🍄Paris, Mushrooms and Me - A Journey of Microdosing and Personal Transformation through Europe
💃Bridget Jones meets Eat, Pray, Love—with a Microdosing Twist
In the summer of 2022, I started writing a manuscript, Paris, Mushrooms and Me, that was meant to be my first book. It was raw, funny, painful, and deeply personal—centered on my early experience with microdosing and the inner shifts it sparked.
Then it got sidelined.
I went on to write and publish “MORE! The Microdose Diet – The 90-Day Plan for More Success, Passion, and Happiness”, which launched in May 2024.
Now, three years later, I’m taking this manuscript back.
I’m not sure I want to go through the whole ordeal again—agent, publisher, PR machine. At least not yet. So before jumping into another big process, I wanted to share it with you. My people. My readers. My fellow travelers in the messy pursuit of freedom, self-knowledge, and maybe a few laughs along the way.
Over the next few weeks, I’ll be publishing excerpts from Paris, Mushrooms and Me—a story about transformation, tangled family ties, shiatsu massages gone wrong, emotional sabotage, international mushroom smuggling (not really… sort of), and the beautiful chaos of becoming someone new.
If you’d like to read the full manuscript, just reply to this email or leave a comment. I’ll happily send it your way.
👉 You can read the full first chapter below.
Happy Reading!
Peggy
Chapter 1 - Mushrooms and Shiatsu
May 25th, 2022
"Is it summer yet?!"
"Yes, it is!" I enthusiastically answered Vanessa, thinking it was the right answer.
"It keeps changing from hot to warm," she frowned, clearly unhappy about the situation.
"Yes, I've been constantly putting on and taking off my sweater," I added, slightly panicked, trying to understand WTF the difference between warm and hot was—and why it would be a bad thing to be either during the summer.
For context: we're in Canada, Toronto to be exact. So weather is pretty much front and center for any small talk (along with real estate prices). Considering we’d just survived six months of painful winter with more snow dumps than Elon Musk’s SEC lawsuits, I was just happy it felt like summer.
I had just arrived at Tokyo Acupuncture & Shiatsu Clinic on Yonge and Eglinton for a 120-minute shiatsu massage. The place is, by no stretch of the imagination, luxurious. Nestled in a low-rise, forgettable building—the kind you can find all across North America—the practice sat on the same floor as a pediatric walk-in clinic, which created all kinds of "relaxing" havoc in the corridor. Vanessa was a very talented practitioner (based on my absolutely nonexistent experience with this type of massage), so I was committed to enduring the environment—for the greater good, meaning mostly mine.
I had discovered Shiatsu a couple of months earlier and decided to give it a try as part of my ongoing quest for self-improvement and personal growth. This was my third session with Vanessa.
Shiatsu is an ancient Japanese healing technique that uses pressure on certain meridians to free stuck energy. Imagine someone pressing with their thumbs, elbows, and knees on sensitive parts of your anatomy and you’ll have a good idea of what Shiatsu feels like.
In my quest for a "New Me," nothing was too out-there to try. Over the years I had tested more techniques than I dared to remember: hypnosis, kundalini yoga, Mexican sweat lodges, meditation, coaching, tapping, breathwork, energy healing, oracle card readings—and now shiatsu and microdosing. I’m proud (or scared?) to say that if it existed, I’d probably tried it.
You’ve got nothing on me, Gwyneth Paltrow!!
"You seem in a good mood," Vanessa said, suspiciously.
"Yes, I just started microdosing," I answered with a beaming smile—so happy to have something exciting to say and, well, to be on mushrooms.
"Ah," she replied, looking into my eyes like I’d just confessed to a daily regimen of heroin, Marlboro Reds, and tanning beds.
Sensing the judgment, I started to backpedal. "Well, these are very small doses, and I just started."
"Yes, you seem very giddy," she said. That was not a compliment.
Vanessa is probably in her late 30s or early 40s—it’s hard to tell because she always wears a protective mask. Over the last few months, I’d managed to piece together a few details about her. She lives with her sister and parents, is of Chinese descent, doesn’t like crowds or noisy environments, and definitely does not appreciate busy minds.
In retrospect, it seems obvious that sharing my microdosing journey was not the best idea.
Anyway, I got on the table for my two-hour shiatsu massage, hoping she’d drop the topic.
But Vanessa wasn’t done. "Where do you buy them?" she asked, clearly concerned.
"From my massage therapist. It’s legal in Canada. The industry is highly regulated. It comes in a chocolate bar. And I take half the minimum recommended dose," I said, hoping to put the topic to rest—or rather, to bed.
I did exaggerate a little. The first dose I took—three days earlier—was 0.3g, 50% more than the 0.2g recommended for beginners. But in my defense, cutting the chocolate would’ve made a mess, so I didn’t think twice and gobbled the whole thing.
Also, a very reliable source—a “microdosing for beginners” post I found on Medium—recommended starting with a high dose and working your way down. Made perfect sense to me. I jumped in with enthusiasm.
It was Thursday, and I was on my second dose: 0.15g, having mustered the willpower to cut the chocolate in half. The effects were much milder. My strategy at that point was to take 0.15g every other day instead of 0.3g every three days. Microdosing seemed as much an art as a science.
Finally, I was lying on my back, eyes closed, hoping the cross-examination was over and we could start. After a few presses and stretches, Vanessa asked me to turn and lie face down.
Cue the oh-so-familiar struggle: my head rested at a 45-degree angle in the wrong direction, and the pillow—supposed to be neatly tucked under my legs—was also diagonally misaligned. A strong start!
Despite my increasingly stuffed nose, I managed to doze off a bit.
That’s when Vanessa decided to give me an extra treatment—without asking, of course. I felt something being rubbed on my back and, with horror, remembered the clinic offered a service called moxibustion.
In short, herbs are placed on the body and burned using some kind of incense stick to help absorption. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. I endured it—thank you, mushrooms!—and when it was done, Vanessa decided the headrest wasn’t aligned properly. Still face down, I had to activate my abs to hold my head up while she fumbled with the headrest. Predictably, it locked into an even steeper angle.
As Vanessa put it, "We’re almost done with the back, so we’ll just continue like this."
It was finally time to lie on my back.
I’m 5’11”, so on most tables—which must be built for children—my feet dangle in the air. Vanessa burst out laughing. "You’re sooo tall that even for men the table is long enough!"
I don’t know if the clinic offers discounts for short men, but I can’t be the only person in Toronto above average height. I wondered if she tells larger clients they’re spilling off the table in the other direction.
She had mentioned during previous sessions that I was too skinny, so maybe she was more tolerant with overweight people… or maybe she just enjoyed torturing me.
This became a fascinating topic for her: "Is your father tall?"
"Yes, both my parents are tall," I replied, wondering why only my father’s height was relevant.
"Is your husband tall?"
There it was—the question she really wanted to ask.
"No, my husband is shorter than I am."
"Ah," she beamed. "I had a feeling."
I stayed silent, unsure how to process that. Why did I look like someone with a shorter husband? Must be my hump.
Let’s not forget: I’d taken a small dose of psychedelics a few hours earlier—for only the second time in my life—so there was a slight pink buffer on my reactions.
In Shiatsu, pressure on specific points should be moderate: strong enough to do something, but gentle enough not to hurt.
Well, Vanessa must’ve been reinvigorated by our conversation—or thought she needed to expel toxins from my body—because she worked me like it was my last shiatsu ever. And it might be.
She used her elbows inside my thighs with renewed energy. Sure, those are important meridians. But nerves are there too. And it hurt!
My body must have needed a break because I sneezed. That was apparently hilarious.
"You’re allergic to me," Vanessa said in a sing-song voice.
"No, not at all," I replied, worried she could read my mind. "Just a sneeze. Maybe the temperature difference."
"Oh, you’re cold," she panicked, fluffing the sheet like she was pitching a tent.
"No, not at all. It was probably just a sneeze," I tried to reassure her, as if I’d committed a social crime.
"You blush easily!" she laughed.
"Yes, I do," I answered, mortified.
"That’s good—good circulation," she concluded.
Telling a blusher that they blush is possibly the worst offense you can make.
I’ve done hypnosis, therapy—you name it—to deal with my blushing. It was so bad until my 30s that anything could trigger it.
I’ve never understood why people would be cruel enough to point it out. Maybe just mindless.
Every time it happened, I fantasized about giving those people a taste of their own medicine.
Here, I was blushing because I was trying not to hurt her feelings. Next time, I might just say, "Yes, I’m allergic to you."
The worst part? Vanessa is a lovely person. She just has zero awareness of other people’s feelings.
In under two hours, she managed to insult my height, my blushing, and my husband. A record—especially for a supposedly silent treatment.
Thank God for mushrooms. Without them, I’d have needed a full tapping session to release the emotional fallout from that massage.
At $44 a chocolate bar lasting 36 days, that’s $1.22 a day—a stellar deal compared to $125 per session with my coach. And bonus—I don’t cry my eyes out asking, "What the fuck is wrong with me?!" or "When will I finally change?!"
As the session ended, Vanessa asked gravely if I noticed a difference in the treatment due to the mushrooms.
"Maybe more insulting comments," I thought. But I just said, "No, I didn’t. Did you notice anything?"
"Yes, the mind was very active. I had difficulty quieting it because you’re so happy," she said, almost reproachfully. "The heart and mind are always your issues. Have you been dreaming?"
"Yes."
"We need to quiet the mind, so you stop dreaming," she concluded.
My active mind has been Vanessa’s nemesis from day one. Apparently, an active mind is very bad. Being happy seems equally problematic.
Every session, she looks at me like I’m a hopeless case—broken heart, overactive mind. No wonder I blush and married someone shorter.
Accelerated healing was the whole point of microdosing. After 12+ years on the self-help trail, I needed a shake-up—a breakthrough. I couldn’t stand being stuck, or worse, being me.
Books like The Secret, Ask and It Is Given, Infinite Possibilities just made me feel worse. Why couldn’t I change? Why wasn’t I manifesting miracles? Clearly, it was all my fault.
From the outside, others seemed to have it figured out—letting go of the past, mastering their minds, creating their dream lives. Me? I’d just created chaos—in my career, in my finances—in the name of intuition and purpose. And I felt like shit. A very familiar feeling.
So: microdosing it was. And just a week in, it felt like a lifeline. I, a lifelong victim of negative thinking, hopelessness, and self-sabotage, was already feeling freer, more optimistic. I was still fully functional—working, creating. It felt… promising.
Once Vanessa confirmed my mind was still a major issue, she nonetheless complimented my physical activities: tennis and walking. “It’s important to ground, to balance the mind,” she said. Then she sent me on my way.
Next door was a cute juice and smoothie bar—the kind of place healthy cool people hit after a shiatsu massage. I stopped in for "a drink." I definitely fit the client profile—and more importantly, I deserved it. I went for the hot cocoa (pronounced “coco,” not “cocoa,” like I did).
Everything in the shop felt exciting and fascinating.
"What’s the kid’s version of the hot cocoa?" I asked, browsing the options.
"It’s without adaptogens," said the lovely barista.
"Ah. What are adaptogens?" I asked—after already ordering the version with adaptogens.
"They’re mushrooms—reishi, ashwagandha…" she explained, clearly questioning my sanity.
"Amazing! That’s great!" I beamed. More mushroom signs from The Universe!
She then used a steam wand (a magic wand, really) to heat the milk. I was mesmerized. I’d never seen one up close.
"Is that vapor you’re using to warm the milk?" I asked.
"No, it’s steam," she replied confidently.
"Ah!" I nodded, thinking steam was vapor, but whatever—she seemed pleased with my enthusiasm, and I was thrilled to have learned so much in five minutes.
As I was paying, she added, "Would you like a complimentary date-vanilla-protein ball?"
"Oh oh," I thought, "my positive mindset is already manifesting gifts—in the form of barely edible hipster food. That was fast!"
"Thank you so much," I said. "That’s very kind of you, but I probably won’t eat it, so I’ll pass."
I tried not to blush (and obviously turned bright tomato red) before quickly making my exit.
That reaction was a win. Not the blushing—but the ability to say no to something I didn’t want. Over the years, I’d suffered bad haircuts, inedible food, and way worse—simply because I couldn’t “just say no.” Fear of rejection, fear of confrontation.
Lady Reagan made it sound so easy. “Just say no!” Oh really, Lady? You think we drink, smoke, take drugs, or go along with things because it’s fun? Life doesn’t work that way. Not for most of us.
“Just say no.” Honestly, Lady, I’d like to say a few things to you—starting with “drop the judgment and condescension.”
As I checked my emails, I saw two new messages from Jenny. Just seeing her name annoyed me. A few days earlier, I had sold her a never-worn Louis Vuitton scarf through Poshmark. She’d received it that morning and was already questioning its authenticity:
"Hi, where did you purchase the scarf? It doesn’t have the trademark symbol that my other Louis Vuitton scarf has. They have an identical pattern."
Then:
"It’s hard to see, but the beige scarf you sent is missing the trademark that the green one has after ‘Paris,’ and the wording is in different locations." (Photo attached.)
I didn’t love the tone—or having my honesty questioned by a random chick. The irony of Jenny from small-town Ontario grilling me, a French woman, about a scarf from Louis Vuitton, was not lost on me.
Still, I kept my cool (thank you mushrooms!) and replied:
What I wanted to say:
"For fuck’s sake! You just bought a brand new LV scarf for $300—enjoy it and don’t be a cunt. How dare you question me?! I’m French. You live in the armpit of Ontario and shop second-hand. F off."
What I actually wrote:
"Hi, it was a gift from my in-laws. They bought it in Paris, in an LV box and bag. It’s authentic. If you don’t want it, just return it. But it’s definitely authentic."
This exchange happened right before my massage. The conversation lingered—probably what Vanessa picked up with her comments about my “busy, busy mind.”
During my massage, Jenny sent two more messages. I waited to open them—I didn’t want to ruin the buzz.
Eventually, I looked:
"I had a closer look. Maybe they’re from different seasons or something lol. Same fabric and pattern, just different wording and trademark. I’ll keep it. Thanks :)"
"Looks like France doesn’t use the same trademark symbol. Thanks for being patient and truthful. It’s definitely brand new :)"
And a 5-star rating. Which—still in partial people-pleaser mode—felt meaningful to me.
Thank God Jenny from Stoney Creek confirmed the authenticity of my scarf with her encyclopedic knowledge of luxury goods. Fine. I’ll take the win and move on.
"Hi Jennifer, absolutely no worries. It’s a beautiful item—I’m sure it’ll look gorgeous on you. I’m glad you like it. All the best!"
It was still a beautiful day. Hard to say if it was warm or hot. One thing’s for sure: I kept putting on and taking off my sweater every five minutes. I guess it must have been summer in Toronto.
Peggy Van de Plassche is a seasoned advisor with over 20 years of experience in financial services, healthcare, and technology. She specializes in guiding boards and C-suite executives through transformational change, leveraging technology and capital allocation to drive growth and innovation. A founding board member of Invest in Canada, Peggy also brings unique expertise in navigating complex issues and fostering public-private partnerships—key elements in shaping the Future of Business. Her skill set includes strategic leadership, capital allocation, transaction advisory, technology integration, and governance. Notable clients include BMO, CI Financial, HOOPP, OMERS, GreenShield Canada, Nicola Wealth, and Power Financial. For more information, visit peggyvandeplassche.com.