Ketamine + Talk Therapy + EMDR: What I’m Exploring When Holding It Together Stops Working

I still go to CrossFit three times a week.

But I don’t like it the way I used to.

That’s probably the clearest way to describe what’s been happening to me—not that I’ve stopped showing up in my life, but that something in the internal experience of it has changed.

I used to live for training. CrossFit wasn’t just exercise for me—it was identity, energy, momentum. I liked pushing myself. I liked how my body responded. I liked feeling capable in a very physical, undeniable way.

Now I still go. I still do the work. I still complete the sessions.

But I don’t feel that same pull toward it anymore.

I show up because I know I should. Not because I feel drawn to it.

And I don’t fully recognize that shift in myself.

The same thing has happened in other places too.

I used to love cooking. Now it rarely crosses my mind.

I still move through my days, I still do what needs to be done, but there’s a quieter undercurrent to everything now—like I’m participating in my life rather than fully inside it.

Even with my family, who I love deeply, I notice it sometimes. I’m present, but not fully engaged in the way I used to be. I can function, I can support, I can show up—but there’s a part of me that feels slightly behind everything, like I’m catching up to my own life instead of inhabiting it.

And underneath that, there’s a feeling I don’t always say out loud:

I want to go to my room and cry. I don’t. But that’s the impulse.

So I keep going.

What’s been harder to explain is how small things can undo me now.

Not the big things. Not the catastrophic moments. The small, everyday failures of systems and logistics and expectations.

A phone order for my son that got messed up—wrong carrier, locked device, endless customer service loops where no one takes responsibility. I found myself in tears over it. Not because of the phone itself, but because it felt like one more situation where I had to fight to be taken seriously just to get something basic resolved.

A family trip to Moab that we planned, drove hours for, set up camp in 90-degree heat… only for the rafting trip to get canceled after we were already there.

Even the drive home—the air conditioning in my car breaking—felt like the final straw in a series of things going wrong when I had already reached my capacity.

It’s not that any one of these things is “big.”

It’s that they stack.

And at a certain point, my system just stops absorbing it the way it used to.

My brain has started running a very specific loop.

Why does everything feel like this?
Why get back up just to get kicked in the teeth again?
When will something good finally happen to me?
How long am I supposed to just survive instead of actually thriving?
Why is my body falling apart so fast?

These aren’t dramatic thoughts when they show up.

They feel more like background narration.

A quiet running commentary underneath everything I do.

On paper, none of this makes sense.

I have a partner I love. I have kids I adore. I have work that matters to me. I’m building things I care about.

And yet internally, there’s this constant contradiction:

I love my family, but I feel like I’m failing them.
And when I feel like I’m failing them, I withdraw a little.
And then I feel worse for withdrawing.

It becomes a loop.

Not loud. Not chaotic.

Just persistent.

Then there’s my body.

I’ve had my hormones checked. My bloodwork looks fine. I’m on a GLP-1. I eat well. I train consistently.

From the outside, I’m doing everything “right.”

But it still feels like my body has changed in ways I’m constantly trying to keep up with.

It’s not just weight. It’s performance. Recovery. The way my body responds to effort. Pelvic floor issues that change how I can train. A general sense that things that used to feel automatic now require negotiation.

And I’m tired of how much effort everything requires now.

Even when things are working, it still feels like effort.

This year has also been heavy in ways that are harder to quantify.

Opening a clinic. Major shifts in my relationship. Changes with my children. Financial stress that has been persistent and draining. And a broader sense that life has become more complex and less forgiving in ways I can’t fully control.

I think I’ve reached a limit—not of ambition, but of capacity.

The kind of limit where you realize pushing harder isn’t the answer anymore.

Something about how I’m processing life has to change.

I’ve never done talk therapy.

But I work adjacent to mental health care, and I’ve seen people close to me have real, meaningful change through therapy and EMDR. Not quick fixes. Not surface-level coping strategies. But actual shifts in how they relate to themselves and their past.

And I started to wonder what it would look like if I actually tried it myself.

Not just talk therapy. Not just EMDR. But something more structured. More intentional. More layered.

That curiosity is what led me to ketamine.

Not as a solution, but as a tool I started to take seriously after understanding it more through my work at The Journey Within, an outpatient psychiatry clinic.

What stood out to me wasn’t the conversation around it online—it was the concept of neuroplasticity. The idea that there are periods where the brain becomes less rigid, more flexible, more capable of forming new pathways instead of repeating the same internal loops.

Because what I recognize most in myself right now is not a lack of insight.

It’s repetition.

The same thoughts. The same emotional reactions. The same conclusions.

I’m not looking for a dramatic breakthrough.

I’m looking for relief from the loop.

From the feeling that everything is effort, everything is weight, everything is something I have to carry without much internal relief.

And I’m aware this may not be one thing.

It may be accumulation. Stress load. Hormonal transition. Identity strain. Burnout. Life circumstances stacking faster than my system can process them.

But I also know this:

I’ve held it together for a long time.

And I’m tired.

Not in a “give up” way.

In a “something has to change or I can’t keep doing it like this” way.

So this is where I’ve landed:

Not in treatment.

Not in resolution.

But in the process of figuring out what actually makes sense for my brain and body at this stage of life.

This isn’t a decision I’ve made yet.

It’s something I’m actively exploring.

Before I move forward with anything like ketamine-assisted therapy, I’m repeating hormone and blood work to make sure I’m not missing something more straightforward that could explain how I’ve been feeling.

If something shows up there, that may change everything.

And I think that’s important to say out loud—because so often we talk about advanced or alternative treatments as if they exist in a vacuum, when in reality they should sit after we’ve ruled out or addressed the basics.

So this is where I am right now:

Not in treatment.

Not in resolution.

But in the process of figuring out what actually makes sense for my brain and body at this stage of life.

I’ll continue sharing what I learn as I go—not just about ketamine, but about hormones, mental health, therapy, EMDR, and what happens when you try to understand your internal experience instead of overriding it.

If you’re in a similar place—functioning, but trying to understand what’s actually driving how you feel—you’re welcome to follow along as I work through it in real time.

And if at any point you want support exploring your own situation in a more structured way, you can connect with us at The Journey Within for a consultation.

Not to decide anything quickly.

But to start making sense of what’s actually going on.