forward.
Because this work saved my life.

Healing isn’t linear.
It’s not clean.
It’s messy. It’s beautiful.
It’s brutal.

And it’s worth every fucking ounce of effort.

Trust the slow work. Trust the soul work.
And if ketamine treatment is part of your story, treat it like the sacred mirror it is — not an escape hatch.

Your healing deserves your whole heart.
Nothing less.