The Origin Story of Psychedelic Archives
How an abandoned idea grew into the world’s largest psychedelic community
Some decisions only make sense in hindsight. At the time, they seem like tiny, almost silly impulses. Starting an Instagram account in April 2023 definitely felt like one of those.
There was no master plan — just me sharing a few psychedelic history posts because I thought they were interesting, and maybe someone else might too.
I didn’t expect anyone to actually care, let alone that it would grow into a community of hundreds of thousands.
Looking back, I can see that I wasn’t just starting a page — I was quietly trying to find my way back to myself.
This is the story of how an idea chose me, and how long it took before I finally chose it back.
The Greatest Hazard of All
The story doesn’t begin with psychedelics or Instagram. It begins much earlier, in the years when I was living on autopilot.
Through most of college, I drifted along the path in front of me, guided less by conviction than by momentum. I could sense other possibilities, but I didn’t yet have the courage to step beyond the familiar. So I took the expected route — the “right” classes, the “right” internships, the well-lit road into finance — all the while feeling slightly distant from myself.
Frankly, I was in a state of despair, as Kierkegaard would call it — not dramatic sorrow, but the subtle suffocation of becoming someone you’re not. He warned that “the greatest hazard of all — losing oneself — can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all.”1 By conventional metrics I was succeeding, yet I could feel myself disappearing.
A Door Opens
Even before psychedelics, I knew something had to change. So I tried mindfulness meditation to find some answers.
I read the books, studied the theory, and willed myself to hit the cushion. But when I sat down to practice, my mind resisted every attempt to quiet it. I felt like someone pressing their face against glass — close to something meaningful, but unable to break through.
Then I took psychedelics. And the glass shattered.
It’s hard to describe that first psychedelic experience without defaulting to clichés, but the shock of it was real: my inner chatter subsided, the boundary between me and the world dissolved, and everything pulsed with a sense of significance.
It wasn’t just mystical — it was disarmingly practical. I saw, clearly and for the first time, that another mode of consciousness was possible, one that felt more honest and meaningful than the one I’d been living in.
Meditation, once impenetrable, suddenly clicked. Life began to feel less like a performance and more like a participation.
Permission to Want More
Around that time, during my senior year of college, I took a class where the final project was to pitch a startup in an emerging industry. Secretly captivated by this new frontier of consciousness, I chose the most exciting field I could think of: psychedelics.
I learned that we were living through a “psychedelic renaissance,” a period when clinical and cultural interest in psychedelics were exploding.
I poured myself into the research, and for the first time in my academic life, my work felt charged with genuine curiosity. Psychedelics weren’t just medicines; they were a powerful lens for understanding consciousness, culture, healing, and meaning.
When my professor told me my presentation was his favorite of the semester, something inside me flickered awake. It felt like permission — not from him, but from myself — to pursue something that actually lit me up. I told myself that after college I’d find a way to work in psychedelics.
A False Start
And yet, after graduation, I found myself sitting in the fluorescent cubicles of investment banking — about the least psychedelic place imaginable. I told myself it was temporary. I devoured books about psychedelic history and listened to podcasts on my commute. I even reached out to Business Trip, one of my favorite shows about psychedelic entrepreneurship. To my surprise, one of the hosts, Greg Kubin, actually agreed to speak with me.
We talked about his journey — from the same numbing world of banking into the far more enlivening world of psychedelics. At the end of the call, I asked him the question that had been burning a hole in me: How do I break into this field?
His answer was almost disappointingly simple: “Create something.”
A blog, a newsletter, anything. Just start. The path wouldn’t reveal itself until I took the first step.
I loved the idea. Truly, I did. But at that point in my life, loving an idea and acting on it were still two different worlds. I returned to work, clinging to the illusion that I had more time.
A Small Rebellion
Eventually, the tension between the life I was living and the one I wanted became unbearable, and I left banking for a healthcare startup working in the psychedelic clinical trial space.
It felt closer to the path, but not quite the path. The work was noble, but it felt constricted, bureaucratic, and incomplete. Patients searching for healing often didn’t qualify for clinical trials or were simply wary of new medicines.
I wanted to help people access not just psychedelic medicine, but the deeper cultural and philosophical context around them. I wanted to explore the bigger questions: What do psychedelics teach us about living a good life?
And so, the idea resurfaced: create something.
One night in bed, I opened Instagram and made an account: @psychedelicarchives.
It felt like a small rebellion. I told myself I’d share stories that fascinated me, the ones I was already reading and watching on my own.
On April 2, 2023, I hit “post” for the first time. I chose one of my favorite stories from psychedelic history: the time Carlos Santana played Woodstock while fully tripping on LSD. Instead of falling apart, he channeled the experience into one of the most iconic performances of all time, catapulting his career into stardom.
That was the kind of story I wanted to tell — ones that complicate the narrative around psychedelics and invite curiosity instead of judgment.
Giving Up Too Soon
Despite my enthusiasm, the early days of the account were humbling. I poured hours into research and writing. And though I’m embarrassed to admit it, I even paid to “boost” posts — essentially paying Instagram to show them as ads. And still, I reached almost no one.
After two months, I had just 1,000 followers. Each person genuinely meant the world to me, but it still felt small compared to other pages.
Then came the dagger: Instagram flagged my account for “drug content” and removed my ability to boost posts. The wind rushed out of my sails. I figured the only reason people had seen my posts at all was because I had paid for it. Without that crutch, I decided the project was doomed. So I abandoned it.
For eighteen months, the account lay dormant — a small symbol of an unlived life sitting quietly on my phone. I drifted back into habit and routine, letting distractions take the place of meaning.
I tried to lose myself in work, but a quiet, persistent feeling kept tugging at me: I was avoiding my true passion. I wanted to study psychedelic history, explore the questions it raises about consciousness and meaning, and help reintroduce its wisdom into contemporary life.
The Mushrooms Told Me So
Then, one day on a mushroom trip, the truth hit me with uncomfortable clarity: the Instagram account hadn’t failed — I had walked away.
The obstacle was never the algorithm or the boosting restriction. It was my dependence on external validation and shortcuts.
When the views disappeared, I disappeared too.
I wanted to create something authentic, but I was still feeding the part of me that cared more about being seen — and about taking the path of least resistance — than about doing the work.
I claimed I stopped posting because I couldn’t “boost” anymore. But boosting was only a shield — a way to protect myself from the possibility of being ignored. If I could pay for attention, I never had to face what the work was actually worth.
Back then, I wasn’t ready to rely on myself alone, or to risk creating something that might not be noticed.
Beginning Again
The realization felt like a confession: If this was truly a calling, was I willing to pursue it even if no one watched? To work quietly, with care, for its own sake? To commit to the process rather than cling to the outcome?
Something in me shifted. For the first time, I felt ready — not just willing, but eager — to take responsibility for what I wanted.
I didn’t want to shrink back into the safe, boring path. I wanted to devote myself to a larger mission: to explore psychedelic history and help guide these ideas into modern society.
That night, I reconnected with the reasons I had started the account in the first place:
Because this mattered to me.
Because it might matter to others.
Because ignoring it had become more painful than pursuing it.
So, on December 9th, 2024, after a year and a half hiatus, I began again.
Quietly. Consistently. Without expectation.
I resolved to post every day, even if the posts were seen by ten people. I wrote what genuinely fascinated me. I refused to use cheap hooks or manipulative tactics. I cited my sources. I posted long videos and wrote nuanced descriptions because I cared more about the story than the algorithm. I let the work be what it wanted to be.
I was still working at the startup, but I carved out time before and after work — making space for the thing that finally felt like mine.
The Spark Catches Fire
And then, in the way life sometimes rewards sincerity, the page began to grow. This time entirely organically.
My first viral post landed on Christmas Day. (It was a Christmas miracle, truly.) A week later, another. Within a month, 30,000 people were reading along. Within two months, 100,000 people.
Strangers sent messages saying the posts meant something to them. Artists and researchers I admired followed. I found collaborators, friends, and mentors — often through synchronicities too uncanny to ignore.
It felt like the universe saying: Keep going.
Still, I didn’t immediately own this new identity. I kept the project quiet, afraid my friends would think I was posturing — a wannabe influencer. But every time I let someone in, they surprised me. They were curious, supportive, proud. And slowly, I let myself feel proud too.
Today, Psychedelic Archives is the world’s largest psychedelic community. But more importantly, it’s the most honest expression of my curiosity and values. It’s the first thing I’ve ever built that truly feels like me. It has also allowed me to offer real value to people, the kind of value you can only give when you’re working from genuine passion.
Walking the Path
Looking back, I can see the real story: a long, uneven journey from unconsciousness to responsibility. From drifting to choosing. From living a life handed to me to building a life I actually believe in.
Joseph Campbell famously encouraged people to “follow your bliss,”2 trusting that the path meant for you only appears once you begin walking it.
For years, I waited for clarity before taking a step. Psychedelic Archives flipped that equation. By following what fascinated me, the path began to reveal itself. And slowly, I found the courage to walk it.
Psychedelic Archives is far from finished. In many ways, it feels like just the beginning.
Thank you, sincerely, to everyone who has been part of this journey. Your curiosity, enthusiasm, and generosity have made this far more meaningful than I ever could have imagined.
I can’t wait to see where we go from here.
— Kyle
Founder, Psychedelic Archives
IG: @psychedelicarchives
Søren Kierkegaard, The Sickness Unto Death (1849).
Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth (1988).
What an awesome story. Very inspirational 👏
beautiful