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Welcome to Tricycle Day. We’re the psychedelics newsletter that's not afraid to purge. Hear us out… when else in life can you (indiscreetly) evacuate out of both ends and face zero judgment? Only babies get that kind of grace. 👼

Wakana Whiteowl has been a card-carrying plant whisperer as long as she can remember, but it took seven massive strokes to turn this calling into a mission. Now, she guides others as a medicine woman, bridging ancient wisdom from her Cherokee, Lakota Sioux, and Shipibo lineages with contemporary science.

We asked Wakana what her diverse indigenous influences have in common, how she addresses common fears about ayahuasca, and why this plant medicine can be so effective in resolving intergenerational trauma.

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Could you share your journey with plant medicines? Why did you decide to become a medicine woman?

From as early as I can remember, I was totally drawn to plants in ways that defied explanation. As a child, I found myself at our local health food store, staring at the wall of dried herbs in jars. I had no clue what these plants were for, but I felt more at home there than anywhere else outside of nature. I'd scoop herbs into paper bags, take them home, and display them in a glass case meant for my China dolls.

After a series of family tragedies, I found myself yearning for more community, so I started to connect with indigenous and spiritual circles that centered around psychoactive plant medicine. I had my first ceremony before age 10, and that first time was when the lights really came on. Shortly after, I began studies within my own shamanic lineages.

A few decades later, I wanted to experience other aspects of life, and I did such a good job breaking away that I woke up one day realizing I was spiritually and literally dying. I had seven massive strokes over four months, despite being a triathlete. I knew something needed to change fundamentally in how I was thinking. I chose to travel through Central and South America to heal, even though it made no sense given my condition.

In Panama, I hit rock bottom, and suddenly I remembered: ayahuasca can help with brain damage. The medicine literally showed up through a woman I'd just met, and after five ceremonies, my brain damage symptoms were permanently gone. That's when I vowed to be in service to this medicine. I don't see that I chose to become a medicine person. I see that I chose to accept that I am a medicine person becoming.

You've trained in Shipibo traditions while carrying Cherokee and Lakota Sioux lineages. How do these different approaches to plant medicine relate to and differ from each other?

These traditions differ in simple ways that contain universes. The differences come from their specific origin stories, cosmologies, and local plants they work with. But the commonalities are mind-boggling.

All three traditions are animistic, meaning they believe that all natural things have spirit and consciousness. They view plants as teachers, healers, and guides, and incorporate ritual and prayer to communicate with plant spirits. Plant medicine is used ceremonially, with deep respect for the spirits themselves—not just the physical plant and its chemicals, but in a real relational sense.

There's a communal focus on ceremony being a place for forgiveness—of ourselves and others. For the Shipibo, this might be in ayahuasca ceremony; for the Cherokee, in going-to-water rituals; for the Lakota, in the inípi or vision quest. They all view healing holistically, addressing emotional, mental, spiritual, and physical aspects simultaneously.

What's remarkable is that these cultures, far from one another with little chance for exchange, all say that plant spirits initiated the conversations with us. They taught us. This knowledge is handed down through oral tradition, apprenticeship, dream work, and direct communication with the plants. The indigenous perspectives emphasize interconnectedness and ethical relationships with the natural world as intrinsically tied to our wellbeing. This is where spirituality, science, psychology, and public health policy are starting to intersect.

What are the biggest fears people have about working with ayahuasca and how do you address them?

Let's look at the top five fears people bring to ceremony. One is that it won't work for them. They'll be the unicorn ayahuasca doesn't help. Second is the fear of purging, especially vomiting, in front of others. Third is the fear that healing requires suffering. There's a lot of societal reinforcement of that belief, and people get scared about how hard the experience will be. The fourth fear is having to relive traumatic experiences. And the fifth one is the classic fear of losing control.

I'll start with the last one because the real nugget is we can't lose what we never had. Control is an illusion, and when that illusion is dismantled, we get scared. That fear causes us to feel unsafe. At Reunion, we attend to everything that creates the ideal setting, so that amidst feeling unsafe you can actually be safe at the same time. You have the freedom to feel that temporary lack of safety within a nest of protection.

Much of what these fears center around is discomfort. It’s true that guests sometimes feel uncomfortable. We'll experience joy and cathartic release, and we'll also feel yucky part of the time. The setting ensures you're as comfortable as possible while sometimes feeling uncomfortable.

But the biggest fear we see is the fear of fear itself. We become anxious about the possibility of feeling anxious or afraid, creating a self-perpetuating feedback loop where the fear of fear takes us into more of the very thing we were trying to avoid. With fear, we trade the possibility for the guarantee.

As Mr. Rogers said, "What becomes mentionable becomes manageable." So much of our work involves normalizing all parts of our human experience, including fear. It's normal to experience these fears, and there's possibility for something better, but it won't happen by making people feel wrong for experiencing something normal.

As someone who works closely with intergenerational trauma, how do you see ayahuasca supporting that healing process?

Ayahuasca brings buried emotions and memories to the surface, including traumatic experiences passed down through families and even epigenetically, through our genes. Importantly, ayahuasca doesn't just expose these traumas; she helps us release and resolve them.

One truth about ayahuasca that I wish I'd known earlier is that when we experience something painful during ceremony—fear, anger, frustration, loneliness—it isn't something coming; it's something going. We're witnessing it leave. We feel it to heal it, but we don't have to feel it in the same way we originally experienced it. So often these emotions are coming from deep within us, and we're only experiencing them in passing as they're on their way out.

Our energy related to anything that happened to us, or what we carry through our ancestors, is where we last left it. Ayahuasca enables us to find those energies, bring them to the surface, and either release them or revisit them to leave them in a different place. And it might not have been us that last touched them—that's the intergenerational aspect.

This isn't just shamanic understanding; it's scientific. Studies show ayahuasca activates brain regions associated with emotional processing. Its capacity to reduce our psychological defenses is what makes this healing possible. People report that one night of ayahuasca is like 30 years of therapy because it helps us understand how trauma passes through family lines.

Physiologically, I'm a living example of ayahuasca's ability to enhance our brain's neuroplasticity. As we release trauma energies, new neural networks form that no longer contain the traumatic information. We don't lose the memory, but we lose its effect on us.

How does your commitment to non-commodified medicine work inform how Reunion operates as a retreat center?

Brad Wells, Reunion's founder, and I share a personal ethos: plant medicine is best served when people come first, not profit. This extends not just to guests, but to all contributors on the property, from shamans and facilitators to those who prepare food or tend the grounds. We're a community, and putting people first changes how everyone can show up for guests taking one of the biggest steps of their lives.

This focus extends to the cultures who have caretaken this medicine for centuries, and to the earth from which we all come. The Quechua in Peru have a word ayni, which means divine reciprocity. True medicine is all about communal exchange of care, and that's what's afforded in the nonprofit model—an ability to keep reciprocity front and center.

We support indigenous cultures financially and otherwise. We're also passionate about replenishing the constituent plants of ayahuasca to ensure its availability for generations to come. If you go to Peru today, you see boatloads of ayahuasca vine and chacruna moving up and down rivers. The consumption versus availability isn't sustainable, so we have land in Peru where we're cultivating these plants.

Operating as a nonprofit medicine center isn't easy. Traditional grants and funding streams available to other nonprofits aren't yet available for plant medicine work. It would be easier to be a for-profit center, but easier doesn't always equal better. Being nonprofit allows us to keep our focus on the people coming for healing, those making it happen, and those who made it all possible in the first place.

Want more from Wakana?

Make a donation to support her non-profit center, Reunion, or check availability for upcoming ayahuasca retreats. Cyclists are invited to take $250 off with code TricycleReunion.

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DISCLAIMER: This newsletter is for educational and informational purposes only and is not intended as a substitute for professional medical advice. The use, possession, and distribution of psychedelic drugs are illegal in most countries and may result in criminal prosecution.