It starts, as these things often do, with a hug. I’m crunched over a screen at the back of the volunteer break room, tethered to an outlet like a barnacle because my laptop battery died sometime around the last lunar eclipse. The room is full of round tables draped in black tablecloths and a soft buzz of chatter.
“Everyone carries a piece of the puzzle. Nobody comes into your life by mere coincidence. Trust your instincts. Do the unexpected. Find the others.”
-Timothy Leary
Volunteers trickle in, scanning the room for familiar faces or, failing that, someone who looks like they might know what’s going on. A few make their way over to me and wrap me in hugs. Not just because I’m irresistibly huggable, but because for the past few weeks, Char (fellow volunteer, friend, and truly lovely human) and I had somehow become the official help desk for every question, shift swap request, and mild existential crisis. Answering emails was like trying to empty a river with a mug, but somehow, we managed. The hugs aren’t random. They’re a mix of thank-yous and sighs of relief.
This was day one at the Psychedelic Science 2025 in Denver, Colorado, where I served as one of the helpers to the coordinator of 300 volunteers. They, in turn, assisted over 8000 attendees.
Day two: volunteers whisper and blink at the conference center map as if it were written in Arabic (unless you read Arabic, in which case, pick a better analogy).
By day three, they’re navigating the labyrinth of hallways like air-traffic controllers. Even the quietest introverts are waving strangers toward sessions on trauma and mycology with Jedi-like confidence.
By day four, you’re sitting on the floor, eating a rogue banana with someone you now consider your best friend.
These aren’t some weekend warriors. The volunteers include quantum physicists, dancers, physicians, entrepreneurs, and therapists with more guided psychedelic sessions under their belts than I’ve had hot dinners. They have stories to tell. They should be on stage. But instead, here they are, tackling the unglamorous jobs that make it all possible.
They stand like human signposts pointing the way to the bathroom or gently break the news when a presentation room hits capacity. They stuff thousands of gift bags in a hot room until their thumbs go numb, risking a lifelong aversion to color purple, nested envelopes, and saunas (sorry, guys!). They get territorial about coffee carafes (“It was just here! Who took it? I’m onto you!”) They ferry chairs from room to room and console attendees who just saw God during a panel discussion.
It’s not the ridiculous ocean of talent that should strike you the most. It’s the kindness. The deep, casual type. People saw what needed doing and just… did it. They asked good questions. They had each other’s backs. They noticed when someone was spiraling and handed over a protein bar in an act of divine intervention.
Supporting them, there was a scaffolding of team leads, ambassadors, and coordinators, with impressive resumes and wacky shoes. They were the duct tape holding it all together, reminding volunteers to breathe, and to go have lunch before the food disappears. They answered the same question 87 times with astonishing patience. They herded the chaos without breaking a sweat, as if it was just another Tuesday.
Yes, there were hiccups. Scanners got jammed. The shift times got shuffled and reshuffled like a deck of cards. Signal messages flew faster than anyone could read them. Last-minute room switches set off a wave of low-grade meltdowns across attendees. But no one crumbled. Volunteers adapted. Improvised. Became human Googles when the Wi-Fi gave out.
And we all did it for the sheer delight of belonging, of being part of something important, and massive, and all kinds of wonderful.
Out in the “real world,” we keep hearing that AI is coming for our jobs, and with them, our sense of purpose. They say we’re not just heading for an economic crisis, but an existential one too. Even if our needs were somehow met, the fear is we’d just drift, dimmed, untethered, unnecessary.
But if you’ve ever volunteered, you know that’s not the whole picture. Meaning doesn’t come as a paycheck. You can make your own meaning by walking a stranger to the right room, by hugging someone who’s had a weird morning, by showing up, for free, again and again, because it matters that something runs smoothly and someone cares.
To the volunteers of Psychedelic Science 2025: You glorious weirdos! Thanks for carrying this event across the finish line. With your thumbs bandaged and your phones buzzing, you were the heartbeat of the conference.
And to everyone else: if you’re wondering whether volunteering is worth it, whether giving your time and energy to a good cause, messy, unpaid, and unpredictable, is really worth it, the answer is yes. Always yes.
Especially if there’s a bear hug in it for you.
Or at least a rogue banana.
For a look back at the talks, energy, and atmosphere of Psychedelic Science conference in 2023, you can read my post from that year – Volunteering at the Psychedelic Science 2023 Conference.
2 thoughts on “My Favorite Part of the World’s Largest Psychedelic Event Was Not on Stage”
Such an amazing writer! Rudy was so right when he said, “I see what’s really going on here!” Haha…I’m gonna share this in all 22 of the Signal team group chats! 😂😊
Thanks, you’re so lovely. The whole thing wouldn’t have been the same without you, Char!