What Happens When the Brain Lets Go

Disclaimer: I do not condone or encourage the use of illegal substances. This post is a personal reflection on my experience and the science behind it, shared for educational and contemplative purposes only. I will also be pursuing an MSc in Psychedelic Research, and my goal is to explore these topics academically and responsibly.

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We live much of our lives inside familiar grooves of thought. Memories replay, worries cycle forward, and our inner voice reminds us of who we are, often in the same well-worn phrases. This can feel unshakable, as though the mind has no choice but to run along these tracks.

Now, imagine if those tracks weren’t fixed, but softened; the mind briefly reset, not erased, but opened to new possibility. What if our thoughts could, for a short period of time, become less rigid, allowing us to see the world around us through a completely new lens?

This is the promise researchers see in psilocybin, the compound found in certain species of mushrooms. Long used in sacred traditions, it has returned to the spotlight in the West not as a relic of the counterculture, but as one of the most intriguing frontiers of modern neuroscience and psychology.

A Fresh Path

Recently, I picked up How To Change Your Mind written by Michael Pollan which examines the science, history, and therapeutic potential of psychedelics, highlighting their ability to transform consciousness and support mental health. Pollan describes the brain under psilocybin with an image that stays with me: a hillside covered in snow. With time, sleds carve deep ruts into the hillside, and each new descent inevitably follows the same tracks. Our minds operate in much the same way; thoughts, habits, and even our sense of self become caught in familiar patterns. Psilocybin, he continues, is like a fresh snowfall settling over the psyche. The sled can move freely; those same tracks remain, but the brain is briefly liberated from their pull.

Neuroscience confirms the effect. Brain imaging shows that psilocybin quiets the Default Mode Network (DMN) - the part of the brain that governs self-reflection, rumination, and our sense of ego. With the DMN dialed down, previously separate regions begin to communicate, creating new patterns of connectivity that rarely appear in ordinary consciousness. Think of it like a city during rush hour…every street jammed, cars stuck in the same predictable routes. When the DMN quiets, it’s like suddenly all the streets are open with traffic flowing freely along new paths, reaching places it never could before. The city feels alive in a way you’ve never seen, and the brain, like the city, starts forming new connections, breaking old patterns, and seeing the world from fresh angles.

A Childlike Lens 

I experienced this shift one afternoon in a forest with my fiancé. There was nothing dramatic about it, nothing garish or completely mind-boggling (not visually, anyway…this was no heroic dose!) Instead, the ordinary became extraordinary. I went into the forest with a completely open mind and a gentle curiosity which definitely allowed me to surrender to the experience in its entirety. I believe any mind-altering substance should be approached with intention and caution, which is why it was such a surprise that even a modest experience had such a profound effect on my perception and sense of connection.

Light filtered through the leaves in repeating, geometric patterns - a reflection of how our brains are wired to notice symmetry and fractals in nature. I felt my breath syncing with the sway of the trees, and beneath my feet, the earth pulsed with life, connected through mycelial networks linking every root and tree. Time stood still…in fact, I forgot the concept of it altogether. It didn’t matter if I got lost, nothing mattered at all. Words couldn’t capture it, but I had a deep knowing that I was exactly where I needed to be.

The closest way to describe it is childlike, the kind of playfulness and wonder I haven’t felt since I was a child. I may as well have been 10 years old again, jumping in muddy puddles without a single care. Everything felt completely new, like I was feeling different textures and observing my surroundings for the first time. I belly laughed at the smallest things, skipped over roots, and let myself move freely through the forest without self-consciousness. For a few hours, the wall between “me” and everything else seemed to dissolve. Without sounding too corny, I wasn’t observing nature - I belonged to it.

Psychologists call this ego dissolution, but that term feels clinical compared to the tenderness of the experience. It wasn’t about losing myself. It was about reconnecting with a self that was more open, curious and, perhaps, innocent. Sensory input, emotions, and thoughts that are normally compartmentalised begin to flow more freely between regions in the brain. The result is a profound sense of unity; the distinction between observer and observed softens, and the world can feel alive in a way that isn’t coloured by personal biases or habitual patterns.

Why The Brain Resets 

What lingers long after the experience isn’t the vivid imagery or the new sensations but the shift in perspective. Pollan recounts stories of people who describe a similar effect such as depression lifting, fear softening, or a deep sense of gratitude returning. Life, overall, feels richer than they remembered. These aren’t just poetic descriptions. Neuroscience provides a framework for understanding why these experiences can be so emotionally powerful.

Psilocybin appears to temporarily increase neuroplasticity, the brain’s ability to rewire itself. Some studies even suggest it may promote neurogenesis, the growth of new neurons, particularly in the hippocampus which is the region linked to memory and mood. Networks that normally operate in isolation begin to communicate, allowing the brain to recognise itself in unexpected and flexible ways.

Yet what strikes me most is that beyond the scans, the data, and the jargon, so many people describe the experience with strikingly similar language; opening, remembering, reconnecting. There’s a shared sense of awakening, as if the brain’s rewiring aligns with something deeply human - a fleeting but eye-opening return to curiosity, playfulness, and a more expansive sense of self. It’s a reminder that these experiences aren’t only measurable in neural activity; they’re lived in feeling, perception, and connection.

A Doorway, Not A Destination 

For me, the forest wasn’t an escape from reality, it was a reminder of it. Psilocybin didn’t add something foreign to my mind; it peeled back the noise to reveal what was already present…wonder, stillness and belonging. Although profound, it wasn’t a heavy experience that made me feel “hungover” the next day, it was extremely refreshing and something that I look back on nearly 2 years later with a smile, knowing that it quietly changed the way I relate to myself and everything around me. 

These experiences are not shortcuts, nor are they for everyone. Everyone is so unique in the way they relate to the world and what resonates deeply for one person may not hold the same meaning or effect for another. The real work begins in integration, in how we choose to live differently after the snow has melted and the ruts threaten to return. Studies suggest that repeated reflection and mindful practice after such experiences can reinforce neural plasticity, helping the insights translate into lasting emotional and cognitive shifts. 

And perhaps that is the quiet beauty of it. Beneath the chatter of thought and the weight of self, there is a current of awareness that delights in leaves, in sunlight on the forest floor, in the rhythm of breath, and the hum of life itself. To glimpse it, even briefly, is to remember what we too often forget: the world is astonishing, and we are inseparable from it; a part of the flow we usually take for granted.

M.M x