In Oregon, the land of rugged coastlines, Crater Lake selfies, and Whole Foods parking lots littered with midlife crises, the newest entrant to the burgeoning wellness industrial complex is neither a tech app nor another green smoothie café called something like “Oat & Thistle.” It’s psilocybin. And for those of you born before the rise of “microdosing,” that’s magic mushrooms—the kind that, until recently, you ate in your friend’s college dorm room while listening to Pink Floyd and marveling at the concept of socks.
But now, psilocybin has left the stained shag carpet of yore and entered the world of adults with clean teeth and 401(k)s. This isn’t the fringe, mind you—it’s licensed, regulated, and bureaucratically blessed. Oregon rolled out its legal psilocybin program in 2023, a national first, because why should Oregon settle for being merely “the state where it rains a lot and you can pump your own gas now”? (This change was traumatic. People still talk about it.) No, Oregon has officially bet its progressive soul on fungi-fueled mental wellness.
This year? It’s all about “fine-tuning.” Which, of course, is a euphemism. “Fine-tuning” is what you say when you’re not entirely sure something is working yet, but no one’s ready to panic because they’re all too busy complimenting the modernity of your intentions.
Therapists, Sherpas, and ‘Trip Sitters’
The thing about psilocybin is that it’s not just something you buy in a little Ziploc bag from a man named Topher who lives in a converted school bus. (That’s illegal, for now, unless Topher gets his license.) Oregon’s program is different. It is a “legal therapeutic” process. This means you don’t just take your mushrooms and go. No. You are “supported,” monitored, guided. You get a trip sitter who has undergone training—someone to hold your hand as the universe unfolds in intricate paisleys and your childhood dog comes back to visit you in radiant technicolor.
It is, on paper, very responsible. And responsible mushroom trips are very Oregon. There are safety protocols, there are disclaimers, and there are probably waiver forms so long they can double as yoga mats. This is not your uncle’s idea of a “good time.” This is work. Mushrooms, after all, have rebranded: not “recreational” but “transformational.” Therapeutic. Psychedelics are now the high-minded answer to low-down existential dread. They are the antidote for our chemically starved serotonin systems, the pressure-wracked minds and nervous hearts of a world where smartphones make us dumber, and Instagram makes us feel uglier and lonelier than ever before.
The industry—yes, it’s an industry now—is still finding its footing. That’s what they’ll be spending 2025 on, tinkering and calibrating. The challenges are as obvious as they are mushroom-cloud shaped. For one, the line between “medicine” and “experience” is thinner than that guy who drinks kale shakes for breakfast and disappears in profile view. It’s a slippery slope. Can mushrooms cure depression? Or are they merely depression’s chaperone—holding its elbow, guiding it gently through a multicolored hallway of self-awareness before releasing it back into the world? And how, exactly, do you commodify something as mystical as a mushroom trip without stripping it of its soul?
Therapeutic or Just a Good Old-Fashioned Freakout?
The facilitators, who have all undergone intensive training, are ready for the journey. There is preparation, there is intention setting, there is follow-up. It’s highly civilized, all this prep for something that, under different circumstances, would have you clutching a stuffed animal and mumbling about a tree that won’t stop breathing. But Oregon has faith in the process. There is demand—a quiet stampede of people who, after exhausting prescription drugs, meditation apps, and the witless inspiration of self-help books, are willing to try mushrooms. They have heard whispers of its power. It’s enough to make you think that mushrooms, humble and unassuming, might just save the world. Or at least make it temporarily prettier.
There’s still friction, though. It’s not cheap—$2,000 or more for sessions. That’s a steep price for staring into infinity while someone monitors your vital signs. And there are skeptics: those who think the state is commodifying spirituality or offering a privileged escape that only some can afford. It’s a bit too close to “Wellness Inc.”—where salvation is served with a garnish of exclusivity.
But the believers press on, proselytizing not in pews but in NPR interviews and dinner parties: Have you tried it? Have you heard about it? Psilocybin is their gospel. The trips are “profound,” “healing,” “life-changing.” And if not, well, at least you had a fascinating three hours.
It’s Oregon, After All
In many ways, Oregon and psilocybin make perfect sense. The state has always been America’s misfit child—forever a little left of center, a little damp, a little weird. You can drive through Portland and see murals that proclaim, “Keep Portland Weird,” as if it’s a municipal obligation. Legal mushrooms? Oregon is just living up to its brand.
But this time, the stakes are higher. If psilocybin proves its worth—if it alleviates trauma, anxiety, addiction—then Oregon’s gamble will become a model. The mushroom pilgrims will come from other states, their hearts full of hope, their wallets full of cash. The psilocybin facilitators will become something like healers and gurus, armed not with robes or chants but certification paperwork.
And yet, if it stumbles—if the program cracks under bureaucracy, costs, or unfulfilled expectations—then Oregon’s oddity will look less like progress and more like indulgence. People will mutter under their breath about “hippies,” even as they privately Google “psilocybin near me.” Because here’s the secret: we’re all looking for answers. We’re all just waiting for the world to feel a little softer, a little less cruel.
So, as the psilocybin program enters its next chapter, Oregon stands with its heart in its hands and its head in the clouds. Maybe mushrooms will save us. Or maybe we’ll just get better at fine-tuning the process of trying. Either way, I, for one, would like to think the universe’s answers might be nestled in the gills of a little brown mushroom, waiting patiently for someone to sit down, close their eyes, and finally listen.
Until next time.
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