A Really Good Day

A Really Good Day Plot Summary

Introduction

The morning light spilled through the bedroom window as she opened her eyes, surprised to find herself feeling... different. Not euphoric, not giddy with artificial happiness, but simply present. For the first time in months, perhaps years, she felt the weight of perpetual anxiety had lifted, if only by degrees. A microdose of LSD—a fraction of what recreational users take—had been placed under her tongue just the day before. The walls weren't breathing, the furniture wasn't melting, but something in her mind had shifted. She could breathe again. This journey into the unexpected realm of psychedelic healing represents one of the most fascinating frontiers in modern mental health exploration. When conventional treatments fail, where do we turn? For millions struggling with depression, anxiety, and the grinding sameness of days filled with emotional pain, the search for relief can lead down unexpected paths. Through intimate personal narrative and rigorous research, we witness the author's courageous experiment with microdosing—taking sub-perceptual amounts of LSD over thirty days—and the profound changes that followed. The question isn't simply whether it worked, but what this experience reveals about our relationship with consciousness, the limitations of conventional medicine, and our capacity for healing through unexpected means.

Chapter 1: The Search for Relief: When Traditional Treatments Fail

The journey begins with familiar desperation—the author standing on a bridge, contemplating steering her car into the water below. Not a concrete plan, but not an idle thought either. This terrifying moment marks the culmination of years battling mood disorders and ineffective treatments. For seven years, she had dutifully swallowed a pharmaceutical rainbow: SSRIs like Lexapro and Prozac, mood stabilizers like Lamictal, benzodiazepines like Xanax, even the occasional antipsychotic, though she had never experienced psychosis. Her medicine cabinet resembled a small pharmacy. Each new prescription brought hope, then side effects: weight gain, sexual dysfunction, emotional numbness. When one drug caused problems, another was prescribed to counter those effects, creating a cascade of medications. Sometimes they helped—for days, occasionally months—before the darkness returned. She describes the frustration of each failed treatment as "like reaching for a life preserver that turns to mist in your hands." After years of this pharmaceutical carousel, an unexpected diagnosis shift occurred. What had been labeled bipolar disorder was reclassified as PMDD—premenstrual dysphoric disorder—a condition where hormonal fluctuations trigger profound mood changes. This explained why her emotional struggles aligned with her menstrual cycle. For a time, targeted medications helped, until perimenopause arrived, making her cycles unpredictable and treatment timing impossible. The final breaking point came during a particularly dark period when traditional options had been exhausted. Her irritability was damaging her marriage, her relationship with her children suffered, and her creative work stalled. It was then she encountered research by psychologist James Fadiman on microdosing—taking tiny amounts of psychedelics on a regular schedule. Not enough to hallucinate, just enough to potentially shift persistent patterns of thought and emotion. The author's deliberations reveal the internal struggle many face when considering unconventional treatments: weighing personal desperation against societal taboos, legal risks against potential benefits. Her decision to try microdosing wasn't made lightly—it came after extensive research and with full awareness of both the cultural stigma and legal consequences. But when conventional medicine offers no solutions, the calculation changes. Sometimes healing requires venturing beyond comfortable boundaries, especially when remaining within them means continued suffering.

Chapter 2: First Dose: Anxiety, Uncertainty, and Unexpected Clarity

The author describes her first microdosing day with vivid detail—standing in her backyard with a tiny dropper bottle containing diluted LSD, carefully placing two drops under her tongue. Her heart races, not from the drug but from anxiety about what might happen. Would she hallucinate? Experience a "bad trip"? Have a medical emergency? The moment is charged with both trepidation and desperate hope. She had researched extensively, learning that a microdose is approximately one-tenth of a typical recreational dose—enough to potentially affect mood and cognition but not enough to cause perceptual distortions. Within hours, she notices subtle changes. Colors seem slightly more vivid, sounds marginally clearer. But these effects are barely perceptible—she describes them as "like turning the saturation dial on reality up by just five percent." More notable is an emotional shift: a sense of calm presence. Problems that normally sent her spiraling into anxiety now seem manageable. When her children argue over breakfast, she responds with patience rather than irritation. When she knocks over her tea, she simply cleans it up without the typical cascade of self-criticism. The most remarkable change occurs when she sits down to work. She experiences what psychologists call "flow state"—complete immersion in a task where time seems to disappear. "I looked up and three hours had passed, pages had been written, and I hadn't once checked social media or raided the refrigerator," she writes. This effortless focus stands in stark contrast to her normal writing experience, which involves constant distraction and internal criticism. On the second day of the three-day cycle (Fadiman's protocol suggests taking a dose every third day), she discovers that many effects linger. Though she hasn't taken any LSD this day, she maintains emotional equilibrium. When her husband mentions a potentially triggering topic, she feels the familiar surge of defensiveness but finds it easier to observe the feeling rather than becoming consumed by it. "I was having the same reactions, but a small space had opened up between the stimulus and my response. In that space, I found choice." The third day brings challenges as effects diminish. Old patterns of irritability and anxiety resurface. Yet even this provides valuable contrast—a clearer recognition of her typical thought patterns. Throughout these initial experiences, the author battles her scientific skepticism, questioning whether these changes are real or merely placebo effects. "Maybe I'm just imagining all this," she writes, "but does it matter if the suffering stops either way?" What emerges from these first tentative steps is not a miracle cure but something perhaps more valuable: a glimpse of possibility. For someone accustomed to being at the mercy of her biochemistry, even temporary relief offers evidence that her emotional landscape isn't permanently fixed. This realization—that different modes of being are possible—may be as therapeutically significant as the direct effects of the substance itself.

Chapter 3: Reclaiming Joy: Relationship Healing and Family Transformation

"Mom, why are you smiling so much?" her teenage daughter asked suspiciously over breakfast, about two weeks into the experiment. This innocent question crystallized something the author hadn't fully acknowledged—her improved mood was affecting her entire household. She had been chronically irritable for so long that her family had adapted to walking on eggshells around her. Now, as she consistently responded to minor frustrations with calm rather than eruptions, the atmospheric pressure in their home was changing. A particularly telling incident occurred when her husband left dirty dishes in the sink—normally a reliable trigger for resentment and an argument about household responsibilities. Instead of launching into a familiar tirade, she simply washed the dishes while reflecting on how much her husband contributed in other ways. Later, when he apologized, she responded with genuine warmth rather than passive-aggressive forgiveness. That night, they had their first truly intimate conversation in months, discussing fears and hopes that had gone unexpressed during their period of constant tension. The author's relationships with her children transformed as well. She describes sitting on the floor playing board games with her younger children—something she had avoided because losing would make her disproportionately frustrated. Now she could laugh when her eight-year-old gleefully captured her game pieces. With her teenagers, she found herself listening more and lecturing less. "I realized I'd been so busy trying to protect them from making mistakes that I hadn't been hearing what they actually needed from me: presence, not perfection." This relational healing extended beyond family. At a dinner party, instead of engaging in her typical behavior of either dominating conversation or withdrawing entirely, she found herself genuinely curious about others. "I wasn't performing sociability," she writes. "I was actually connecting." A friendship that had grown distant due to a minor slight was rekindled when she reached out without the burden of resentment she'd been carrying. Perhaps most significantly, her relationship with herself began shifting. The harsh internal critic that had provided a constant commentary on her failings grew quieter. She describes watching herself in the mirror one morning and, instead of cataloging flaws, simply acknowledging her reflection with compassion. "It wasn't self-love exactly," she notes, "but the absence of self-hatred felt revolutionary." The author is careful to distinguish these changes from artificial euphoria. She still experienced appropriate negative emotions—sadness at bad news, frustration at genuine problems. The difference was in proportion and duration. Feelings passed through rather than defining her entire day. This emotional resilience, more than any specific mood improvement, represented the most profound shift. Her family wasn't living with a perpetually happy person but with someone capable of navigating life's inherent difficulties without being consumed by them.

Chapter 4: The Science Behind Psychedelics: Neuroplasticity and Mood

Seeking to understand the biological basis of her experience, the author consults with neuroscientists and psychopharmacologists. One expert explains that LSD acts as an agonist (stimulator) of the 5-HT2A serotonin receptor—the same receptor system targeted by traditional antidepressants, but through a different mechanism. While SSRIs prevent the reuptake of serotonin, allowing it to remain in synapses longer, psychedelics like LSD directly stimulate certain serotonin receptors, leading to increased neuroplasticity. This neuroplasticity effect emerges as the key scientific insight. A neurobiologist describes how psychedelics stimulate brain-derived neurotrophic factor (BDNF)—"like Miracle-Gro for your brain. It stimulates growth, connections, and activity." Another researcher explains that psychedelics enhance glutamate transmission, the neurotransmitter most responsible for cognitive functions like learning and memory. Brain imaging studies show that psychedelics create a temporary state of hyperconnectivity, allowing brain regions that don't normally communicate to exchange information. The author recounts a particularly illuminating study conducted at Imperial College London using fMRI technology. Researchers discovered that LSD decreases activity in the brain's Default Mode Network (DMN)—a collection of interconnected regions that maintain our sense of self and habitual thinking patterns. When the DMN temporarily relaxes its organizational grip, the brain enters a more fluid state where entrenched patterns of thought and perception can shift. One researcher compared it to "temporarily lifting the constraints that evolution and development have laid down on your brain." Interestingly, this DMN quieting resembles what experienced meditators achieve after thousands of hours of practice. Both states allow the brain to temporarily escape its deepest ruts, potentially establishing new neural pathways. For someone trapped in depression or anxiety, this neurological flexibility offers the possibility of experiencing modes of consciousness beyond their usual negative patterns. The author also investigates studies on psilocybin (the active compound in "magic mushrooms"), which works similarly to LSD. Recent clinical trials at Johns Hopkins, NYU, and UCLA have shown remarkable success treating depression and anxiety in cancer patients with just one or two guided psilocybin sessions. Some participants experienced complete remission of symptoms lasting months or years. Similarly promising results have emerged in studies of treatment-resistant depression and addiction. Most scientific discussions of psychedelics focus on full therapeutic doses administered in controlled settings with psychological support. Little formal research exists on microdosing—the approach the author is following. She finds this scientific void frustrating but understandable given the legal restrictions that have hampered research for decades. The evidence she gathers remains largely anecdotal, collected by researchers like Fadiman from self-experimenters around the world. What emerges from this scientific exploration is not conclusive proof, but intriguing possibility. The neural mechanisms that might explain her experience are biologically plausible, even if not fully validated by controlled studies. This intersection of personal experience and emerging science captures the frontier nature of psychedelic research—a field where subjective experience sometimes runs ahead of scientific validation, creating both excitement and uncertainty about where the boundaries of legitimate treatment truly lie.

Chapter 5: Criminalization Paradox: Legal Risks in a Medication-Saturated Society

During her third week of microdosing, the author receives a text message from someone offering to sell her more LSD. Something about the exchange feels wrong—the insistence on coming to her home, the push to buy far more than she needs. With sudden clarity, she realizes this could be an undercover officer. She terminates the conversation immediately, shaken by how close she might have come to arrest and prosecution. Despite the tiny amounts involved, possession of LSD remains a serious felony carrying potential prison time. This brush with legal danger forces her to confront the paradox of her situation: while pharmaceutical companies legally market medications with serious side effects and addiction potential, she faces criminal prosecution for using a substance with no lethal dose and minimal side effects that has significantly improved her quality of life. The author, a former federal public defender who once specialized in drug cases, understands the legal risks better than most. She recalls representing clients who received decade-long sentences for drug offenses less serious than what she herself is now committing. She explores the historical context of drug prohibition, noting that LSD was initially researched extensively by scientists and psychiatrists in the 1950s and early 1960s with promising therapeutic results. Only after it became associated with counterculture and anti-war movements did the government abruptly criminalize it in 1970. This pattern—medical use followed by moral panic and prohibition—has repeated with numerous substances throughout American history. The author interviews drug policy experts who explain that our current approach stems less from scientific assessment of harm than from cultural, racial, and political factors. One expert notes that "alcohol causes more deaths, violence, and addiction than all illegal drugs combined, yet we consider someone who drinks wine with dinner respectable, while someone using a microdose of LSD to treat depression is a criminal." This inconsistency reflects not rational policy but entrenched cultural biases about which forms of consciousness alteration are acceptable. The conversation turns to the human cost of drug prohibition. The author visits a woman incarcerated for a first-time drug offense who has been separated from her children for years. They discuss how criminalization drives drug production underground, eliminating quality control and increasing danger. Meanwhile, pharmaceutical companies legally market opioids that have claimed hundreds of thousands of lives while psychedelics with therapeutic potential remain strictly prohibited from medical use. Throughout this examination, the author confronts her own complicated position: as a white, middle-class professional, she faces minimal risk compared to marginalized communities who bear the brunt of drug enforcement. A former colleague in drug policy reform tells her, "The greatest privilege in America's drug war is the ability to break the law without consequence." This uncomfortable truth forces her to consider whether her personal healing comes at the cost of participating in an unjust system. As this moral complexity settles upon her, the author acknowledges that her experiment exists in a liminal space—legally forbidden yet personally transformative, scientifically promising yet officially unrecognized. This contradiction reflects not just her individual circumstance but a broader societal confusion about how we conceptualize, regulate, and relate to substances that alter consciousness, whether for healing or harm.

Chapter 6: Room of One's Own: Finding Creative Space and Self-Worth

On the twenty-eighth day of her experiment, the author has a revelation while fighting with her husband about their shared workspace. For years, she has worked in a corner of his studio, feeling increasingly resentful of the arrangement while simultaneously resisting his suggestions that she needs her own space. During their argument, he makes an observation that stops her cold: "Your problem isn't the couch or my music or the clutter. Your problem is that you want a room of your own but don't feel you deserve it." This insight triggers a cascade of self-examination. Though she earns a respectable income as a writer, she has always devalued her work compared to her husband's. She recalls how for years she obsessively compared her earnings to their nanny's salary, feeling legitimate only when she earned more than what they paid for childcare. Despite publishing multiple books, she describes her writing to others as "just commercial fiction" or "nothing serious"—preemptively dismissing her work before others can. The next day, she visits Virginia Woolf's famous essay "A Room of One's Own," which she'd read in college but never truly internalized. Woolf's assertion that "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction" suddenly strikes her not as feminist theory but as practical necessity. She realizes she has achieved the financial independence Woolf prescribed but denied herself the physical space that declares: my work matters. This revelation coincides with a creative breakthrough. After struggling for months with a manuscript, she finds herself writing with newfound clarity and purpose. Ideas that had been fragmented coalesce into coherent narrative. She describes experiencing what psychologists call "flow state"—complete immersion in creative work where time seems to disappear and self-consciousness fades. This state had been increasingly rare in recent years as anxiety and self-criticism interrupted her concentration. Acting on her insight, she reclaims a neglected room in their house, painting the dark wood walls white against protests about "historical authenticity." She arranges her books on shelves, hangs artwork that inspires her, and creates a space that reflects her aesthetic rather than accommodating herself to someone else's. The physical transformation mirrors an internal one—giving herself permission to take up space, to prioritize her creative needs. The author connects this personal transformation to broader patterns she observes in women's lives. From conversations with friends and readers, she recognizes how many talented women minimize their ambitions, frame their work as hobbies, or defer dreams out of a sense of unworthiness. She recalls how her own mother, a brilliant woman with artistic aspirations, subordinated her creative life to family responsibilities, something she had unconsciously replicated despite different circumstances. The microdosing experiment, she reflects, didn't create these insights but rather removed the obstacles to recognizing what she already knew. By quieting the relentless self-criticism that had become her mental background noise, the protocol created space for self-knowledge to emerge. This wasn't about artificial inspiration or chemically induced creativity, but about clearing away the emotional interference that had prevented her from claiming what she needed and deserved.

Chapter 7: Lessons Learned: Beyond Happiness to Meaningful Presence

On the final day of her experiment, the author finds herself caught in a downpour with her family when their car breaks down on a remote road. In the past, such an incident would have triggered frustration, anxiety, and blame. Instead, she joins her children as they begin an impromptu dance in the rain while waiting for help. "I wasn't happy about the situation," she writes, "but I was fully present for it, which made all the difference." This moment encapsulates her most significant realization: microdosing hadn't made her perpetually happy—it had helped her become more fully present. The distinction proves crucial. Rather than chasing an artificial state of constant contentment, she had developed the capacity to engage authentically with whatever emerged, pleasant or unpleasant. Even difficult emotions became more manageable when experienced with awareness rather than resistance. The author carefully distinguishes her experience from common misconceptions about psychedelics. There were no mystical visions or profound spiritual revelations—just subtle shifts in perspective that accumulated over time. Some days were better than others; the protocol wasn't infallible. Certain negative patterns reasserted themselves, particularly during the "normal" days of each three-day cycle. Yet overall, something fundamental had changed in her relationship with her own consciousness. She reflects on unexpected benefits beyond mood improvement. Her creative work flourished not through artificial inspiration but through reduced self-censorship. Family relationships healed as she became more responsive and less reactive. Physical symptoms improved—her chronic shoulder pain diminished, her sleep gradually normalized. Most surprisingly, her relationship with time transformed. Rather than constantly anticipating future problems or ruminating on past mistakes, she found herself more anchored in the present moment. The experiment's conclusion raises difficult questions. Should she continue using an illegal substance that significantly improves her quality of life? Is there an ethical way to maintain her gains without breaking the law? She explores alternatives—meditation, cognitive behavioral therapy techniques, exercise regimens—that might sustain the benefits she's experienced. Some practices that previously seemed ineffective now prove more accessible, as if the microdosing created a template for healthier mental patterns that she can now access through other means. With the experiment complete, the author acknowledges both the promise and limitations of her approach. She doesn't advocate universal adoption of microdosing, recognizing the legal risks and the need for individualized approaches to mental health. Yet she questions a medical paradigm that prefers chronic administration of pharmaceutical drugs with serious side effects over exploration of compounds that might require only occasional or short-term use to catalyze lasting change. The most enduring lesson transcends the specific substance or protocol. What matters ultimately is developing a different relationship with consciousness itself—learning to work with mental patterns rather than being controlled by them. Whether through psychedelics, meditation, therapy, or other means, this fundamental shift from reactivity to response-ability represents the true goal of any mental health intervention. The specific path matters less than the destination: a life fully inhabited rather than merely endured.

Summary

Through thirty days of microdosing LSD, the author's journey reveals something more profound than a quick-fix happiness hack. The most significant transformation wasn't chemical but perceptual—creating space between stimulus and response, between thoughts and identity, between pain and suffering. This subtle shift allowed her to inhabit her life more fully, even during difficulties. The experiment succeeded not by eliminating negative emotions but by changing her relationship to them, making them visitors rather than permanent residents in her consciousness. The exploration raises essential questions about how we approach mental health in contemporary society. Why do we accept pharmaceuticals with serious side effects while criminalizing substances that might require only occasional use to initiate lasting change? What does it mean that our most promising treatments for depression and anxiety often exist outside approved medical paradigms? Perhaps most importantly, what happens when we prioritize genuine healing over institutional approval? The answer seems to lie not in any particular substance but in our willingness to move beyond conventional boundaries in pursuit of wellbeing. Whether through microdosing, meditation, therapy, or other modalities, the path toward mental health ultimately requires courage—the courage to question established narratives about suffering and the courage to imagine alternative possibilities for how we might inhabit our minds, our relationships, and our lives.

About Author

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Ayelet Waldman

Ayelet Waldman is the author of A Really Good Day: How Microdosing Made a Mega Difference in My Mood, My Marriage, and My Life, Love and Treasure, Red Hook Road and The New York Times bestseller Bad Mother: A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities and Occasional Moments of Grace. Her novel Love and Other Impossible Pursuits was made into a film starring Natalie Portman. Her personal essays and profiles of such public figures as Hillary Clinton have been published in a wide variety of newspapers and magazines, including The New York Times, Vogue, The Washington Post, and The Wall Street Journal. Her radio commentaries have appeared on "All Things Considered" and "The California Report."You can follow Ayelet on Facebook and Twitter. Love and Treasure is available for purchase here.

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