3 Days. 3 Ceremonies. Only 3 Guests. Iboga + 5-MeO — PLUS a Full Year of Coaching & Support After You Come Home.

This retreat is for people who got really good at carrying things.

Current and former military, law enforcement officers, firefighters, EMTs, nurses and medical professionals, teachers, public servants, and the people everybody else learned to count on when shit got hard.

My name is Matthew Jeffries. I’m a retired Army combat veteran and former police officer. I spent years being the guy who was supposed to handle the problem, help the person next to me, compartmentalize whatever needed to be compartmentalized, and keep moving. Sometimes that meant running toward shit other people were running away from. Sometimes it meant doing what I could until somebody more qualified got there. And sometimes it was as simple as holding somebody’s hand until other help arrived.

I didn’t study your world so I could market to you. I came from it.

I’m not a shaman, and I didn’t come into this through the wellness industry. I used to wear uniforms, not feathers.

I believe in God and Jesus. I’ve also experienced some things through iboga and 5-MeO that the old version of me probably would have called some woo-woo shit. You don’t have to believe what I believe, and I’m not here to convert you or tell you what your experience is supposed to mean. At my core, I’m just a guy who got pretty fucking broken, found a way to get back up, and decided I wanted to spend this part of my life helping other people get back up too.

Because eventually the guy who spent years helping everybody else needed help himself.

That’s how I found iboga.

My experiences with iboga and 5-MeO changed the direction of my life. Eventually I left my career, sold my house, moved to Costa Rica, trained as an iboga facilitator, and built the kind of retreat I would have wanted when I was the one looking for help.

I’ve since worked with people whose lives couldn’t look more different on paper—from a hospice nurse who spent her career caring for people at the end of their lives, to a veteran who fought in fucking Fallujah, to veterans who never saw combat at all.

Comparing trauma is pointless. A soldier may see things most people will never see. A cop or firefighter can spend a career showing up on the worst day of somebody else’s life. A nurse or doctor can watch someone die and then walk into the next room because another patient needs them. A teacher can spend years trying to help kids while knowing they can’t fix everything those kids are going home to.

Different jobs. Different shit. Underneath all of it, we’re still human.

And sometimes the deepest wound didn’t happen in Fallujah, an emergency room, a burning building, or a patrol car. Sometimes it happened when you were fucking eight.

Sometimes the rucksack was already half-full before you ever put on a uniform or chose a profession built around helping other people. Maybe somebody hurt you. Maybe somebody left. Maybe you grew up believing you weren’t good enough, weren’t safe, weren’t wanted, or had to become somebody else to be worthy of love.

Then life added more.

What somebody did to you. What you did to somebody else. The person you couldn’t save. The relationship you fucked up. The things you said that you wish you could take back.

Because hurt people hurt people. When we’re carrying our own shit, sometimes we bleed on people who never cut us.

Maybe you pushed away somebody who loved you. Maybe you became cold because being cold felt safer. Maybe you drank too much, disappeared into work, lied, cheated, screamed, shut down, or just weren’t there when somebody needed you.

Forgiving yourself doesn’t mean pretending none of that happened. You can own the hurt you caused without deciding you have to hate yourself for the rest of your fucking life.

Some of what’s in the rucksack was done to you. Some of it is what you did while you were hurting. Some of it is grief, loss and life.

And somehow you kept functioning. You went to work. Raised kids. Took care of patients. Answered calls. Deployed. Came home. Taught the class. Worked the shift. Solved the problem. Held somebody’s hand until help arrived.

Then you got up and did it again.

I’m not interested in deciding whose rucksack is heavier. I’m interested in what’s in yours.

That’s who I built this for.

The retreat itself is intentionally small: three days in Costa Rica, three planned ceremonies, and no more than three guests. The planned experience includes two iboga ceremonies and one 5-MeO-DMT ceremony, subject to screening, individual response, and safety considerations. We follow a structured preparation and fasting protocol, with the specifics covered before you arrive and adjusted when safety requires it.

I don’t want to run a psychedelic assembly line. I want to know who is here, why you came, what you’ve been carrying, and what you’re hoping will be different when you go home.

If you’re looking for a wellness vacation, Costa Rica has plenty of beautiful places for that. If you’re looking to collect another psychedelic experience, I’m probably not your guy. And if you’re looking for a magic pill that’s going to live the rest of your life for you, I can save you some money right now.

I want to work with people who are ready to take an honest look at their shit and take responsibility for what happens next.

Because I can tell you how fucking good it can feel to finally put some of this shit down.

But then you go home.

You wake up in the same bed. You drive the same road to work. You walk into the same house. Your spouse can still say the thing that always pisses you off. Your kid can still push the same button. Your boss is still your boss. You drive past the same place where you’ve had that imaginary argument in your head a thousand times with somebody who isn’t even in the fucking car.

Same life. Same triggers.

The medicine can’t go home and live your life for you. It can’t repair your relationship, apologize to somebody you hurt, hold a boundary, change how you respond when somebody pisses you off, or keep a promise you made to yourself.

You have to do that.

That’s why the medicine is not the model, and it’s why I no longer separate the three-day retreat from the year afterward.

The retreat is three days. The commitment is one year.

I call what happens afterward The PROOF Model because I don’t want you spending the rest of your life searching for the next thing that’s finally going to heal you. Another retreat. Another ceremony. Another book. Another therapist. Another breakthrough.

At some point, you have to start looking at the evidence in your own life.

You go home and eventually the old trigger gets pulled. Maybe this time you catch it. Maybe you respond differently. You keep the promise. Have the conversation. Make the apology. Hold the boundary. Stop picking up shit that belongs to somebody else. Show up differently for the people you love.

Then you do it again.

Every time you do, you create another piece of evidence.

That’s PROOF.

For one full year after you leave Costa Rica, we work together through coaching, integration, practice and accountability while you build that evidence in your actual life. I want you to eventually be able to look at the promises you keep, the way you handle your triggers, the way you treat the people you love, the boundaries you hold and what you do when nobody is watching and say, “Look at how I live now.”

I want you to believe your own evidence.

My job during that year isn’t to carry your rucksack for you. Remember what I told you about my old life? Sometimes all I could do was hold somebody’s hand until other help arrived.

In a strange way, I still do that.

I’ll walk beside you. I’ll challenge you. I’ll hold you accountable. And when the old shit shows back up, I’ll be there while you figure out what you’re going to do with it.

But this time, the person I’m waiting for isn’t another cop, medic, therapist, ceremony or guru.

It’s you.

I don’t want you dependent on me. I want you to get to the point where you don’t need me to tell you that you’re okay because you’ve spent a year proving it to yourself.

Maybe then you can stop constantly looking for healing and start fucking living.

And maybe you start asking a different question: Who can I help now?

I said earlier that hurt people hurt people. I know because I’ve been on both sides of that sentence.

But I believe the opposite can be true too.

Healed people heal people.

When you stop passing your hurt forward, your family gets a different version of you. Your friends do. The people you work with do. The people you serve do.

Maybe someday somebody else is scared, ashamed, lost, hurting, or carrying something they don’t know how to put down. And maybe you’re the one who holds their hand until they’re ready to get back up too.

That’s the ripple I care about.

It’s also why the scholarship carries the name it does.

Jonathan Hall wasn’t a marketing name I came up with. He was my friend and fellow soldier. He was a U.S. Army combat medic who was critically wounded after an IED struck his vehicle in Afghanistan and later died from his injuries. He was 23 years old.

Jonathan spent his life helping people. He was a medic, and even after his death he continued helping others through organ donation.

He spent his life helping others heal. His name still does.

The standard price for the complete program is $6,666. Qualifying veterans and current or former law enforcement officers, firefighters, EMTs, medical professionals, teachers and other public servants receive the 50% Jonathan Hall Scholarship, bringing the complete program price to $3,333.

This isn’t a cheaper version of the program. It includes preparation and screening, the three-day Costa Rica retreat, two planned iboga ceremonies, one planned 5-MeO-DMT ceremony, no more than three guests, and one full year of coaching, integration, practice and accountability through The PROOF Model.

There is no integration upsell later. The year is part of the program because I believe what happens when you get home matters too much to make it optional.

I also won’t promise you that iboga or 5-MeO is going to heal you. Nobody can honestly tell you exactly what your experience will be, and these medicines aren’t appropriate for everyone. Everyone goes through intake and screening, and applying doesn’t mean you’re automatically accepted. If I don’t believe this is appropriate for you, I’d rather tell you that than take your money.

I can prepare you, sit beside you, challenge you, support you and be there when you go home. But I can’t do your work for you.

That’s ultimately why I call it PROOF.

The goal isn’t for you to spend the rest of your life needing me. The goal is for you to eventually look at your own life and realize you don’t need anybody to convince you anymore.

You’ve got the fucking proof.

If you’ve read this far, there’s probably a reason you’re looking at iboga retreats.

So I’ll ask you what I’d ask you if we were sitting across from each other:

You tired of carrying this shit yet?

Submit your application. Let’s talk.