A Sky Full of Stars

This process didn’t begin suddenly one day. It was more like a slow downhill ride, until I eventually reached a point where I understood that something had to change — and that I needed help.

I remember that day very clearly. I was in Amsterdam for a short weekend trip to see one of my favourite bands perform live. I had dreamed of seeing them for years. And finally there I was — standing under a sky full of stars, listening to my favourite song. And yet, I felt completely numb.

Of course, I was enjoying the music. But I wasn’t happy. Surrounded by thousands of joyful people dancing and singing, I couldn’t even make myself move. I felt lonely and strangely lost.

The next morning I woke up early. I had some time before my flight, so I decided to go for a stroll through the summer city, have breakfast on a terrace overlooking one of Amsterdam’s beautiful canals. One of my favourite cities in Europe. And yet, I was walking around without noticing any of its beauty. I was simply killing time before my flight.

Then suddenly a thought crossed my mind:

What if I had a joint?

I mean… who hasn’t had a joint in Amsterdam? To be honest, the last time I had smoked one was probably seven years earlier. It had never really been my thing. But in that moment it somehow felt like a good idea.

Looking back now, I can say that specific joint was very much needed. It was a wake-up call.

But in that moment, I simply wanted something that would make me feel alive.

It’s surprisingly common: when we find ourselves in the depths of our own darkness, we reach for something — anything — that might make us feel more alive, more relaxed, more open to life. Some people find it in alcohol. Others in drugs. For me, that morning, it was this joint.

The plan was simple: take a few puffs, relax a little, and then catch the train to the airport.

The coffeeshop was just across the street from the train station. It should have been a very straightforward journey.

But reality had other plans.

By the time I finished my third puff and reached the main hall of the train station, I could barely see the train schedule screen. Still determined, I attempted to buy a ticket at the vending machine. After about five minutes of chaotically pressing different buttons and getting nowhere, I realised the train was not going to be an option. Panic kicked in.

The realisation that I might miss my flight because I was too stoned to buy a train ticket paralysed me for a moment. Then I gathered whatever consciousness I still had left and tried to think of a solution. Thankfully, not all of my brain had shut down yet. And suddenly a brilliant idea appeared: Uber. Still slightly scared and paranoid, I managed to order a taxi, find the pickup point, and get into the car.

Now finally seated and relatively calm, I had about forty minutes of car ride ahead of me — and that ride turned into a deep moment of reflection, initiated by cannabis.

During that ride I kept asking myself:

What is really happening with me?

Why did I need to bring this chaos into my Sunday morning?

Why did I feel the need to sabotage my trip like this?

Why do I need something external just to feel happy?

And then, like pouring rain, memories began to surface:

Workdays where the only thing motivating me was the glass of wine waiting at the end of the day — often finishing most of the bottle. Weekends spent binge-watching Netflix or scrolling Instagram. Sometimes both at the same time. The heaviness every Sunday night, knowing a new workweek was about to begin. Avoiding people unless it was absolutely necessary. Endless purchases of things I didn’t need. Junk food deliveries. A constant dullness and numbness toward everything and everyone. And occasionally, quiet thoughts about what would happen if I simply disappeared.

Then another thought arrived. This joint was not just a bad decision.

It was a cry for help. A signal to wake up. To stop sabotaging myself. To ask for help. To start living instead of merely existing. I was depressed. And I needed help.

By the time I landed in Budapest that evening, I had made five decisions:

1. Find a therapist

2. Quit alcohol — at least for a while

3. Start running again (or at least walking)

4. Start cooking for myself

5. Book a plant medicine retreat

That day my healing journey really began.

I’m grateful to Amsterdam — and even to that joint — for waking me up.

Sometimes something shocking has to happen before we start paying attention to ourselves.

I don’t regret how it happened. But I do wish I hadn’t needed such an experience to begin my recovery journey.

Sometimes the wake-up call we need comes in the most unexpected forms.

If you resonate with this story and recognise any of the patterns or thoughts I described, please reach out for help. You don’t have to face the dark moments alone.