The Courage to Look Like an Idiot

 I’m still relatively fresh off my last ketamine session — the one that felt like a rocket launching straight into space. That session didn’t just show me expansion — it forced me to leave the weight of old wounds behind. But not with bitterness — with love.

Because ketamine remembers EVERYTHING.
It grabbed the sight of my deepest pain and turned it into my launchpad.
And Fear-Nando?
Fear-Nando is fucking FLYING now. Fear-Nando is THRIVING.
I had to drop the cargo of other people’s smallness to claim my own space — and it feels so damn good.

Yesterday (as I started writing this) I showed up to work sick as hell, fresh off that rocket session. Dizzy, barely able to stand, threw up four times — my body begging for rest and integration. I went home four hours early. And you know what?
This is how precisely God / the universe works with me…

I’ve been talking for months about going back to Brazil. About craving my culture — its warmth, its family energy, its boldness. And then, right there in the middle of my shift, looking like shit, I meet this sweet Brazilian woman with her daughter.
We talk. We connect. We smile like we’re old friends who didn’t know it yet.

And when she’s paying — when my old pattern would’ve stayed frozen, stuck, shrinking into the corner — I walked up to her. Awkwardly. Heart in my throat. Scared as hell to “look like an idiot.”
And I asked for her number.
And she smiled like she’d been hoping I would.
And she gave it to me.

I don’t know where it goes. It doesn’t matter right now. It was a sign — a sacred little alignment that says: You are not invisible. You can still take up space. You can still do the shit that terrifies you — and be met with warmth instead of rejection.
A piece of Brazil, dropped right in my lap, on the heels of my Rocket.

Another chance to show the universe: Those who discarded me don’t get to keep me small. They don’t get to shrink my shine down to match their size.

I’ve been loudly repping Palmeiras these past few weeks in the Club World Cup — craving that roar, that family.

Turns out, my heart was craving it in every area.
And now it’s showing up:
🌍 I’m not “in the circle.”
I’m not “outside the circle.”
I’m the whole damn sphere.
I’m playing Club World Cup ball while the people who discarded me are still stuck in their intramural league, running in circles on the same old court in this case parking lot.

So here’s to the Rocket.
Here’s to the girl who smiled back.
Here’s to Fear-Nando, who’s flying.
Here’s to all of us, tentando não parecer idiota — but trying anyway.
Because trying is how the Rocket launches.
And this time, I’m not landing small.

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?

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

How Ketamine Helped Me To Heal From Religious Trauma

 

One of the most powerful things ketamine brought out of me was the ability to hold both honesty and compassion—to name my truth without needing to erase someone else’s. I know quite a few people reading this are still in the religion I grew up in. And I want to be clear: I still love and have a great relationship with many individuals in that faith. This post is not about shaming people. It's about naming the wound. It's about calling out the system. It’s about reclaiming what was stolen from me.

Let me start with this story:
Back in 2017, I was on a short Sunday hike. And out of nowhere, I had a full-blown panic attack. I lost my breath. I felt like I was carrying a fucking boulder on my chest. Over and over, I had to whisper to myself, “I am not sinning for going hiking on a Sunday.” That panic didn’t come from nowhere—it was the residue of years of indoctrination. And the worst part? This happened four years after I had stopped going to church… and seven years after I stopped believing.

Let’s go back to 2010. That’s when I found out the narrative I was taught in church didn’t match the actual history. I felt completely isolated, terrified to tell anyone. I was afraid. Angry. And that anger started leaking into other parts of my life. I fell into a rabbit hole of doubt, shame, and confusion. It took me eight fucking years to stop feeling guilty for drinking coffee. I had major trust issues—especially with myself.

Even earlier—when I was a missionary in Orlando—we were required to read a quote or scripture every single day reinforcing the idea that your happiness and prosperity were conditional on obedience to the church. I had a zone leader companion tell me I had to choose between my antidepressants or Jesus Christ. My dad had died just 18 months before. I was carrying grief, untreated ADHD, and barely threatened with deportation. When I got home, everything I had buried came flooding back. The guilt. The anxiety. The belief that if I wasn’t suffering, I must be doing something wrong.

I read The Miracle of Forgiveness multiple times—this book that used to be recommended by the church as part of the repentance process. All it did was teach me to hate myself more. If a book written by a so-called prophet—quoted in General Conference—can just be tossed aside and go out of print, then none of their prophets, past or present, hold any value for me anymore. Same with their whiplash rebranding—spending millions on the “I’m a Mormon” campaign, only to later say that “Mormon” is a victory for Satan? Fuck that. But I’m gonna stop there before my blood boils.

When I first started ketamine treatment in June 2024, it wasn’t even for religious trauma. It was for grief. In February of that year, I lost a friend who was like a father figure. Two weeks later, I lost another friend to suicide. My nervous system tapped out. I had already spent almost two years crying over my cousin’s death… and that grief resurfaced the old pain from losing my dad.

My first ketamine sessions felt like a full replay of my life—but through the eyes of an observer. I wasn't trapped in the story anymore. I was witnessing it. And what blew me away wasn’t just the medicine itself—the emotional surgery happening in real time, the rewiring I could feel happening in my brain—it was also how in sync Better U was with the entire process. They knew exactly which songs would touch which parts of the brain and when. It wasn’t random. It was precise. It was fucking sacred.

Part of the ketamine treatment protocol is to go really easy on yourself for the next 4–8 hours. And you don’t just “feel relaxed”—you become this walking embodiment of self-compassion. That kind of softness toward myself? I had never felt it before. No disrespect, but I never once experienced that kind of self-compassion as a Mormon.

Here’s a snapshot:
On my mission, my companion and I passed out from pure physical exhaustion and took a nap. We needed it. We were done. But instead of anyone checking in to see if we were okay, the zone and district leaders saw us, ratted us out, and the mission president chewed us out over the phone. That man was Joseph B. Wirthlin’s son-in-law. So you know what kind of rigidity I’m talking about. No empathy. Just punishment.

Ketamine? It does the opposite.
You start with journal prompts that get under your skin in the best way—pulling up buried memories, thought patterns, emotional knots. Then the medicine hits, and it drops you into this deep meditative state, expanding your sense of self and opening your brain to neuroplasticity. The gold comes in the integration afterward—which is what this blog is really about.

In math, integration is about summing up the tiniest pieces of a region infinitely, to find the area under the curve. That metaphor landed hard for me. Ketamine integration isn’t about "avoiding the appearance of evil"—it’s about sitting with the truth of what’s actually there.

Integration is the act of reflecting back on the treatment experience while your mind is still open and flexible. You take the insights, the images, the feelings that rose up during your session, and you zoom out. You look at them as a whole and ask: What is this showing me? What needs to shift? What patterns can I let go of now that I’ve seen where they came from?

It’s about giving new meaning to old pain.

It’s about learning to listen to your body, your emotions, your memories—instead of just shutting them down or quoting a hymn to push the “unwanted thoughts” away. Ketamine doesn’t tell you to shove your pain in a drawer and fake joy. It teaches you to sit with the pain long enough to learn what it’s here to teach you.

If you've made it this far, thank you. Writing this wasn't easy, but it was necessary. Ketamine didn’t just help me process grief—it helped me reclaim parts of myself that had been buried under shame, fear, and rigid conditioning. It gave me space to finally breathe, to finally feel, and to finally heal—not through suppressing my truth, but by facing it head-on.

This work isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s not a magic pill. It’s a guided journey into the depths of who you are—and who you were before the world (or a church) told you who you had to be. But if you're carrying the weight of old trauma—religious or otherwise—then maybe it’s time to let something new in. Something that honors your healing. On your terms.

If you’re curious about starting your own ketamine journey, I can’t recommend Better U enough. Their process is thoughtful, trauma-informed, and backed by science—but more than that, they see you as a whole person, not a project to fix.

You can get $100 off your first treatment by using my promo code NANDO100 at betterucare.com.

Whatever path you're on—whether you're still in the church, out of it, or somewhere in between—just know this: you deserve healing that actually heals. You deserve to feel whole.

And you're not alone anymore.

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.

Passage

 I got the title and theme of this post from a song that speaks to transformation and growth: Listen Here.

One of my favorite definitions of the word passage is "the process from one state to another."

I got this song from the Transcend playlist from Better U, the company I've been doing my ketamine treatments with.  Better U has four guiding modules: Heal, Love, Grow, and Transcend. Transcending is all about rising above and going beyond the limits of what you thought was possible. Transcendence is about breaking free from old boundaries—whether they are mental, emotional, or physical—and stepping into new territory. And I just LOVEEEEEEE the build-up this song has!!! Better U did an AMAZING job picking out the music for our treatments!

To become a Better U, go to betterucare.com and use my promo code NANDO84 for a $100 discount.  

But I LOVE LOVE LOVEEEEEE this song!  I had the most peaceful ketamine session on the eve of the 3-year anniversary of my cousin's passing.  

Thank you all so much for the support with my visit to the cemetery where I went to see her and my dad.  Thank you Better U for this incredible treatment at such an affordable rate!!!

With my being so close to graduation and school clicking so beautifully and everything else clicking too, this is truly the best feeling ever and I just had to write this to document the moment!!! :)

Samskeyti

This is the second time in a row that the title of a blog post came from a song in one of Better U's playlists.

Samskeyti - Sigur Rós

"Samskeyti" is an Icelandic word that has a few meanings, depending on the context. In Icelandic, it can refer to a feeling of emotional connection, often describing a deep, comforting, and serene state of togetherness or a kind of emotional bond that brings peace. It can also be associated with a sense of calmness or contentment that comes from being in the presence of someone or something important to you.

In the context of the song, it’s understood as a moment of quiet, intimate connection. The word itself doesn’t have a direct English translation, but it’s often described as a deeply emotional experience.

I started writing a book around the results of my healing journey, and I’m still trying to find words to describe the whole experience. It wasn’t just the ketamine treatment when I was going through it. It was all the journaling, the intentions I set before my sessions, and the integration afterwards. I met with an integration coach every three sessions.

My ketamine treatment definitely helped me get past some mental blocks. After failing nearly every class for five years, my love for Math was rekindled. I started doing well in school again. There was music I grew up with that was too traumatic to listen to for 20 years, and I fell in love with it again. I’m playing the saxophone again. I played the sax all throughout Junior High and High School.

There was a session I went into with the intention of having abundance in my schooling and my Amazon business, and I woke up from it with the feeling of just being kind to myself and others. It’s funny how sometimes we set a very specific intention, expecting to get answers or breakthroughs related to that one thing, but what we end up receiving is something entirely different, yet just as important. That session was a reminder that, before chasing after success or external achievements, I needed to learn to treat myself with the same kindness I often extend to others. That feeling of self-compassion, though subtle at the time, has become foundational in how I approach not just my studies and business, but my life as a whole.

Samskeyti, to me, feels like that moment of quiet understanding. It’s the peace that settles in when we stop striving so hard to force things to happen and instead allow ourselves to be present with what is. It’s in these moments of stillness that I’ve started to heal. The experience isn’t just about the highs or the breakthroughs—it’s about finding comfort in the simplicity of being.

As I’ve integrated these lessons from ketamine therapy, I’ve also learned that healing isn’t a linear process. There are setbacks, challenges, and periods where things don’t feel as clear. But those moments of serenity, of emotional connection to myself, have been my anchor. I can’t fully explain it, but there’s a certain peace that comes with understanding that I don’t have to have everything figured out.

I’ve noticed changes in how I approach my Amazon business, too. The pressure I used to feel to succeed quickly has softened. Instead of obsessing over each small failure, I’m able to step back and look at the bigger picture. I’ve realized that the journey itself, even with its challenges, is valuable. The calmness from that ketamine session, and the lessons that followed, have helped me be gentler with myself in both my personal and professional life.

I’m still on this journey, still finding words to describe what I’ve experienced, but I do know this: there’s a unique beauty in the quiet moments of growth, the slow unfolding of peace, and the understanding that sometimes, the right answer is simply to be present in the moment. Like the word samskeyti, it’s an experience you can’t quite translate, but one you can feel deeply—if you let yourself.