Psychedelics and the Soul
On myths, healing, and depression
And so long as you haven’t experienced this: to die and so to grow, you are only a troubled guest on the dark earth. — Goethe
I’ve been surrounded by depression my entire life, and it feels like something I can’t escape. Not because I suffer from it myself—though life’s challenges weigh on all of us—but because it’s a constant presence in the lives of those closest to me. Family, friends, partners—so many of them have fought their own battles with depression, each to varying degrees, as I stand by unable to help.
My mother is dying from depression. That’s not her official prognosis, but it’s what I believe is happening. In recent years, researchers like Bessel van der Kolk and Gabor Maté have reshaped how we understand mental illness, particularly its impact on the body. Van der Kolk’s groundbreaking work in The Body Keeps the Score reveals how unresolved trauma and chronic stress can manifest physically, leading to conditions that mimic or exacerbate physical illness.
Similarly, Maté’s research, especially in When the Body Says No, connects suppressed emotions and unmet needs to chronic disease. Both argue that untreated depression and unprocessed pain can cause the body to turn on itself, fueling everything from immune dysfunction to cardiovascular disease. In my mother’s case, the gradual erosion of her ability to live with the mistreated depression lead to a terminal illness. Her decline is inextricably tied to a deeper, untreated despair—an invisible battle she’s been fighting for years.
When I serendipitously discovered psychedelics as tools for mental health a few years ago, I thought I’d found a panacea—a way to pull my loved ones out of their despair. Maybe it was my ego talking, or perhaps it was the desperation of watching those closest to me shrink under the weight of their battles with mental illness. Either way, I’ve since come to understand that while psychedelics can be powerful tools for healing, they are far from the universal cure I had hoped for. The larger picture is much more complex and difficult.
Simon Yugler’s important new book, Psychedelics and the Soul, captures the challenges surrounding these powerful substances. It’s a rare contribution to the growing conversation on psychedelics—one that is not merely adding to the noise but recalibrating the dialogue toward a more holistic and grounded approach. Unlike the exuberant rah-rah excitement often found on Instagram or in Bali retreats, Yugler roots the psychedelic journey in the depths of Jungian psychology and mythology. By doing so, he provides a map for both newcomers and seasoned travelers to navigate not just altered states, but the archetypal landscapes beneath them.
The brilliance of Psychedelics and the Soul lies in its insistence that healing is not about optimization or finality. In an age where we are sold the idea that with enough effort we can reach some idealized version of ourselves, Yugler reminds us that healing is less about completion and more about process. He confronts the Western obsession with “self-growth” and reframes it with a radical honesty: there is no final destination. We need to make peace with being perfectly imperfect.
Depth Psychology as Compass
Central to Yugler’s thesis is Carl Jung’s idea of individuation—the psyche’s innate drive toward wholeness. Jung saw this as the root of all healing, whether through dreams, pathologies, or, as Yugler explores, psychedelics. The core tension in the book is the recognition that our fragmented selves are constantly seeking integration, but this is not a linear process.
Yugler deftly explains how the psychedelic experience can amplify this quest for wholeness, helping us to confront the shadow—the parts of ourselves we would rather ignore or disown. But he doesn’t stop there. He acknowledges James Hillman’s critique of Jung, which challenges the very notion of wholeness itself. Hillman, with his “polytheistic psychology,” questions whether wholeness is even desirable. Instead, he offers a more fractal vision of the soul: an infinite, kaleidoscopic dimension where we encounter not resolution, but deeper questions. The Vedic sage and Kabbalist would find common cause.
This space between integration and multiplicity is the heartbeat of Yugler’s approach. Psychedelics, he argues, don’t offer answers. They offer mirrors—sometimes funhouse, sometimes clear—and a glimpse into the complexity of the self. Given the all the hype around these substances, this message is sorely needed.
The Role of Myth and Archetype
One of the most compelling arguments Yugler makes is for the return of myth and archetype as navigational tools in the psychedelic space. He structures the book around ten archetypes, such as The Well, The Temple, and The Serpent, each representing a different dimension of the healing journey. These archetypes aren’t just abstract concepts—they are living, breathing metaphors that help us make sense of the ineffable.
In a world increasingly disconnected from its mythic roots, psychedelics offer a way back. Myths, as Yugler explains, don’t resolve our problems. They give us a language for them. They frame our struggles not as anomalies, but as ancient, universal patterns. Whether it’s the hero’s journey or the descent into the underworld, myths remind us that we are part of something much larger than ourselves.
In the context of psychedelics, this mythic framing is invaluable. It shifts the focus from self-improvement to self-understanding. It allows us to approach the journey with humility, seeing our pain and confusion not as failures, but as invitations to deeper exploration.
Healing Beyond Capitalism
Perhaps the most provocative argument in Psychedelics and the Soul is Yugler’s critique of the modern healing industry. He dismantles the capitalist framework that equates healing with productivity, improvement, and ultimate resolution. The idea that we can “fix” ourselves, Yugler suggests, is not just flawed—it’s toxic.
“The will to change, the quest for self-knowledge, the desire to heal, are at heart the lonely wanderings of a half person seeking something that the village couldn’t give them,” Yugler writes. This is not a critique of individual effort, but of the systems that have divorced healing from community, from ritual, and from myth.
Yugler’s emphasis on the never-ending nature of healing is refreshing. He reframes the psychedelic journey not as a means to an end, but as a perpetual dialogue with the soul. In this view, the point is not to arrive, but to keep moving, to embrace the messiness of being human.
Toward a New Framework
Reading Psychedelics and the Soul felt less like consuming a book and more like stepping into an ancient dialogue—a conversation not just with Simon Yugler, but with the mythic traditions and psychological frameworks that have shaped our understanding of the human experience. What resonated with me most was not the promise of answers, but the invitation to honor our fractured selves. This reframing is critical. Healing isn’t about fixing what’s broken—it’s about recognizing the beauty in the brokenness itself.
This perspective challenges the relentless self-improvement narrative we’ve been sold. Healing isn’t a linear journey to some final destination, nor is it about ticking off boxes on a list of achievements. It’s a cyclical process, a constant reckoning with the parts of ourselves we’d rather leave behind. The wisdom of the shadow—those darker, uncomfortable corners of the psyche—isn’t in how quickly we can integrate it, but in how deeply we can sit with it, learn from it, and let it transform us.
This is not just relevant to psychedelics but to anyone seeking clarity in the noise of modern life. As someone who has wrestled with the tension between self-growth and self-acceptance, these tools offer a refreshing antidote to the obsession with optimization. Yugler’s reminder that “the work is never done” feels liberating rather than defeating. It calls for a kind of humility—an acknowledgment that we are, and always will be, works in progress.
This message hits close to home. I’ve spent years grappling with the shadow of depression. Watching family and friends battle their inner demons has left me feeling helpless and often angry (e.g my freighted ego talking) after searching in vain for ways to ease their pain.
This battle is what first drew me to psychedelics in the hope that these substances might offer a path to healing (you can read more about this here, here, and here). But over time, I’ve realized that healing is not something I can impose or control—it’s an internal journey, one I can support but not direct.
Yugler’s work acknowledges this delicate truth in ways seldom discussed in the current literature. By grounding his approach in Jungian thought and the archetypal layers of the psyche, he reveals a deeper framework for understanding how true healing can emerge—not through quick fixes, but by engaging with the timeless symbols and stories that shape our inner lives and the lives of our ancestors.
The path to wholeness is unique to each individual and often lies in embracing the very fractures we’re so eager to mend. Psychedelics and the Soul is not offering a roadmap to perfection but encouraging us to embrace the process. Mythic, soulful, and profoundly human, this book doesn’t show us how to be better. It shows us how to be. And in a world that demands so much doing, that is perhaps the most important lesson of all.