Support the show:https://www.paypal.me/Truelifepodcast?locale.x=en_USOne on One Video Call W/George https://tidycal.com/georgepmonty/60-minute-meetingJenny Chen RobertsonIn an empire of numbness, where sedation is sold as salvation,One woman dares to weaponize wisdom and baptize bureaucracy in the psilocybin sacrament.”Jenny is not a facilitator.She is a forger of frameworks,A cartographer of care,Turning risk-reduction into revolution.She walks the fault line between c...
Support the show:
https://www.paypal.me/Truelifepodcast?locale.x=en_US
One on One Video Call W/George
https://tidycal.com/georgepmonty/60-minute-meeting
Jenny Chen Robertson
In an empire of numbness, where sedation is sold as salvation,
One woman dares to weaponize wisdom and baptize bureaucracy in the psilocybin sacrament.”
Jenny is not a facilitator.
She is a forger of frameworks,
A cartographer of care,
Turning risk-reduction into revolution.
She walks the fault line between clinical ethics and ecstatic experience—
MBA-trained, yes—
But with soul credentials inked in sweat, in silence,
In sacred listening.
She’s briefed lawmakers with the calm of a nun and the clarity of a sniper.
She’s testified with tremors in her voice and steel in her spine.
Her resume reads like a paradox:
Real estate magnate turned mycelial matriarch.
Spreadsheet whisperer turned soul doula.
Jenny co-founded the Safer Psychedelics Association of New England
Not to play nice with power—
But to redefine it.
She speaks for the trip-gone-sideways,
For the mothers who don’t trust “the system,”
For the cops confused by consciousness,
For the firemen called to burning minds.
This isn’t harm reduction—it’s harm revolution.
This isn’t education—it’s uncolonized knowing.
She doesn’t just talk set and setting—
She re-sets the setting of the entire conversation.
So lean in close, fam—
Because when Jenny speaks,
The old paradigm doesn’t just shudder—
It begs for a blindfold.
And the future?
It’s already listening.
SPAN: Safer Psychedelics Association of New England
Jenny Chen Robertson
On Psychedelics, Safety & the Psyche
1. In a world obsessed with optimization, what does it mean to heal rather than just function?
3. Do you think crisis is a rite of passage we’ve medicalized into silence?
🏛️ On Systems, Legislation & the Sacred
6. What happens when you place a mystical medicine in the machinery of the legal system? Who gets rewritten—the law or the soul?
7. You’ve spoken to lawmakers—how do you translate altered states into legislative language?
10. Do you ever feel the psychedelic movement is in danger of becoming another arm of the empire it once rebelled against?
💀 On Death, Integration & the Edge
11. You’ve trained in end-of-life psychedelic care—what has death taught you about how to live?
12. Is integration a form of reincarnation?
13. What’s something you’ve had to let die inside yourself to become the leader you are now?
14. Do we need more ceremony, or less certainty?
15. How do you hold space for someone when they become the storm?
🌍 On Community, Inclusion & Revolution
16. How do we ensure that psychedelic healing doesn’t become a luxury item—but remains a communal birthright?
17. How do we reclaim ancient technologies of care in a culture drunk on diagnosis?
18. What are the overlooked psychedelic traditions that modern clinical models need to humble themselves before?
19. What does culturally sensitive harm reduction actually look like when no one is watching?
20. If trauma is collective, must healing be public?
🌀 Wildcards: Wattsian, Esoteric, & Meta
21. Do psychedelics want something from us?
23. Is a bad trip a sacred teacher disguised as panic?
24. Is love the ultimate integration protocol?
25. What does the mushroom say to capitalism?
26. If consciousness is a river, where do the laws, myths, and dreams all flow into?
27. What do you hope your great-great-grandchildren say when they read about what you’re doing now?
⸻
Zenesis: The Gospel According to Heretics
seduce the cosmos, dethrone false gods, and awaken what you buried to survive.
⸻
She came barefoot into the lecture hall,
hair like wildfire braided with riddles,
skin dusted in spores and solar ash,
whispering equations to the bones beneath my thesis.
She did not knock—
She cracked open the doors of knowing
like a ribcage,
and every book blinked in terror
as her hips rewrote the curriculum in cursive flame.
“I am not your muse,” she said,
“I am the ghost of every question
your diploma dared not ask.”
She kissed my brow with a burning footnote,
tore the robes from the high priests of certainty,
and turned their microscopes into chalices.
Truth didn’t dissolve—
