“What I experienced with ayahuasca was not an escape from grief, but a direct engagement with it… It was a fundamentally different process than what I had relied on throughout my career: not control or oppression, but forgiveness, surrender and understanding.”
By: Kemmi Sadler, Law Enforcement Action Partnership
Life has an interesting way of opening the eyes and the mind. Throughout my law enforcement career, I built my identity around evidence, discipline, and control. And to my surprise, it was this mindset that eventually led me to rethink everything I thought I knew about psychedelics.
My story begins with Amel. He was sixty years old and working for the US embassy in Iraq on his second tour when I arrived in 2006 as a bright-eyed young agent in the Diplomatic Security Service. In early 2007, her husband was kidnapped. He decided to save her, went to rescue her, and was taken away. Neither of them survived.
For the next 18 years, I felt I had to protect him—or at least stop him from going.
That guilt had a way of surfacing at unexpected moments. I felt how deeply grief had shaped me, even though I had kept it buried. But in a profession built around helping others, it’s hard to admit when you need help yourself.
So I went back to work.
My career included investigating fraud and human trafficking, followed by two years in internal affairs handling sexual assault and crimes against children. I prided myself on approaching each case without bias, following the evidence, testing hypotheses, and letting the facts guide me.
This commitment to evidence was ingrained early on, and it led me to question some basic assumptions about law enforcement. As a young police officer with the St. Augustine Police Department in Florida, I began to notice gaps between what the system was supposed to do and what it actually did. Not everyone was as afraid of arrest as I expected. Drug users, dealers, sex workers—they were often considered part of the equation. This time I got caught. Next time, I’ll be more careful.
Those early experiences brought to the fore a question I couldn’t shake: If consequences are supposed to change behavior, why not? I saw the same people over and over again through the system. A man, known to our department, got drunk, called 911 from a pay phone and yelled, “CHICKEN GEORGE IS COMING!” until the officers arrive. Looking back, I wonder if the detention itself offered something he didn’t get anywhere else—human interaction or just a night on the street.
The same instinct that led me to rethink aspects of my work also shaped how I began to deal with my unresolved grief. For years, I relied on the same framework to get by: control, compartmentalization, moving forward. But eventually, I began to wonder if the assumptions I made about trauma, like the ones I questioned at work, were incomplete.
Two years before I retired, I heard about ayahuasca on a podcast. It is a psychedelic preparation made from an Amazonian vine and a companion plant, used in ceremonial traditions for generations. What surprised me was not just what it was, but how it was discussed: with respect, even reverence.
This challenged a fundamental tenet of my law enforcement programming. As a product of the war on drugs, I believed that all illegal drugs were dangerous and destructive.
But after decades of watching cycles of addiction repeat themselves, and after losing my younger brother to heroin, I was forced to question whether this understanding was too simplistic.
So I did what I was trained to do. I researched it.
For over a year, I immersed myself in research on trauma and psychedelic therapy. I read clinical studies and heard veterans and others describe deep and often lasting healing and relief. At first, I was driven by intellectual curiosity and a commitment to follow the evidence, even if the conclusion directly contradicted what I had been taught. But beneath that curiosity was something more personal: the recognition that the tools I had relied on to manage my grief for decades were no longer working for me.
For years, I dealt with grief as many in our field do, mostly by repressing it and soldiering on. These skills were enough to keep me in the job. But in the retreat, they left me stuck, circling the same unresolved loss with no way out.
After careful consideration, I chose to attend an ayahuasca ceremony. At that time, I had never used illegal drugs. My substances were limited to alcohol and tobacco, both legal, socially acceptable and, in my case, convenient ways to deal with the grief bubbling under the skin.
What I experienced with Ayahuasca was not an escape from grief, but a direct engagement with it. The breakthrough wasn’t immediate, but with deliberate work and preparation, I was finally able to sit with the loss of Amel and the deaths of my father and brother without walking away. It was a different process than what I’ve relied on throughout my career, not control or oppression, but forgiveness, surrender and understanding.
This experience ultimately led me to write From the Badge to the Vine, a memoir about what it took to deal with years of trauma and the limitations of the tools I once relied on to manage it.
After a career spent investigating other people’s problems, I saw how rarely first responders are equipped or willing to examine their own injuries. The skills that define the profession—control, composure, endurance—can also make it harder to recognize when something deeper needs attention.
Trauma does not go away because it is repressed or managed. For some of us, that reality may not come into focus until after work is done and the radio is turned off. For others, the impact appears much earlier, in strained relationships, harmful behaviors, or a growing sense that something is not right but cannot be easily named.
What I have learned through this process is that ignoring these signs comes at a cost. Even assuming that the tools we were given at the beginning of our careers are the only ones available to us.
It is my hope that others in this profession will allow themselves to turn their investigative eyes inward in an effort to serve themselves. Ask the tough questions. Do your research. Follow the evidence where it leads. Not all things we were taught to fear are the same, and not all wounds are visible.
Special Agent in Charge Kemmi Sadler (Ret.) is the founder of Legalize the Divine, which advocates for safe and legal access to ancient healing traditions. A former St.Augustine, Florida Police Department officer, he is also a speaker for the Law Enforcement Action Partnership, and the author of From the Badge to the Vine: A Federal Agent’s Awakening Through Ayahuasca.