PSA's Psychedelic State(s) of The Union: May 26th, 2026

By Jamie Blazquez

From our friends at Normalize Psychedelics

Mike grew up in a home where his father struggled with alcoholism and his parents fought regularly. Voices escalated, and tension filled the space between rooms. As a young boy he learned quickly that peace was found in escape. He was the youngest of four and spent as much time out of the house as possible, trying to avoid the conflict. Baseball fields became his sanctuary, empty hours turned into practice and sweat became refuge. Sports were his outlet and he became the kid who found worth in athletics.

He describes himself as not being scholastically inclined, but athletically gifted. He poured everything into baseball, believing that one day he would make a career out of it. The opportunity came as a knock at the door by a scout from the Yankees, “Come down. Throw for us.” A break most would have seized without hesitation. He didn’t go. “I didn’t believe I was good enough.” It reveals that even greatness can’t escape the most destructive human belief; the illusion of not being enough.

He found his way into martial arts in high school, following his friends into kickboxing. Due to his natural athletic ability, he excelled quickly. What originated as curiosity became obsession. He began as a proficient striker, but soon realized that striking had gaps, so he turned to jiu-jitsu. This outlet became an identity. He took the name “The Joker” because humor was his deflection tactic. Over the next decade he trained relentlessly, chasing the dream of one day stepping into the UFC ring. This was the beginning of the damage that would later become Parkinson’s disease.

He rose quickly, from Bellator fighter to King of the Cage champion, and finally… a UFC fighter. He helped shape the culture of modern mixed martial arts and was a recognizable face during the rise of the Tapout era.

From the outside, it looked like success, but fighting doesn’t erase what lived underneath.

Mike carried something that many fighters live with, but few talk about. In the documentary The Hurt Business, he spoke with striking vulnerability about his lifelong battle with severe, debilitating depression. It lingers in the background, waiting for the low moments to whisper dangerous ideas, such as standing alone on a balcony in Las Vegas with the thought: What if you jumped?

Depression doesn’t always look like collapse. It looks like functioning, showing up with a big smile, being the life of the party, while something inside you is quietly unraveling.

Mike carried that weight for years, through training camps, wins and losses, and the pressure of being “the tough one.” Over time, the line between surviving and surrendering began to blur. He has spoken openly about the many times he came close to not being here, moments when the darkness didn’t feel temporary, it felt permanent. Inside, there was a different fight happening, one that didn’t end when the bell rang.

The end of a fighting career doesn’t come with closure. It comes with questions, especially around identity. Who are you when you’re no longer the thing you built your entire life around?

For Mike, that transition was ruthless. It meant losing his sense of self, forgetting simple things, and facing neurological symptoms that made even basic cognitive tasks difficult. There were moments when his own mind betrayed him. It was the kind of quiet heartbreak no one prepares you for, a stark reality that reveals the true price of fighting. Mike paid for it in ways most people will never understand.

When I sat down with Mike, I asked him a simple question: What has fighting cost you?

He didn’t hesitate. He listed the damage like it was inventory.

A shoulder replacement.
A torn rotator cuff.
A reattached bicep.
Plates.
Screws.
Surgeries.
Concussions.
Broken bones.

A titanium face from the worst free shot taken in the ring. The left side of his face was crushed so severely that bone fragments pushed inward toward his brain, causing spinal fluid to leak from his nose as he was rushed to the hospital. This incident pushed the sport to demand more protection for fighters.

Mike describes the recovery simply: “The pain was on another level.”

The physical damage was only the beginning of it. The mental and neurological damage is the real anguish.

“You know, there’s so many levels to that… physically… the toll it took on my body… but then mentally… the sleepless nights, the CTE, the stress, the anxiety. The brain—we take for granted what it does. We take for granted the neurological side of things.”

What followed wasn’t about fighting. It was about losing himself.

Simple questions became hard.
His memory slipped.
His cognitive function declined.

“There comes a day when someone asks you something simple like who’s the president? And you’re like wait, I really don’t know… and it spins you. And for me, it was devastating.”

At one point, he was asked to draw a simple cube and couldn’t.

“I was an artist and to not draw a three-dimensional stick figure cube was just devastating. I was crying.”

Before psychedelics ever entered his life, Mike was deteriorating neurologically, emotionally, and spiritually. Once a powerful, athletically gifted fighter, he was now crumbling under the weight of Parkinson’s disease. The symptoms of tremors, stuttering, loss of balance, falling up and down stairs, running into walls—consumed his life.

“It was terrible... I was hospitalized four times in three months.”

Beneath all of it, he didn’t want to be here suffering anymore. Two days before leaving for the ibogaine treatment, he got into his car.

“It was raining. I was doing about a buck twenty… and I was gonna take that into a freeway pylon and just end everything.”

He didn’t and that decision saved his life.

Mike was not someone who believed in psychedelics. He always trained hard and clean, never doing steroids.

“I’ve never done cocaine… never done any of that stuff. Psychedelics were taboo to me… I didn’t believe in it.”

But he was out of options.

“I was at a spot where it’s like… I’m done… I might as well try it.”

He went through Athletes Journey Home and took Ibogaine with the Beond clinic in Cancun Mexico. What happened next is something he still struggles to explain.

“I did my flood dose and an hour later… completely flat. Not one symptom. No more shaking.”

He searched for words.

“The way I equate it… it’s like a hurricane… chaos everywhere… and then you clap your hands… and you’re sitting on a lake in a canoe… everything is still and so quiet that you can see the perfect reflection off of the water.”

Nothing.

No tremors.
No stuttering.
No neurological symptoms.

“Nothing. And nothing since.”

He paused when he said this.

“I didn’t believe in miracles… but all of my symptoms got taken away.”

Later, Mike traveled to the Amazon and worked with Ayahuasca. Where ibogaine healed his brain, ayahuasca met him somewhere deeper.

“It healed my heart… the soul… the core… the love… the heartbreak…”

It showed him things he hadn’t faced. It asked him to forgive himself.

“It was such a beautiful… challenging experience.”

The change wasn’t just physical. It was everything.

“I’m so happy… I’m so grateful… I literally didn’t want to be here… and now I do.”

The depression didn’t vanish completely, but it became manageable.

“It’s not out of control, it’s not running loose, and I can’t do anything about it. As long as I can manage it, everything’s fine. The difference is subtle, but everything. Before, there was no way out. Now… there is.”

For the Fighters Still Silent

Mike knows he’s not the only one.

“I know you’re having problems… you can be quiet all you want… but I know.”

Fighters are trained to endure, to push through, to stay silent, and to survive. But what happens when the fight follows you home? When the damage isn’t visible? When the strongest people you know don’t want to be here anymore?

Mike doesn’t speak from theory. He speaks from the edge.

“Don’t give up… it almost took my life… and I’m so happy now.”

Mike’s story isn’t about fighting. It’s about what happens after. The part no one trains you for. When the lights go out, the crowd disappears, and you’re left alone with yourself.

For Mike, it wasn’t the fight that saved his life. It was the surrender. Somewhere between the darkness and the decision to try something he didn’t believe in, he found his way back to himself.

What makes Mike truly remarkable isn’t just what he did inside the cage. It’s what he’s done since. After navigating brain trauma, identity loss, and some of the darkest mental battles a person can face, he rebuilt his life from the ground up. He took the principles fighting gave him, discipline, respect, ambition, persistence, and purpose, and applied them to every aspect of his life. He carried them into a completely different arena: business.

Today, Mike is the CEO of Shepard 360, a multi-million-dollar, ministry-aligned security company built on a simple but powerful belief: people should be able to gather, learn, and worship without fear. He refuses to accept the current standard of safety in churches and schools, where the people we love most gather. Through his work, and in collaboration with United Defense Tactical, he’s raising that standard, building systems rooted in awareness, real-world training, and responsibility so others don’t have to face preventable harm in the places that matter most.

Mike will leave behind a legacy rooted in protection, ensuring others don’t have to feel as vulnerable as he once did. Not only through his company, but through his voice. He speaks openly about head injuries, degenerative brain disease, and the healing power of psychedelics, offering reassurance and hope to those facing the same heartbreaking symptoms.

He proves that resilience doesn’t just survive, it evolves.

Hear Mike tell the story in his own words at NormalizePsychedelics.Com

About the episode: Jane has a terrifying trip the day after she had a [quote] “healing” moment on mushrooms. In our second, Lana faces her fear of psychedelics years after she thought LSD [quote] “broke” her brain.

Can we trust psychedelics despite their risks?

These stories explore that question.

Until next time,

The Psychedelic State(s) of America Team