Lachlan Grant Splendor

Something just happened that most people don’t fully understand yet.

No, psychedelic prohibition hasn’t magically disappeared overnight.

But a door has been opened — from the highest level of the system.

For the first time in decades, the U.S. government has officially moved to accelerate access to psychedelic treatments, including Iboga.

That matters.

Because Iboga is not just another psychedelic.

It’s not recreational. It’s not light. It’s not something you take casually.

It’s confrontation. It’s interruption. It’s deep repair.

And for people dealing with trauma and addiction, it has a reputation for reaching places that almost nothing else can touch.

I know this because I’ve lived it.

I didn’t find Iboga through a perfect system.
I didn’t have access to a clean, ceremonial container.

I reached a point of desperation — and I did it alone.

And it changed me.

So when I see the system beginning to acknowledge this medicine, I don’t just see control or red tape.

I see pressure.

Pressure from lived experience.
Pressure from people who have actually been through it.
Pressure that can no longer be ignored.

Some will say this is the system trying to medicalise something sacred.

And they’re not wrong to be cautious.

But here’s the reality:

Without some form of structured access, most people will never reach Iboga at all.

This is the paradox.

The same system that suppressed these medicines may now become the gateway for their return.

Not perfectly.
Not purely.
But undeniably.

And here’s what stands out to me the most:

Iboga is one of the first to break through.

Not psilocybin.
Not ayahuasca.
Not M**A.

Iboga.

That’s not random.

Because Iboga doesn’t just expand the mind —
it forces a reckoning.

It interrupts addiction.
It exposes patterns.
It demands change.

That level of intensity doesn’t fit neatly into wellness culture or weekend experiences.

It requires structure. Respect. Responsibility.

So maybe this moment isn’t about asking whether the system should be involved.

Maybe it’s about recognising that something powerful has pushed its way into the system — and now it’s up to us to ensure it isn’t diluted.

We’re living in a time that feels chaotic, heavy, and uncertain.

And yet at the same time, some of the most powerful healing tools on this planet are beginning to re-emerge into public awareness.

That’s not something I ignore.

That’s something I pay attention to.

Because sometimes change doesn’t arrive clean.

Sometimes it arrives through cracks in systems we don’t fully trust.

But it still arrives.

And what we do with it from here —

that’s what matters.

Have you ever noticed that you can play like an absolute master in an empty room, but the second you press ‘record’ on your phone, you suddenly forget how to use your hands?
Psychologists and audio engineers call it “Red Light Syndrome.” But as a musician and a teacher, I think there is something much deeper—and more physical—happening.

Here is my hypothesis: The camera steals your energy, while a live audience amplifies it.
When you perform in front of living, breathing people in a shared space, you are projecting a root vibration into the room. The audience receives it, feels it, and reflects it back to you. In psychology, this is known as mutual entrainment. The sound waves are literally stabilized by the collective vibration of the people in the room. It is a bi-directional feedback loop. You feed them, they feed you.

But the modern era demands that we perform for a camera.
A camera lens is a black hole. It captures, but it does not reflect. When you perform to a phone, you are pushing your authentic energy into a void with zero feedback mechanism. The camera is stealing your energy to 'capture' it. No wonder it triggers anxiety.
Then there is the paradox of "Take 2." In a live setting, there is no second chance. You are forced to surrender to the present moment and enter a pure flow state. If you make a mistake, the energy of the room carries you through it.

But when you hit record, you know you can just try again. That safety net is a trap. It invites your inner critic into the room while you are playing. Instead of performing your truth, you start striving for sterile perfection.

We need to recognize the "Viral Illusion." Millions of people are making content, but most are just yelling their energy into a cold lens from an isolated room. We confuse "going viral" with truly being heard. It is not the same as standing in front of a crowd and feeling the visceral, harmonized frequency of shared human presence.

If you struggle to record yourself despite knowing how good you are behind closed doors—forgive yourself. You aren't losing your touch. You are just a being of light and sound, searching for a mirror that can actually reflect your music back to you.