Medicine Day: A Caregiver’s Reflection on Ibogaine, Faith, and the Fight for Healing
By Courtney Holmes, RN, IFNCP — Co-Founder, The Parkinson’s Project Foundation
As I sit here at Ambio in Tijuana, I’m flooded with emotion.
Today is medicine day.
This morning, my sweet husband Joe took his dose of Ibogaine—and then we waited. Waited until it was “time.” Time for him to lie down, close his eyes, and surrender to the healing power of this God-given plant.
This is what we’ve been praying for. This is the moment every conversation, every divine appointment, every closed door and open one has led us to.
Joe got emotional last night. He felt the weight of it all—the heartbreak of having to leave the country, the ache of being away from our three little girls, the pain of knowing that true healing isn’t possible where we live.
We shouldn’t have to cross a border to be seen, to be whole. But we did.
And we would do it again in a heartbeat.
This morning I cried harder than I have in a long time. I opened up in ways I never have before. The six of us here—strangers just days ago—are now bound together by something so much bigger than us. The yearning to heal. The calling to fight for change. The shared pain of feeling forgotten by a system that doesn’t serve us.
We shouldn’t have to leave our country.
But we did.
Because in the U.S., healing is not the goal—maintenance is.
Sick care, not health care.
Those of us called to lead and speak up? We’re often dismissed.
Because we’re not quiet.
Because we dare to say that healing might not come from a bottle or a brain surgery.
Because we believe that God gave us the tools we need—if we’re willing to listen.
I know some people don’t like this message. I know it makes some uncomfortable. But I’m not here for their comfort.
I’m here for truth.
And the truth is—real healing is possible.
Our bodies were made for it.
Back in April, I took our middle daughter to see Christian artist Tasha Layton. Her music has been my anthem since Joe’s diagnosis—especially Into the Sea (It’s Gonna Be Okay). That song found me over and over again when I needed it most. And I knew it wasn’t coincidence. It was God, reminding me to trust Him.
That night at the concert, Tasha began talking about birds—and eagles. She said birds are meant to fly, but eagles?
Eagles are called to soar higher.
To carry more.
To see farther.
To lead.
And in that moment, I felt like she was speaking straight to me.
I didn’t know then what was coming in the weeks ahead.
But God did.
As I write this, I’m waiting. Impatiently. Anxiously. Prayerfully.
My husband is upstairs, in medicine, in surrender.
Everything in me wants to go check on him. But I know this moment isn’t mine to control. I’ve had to let go—completely—and trust that God has him.
That He has all of us.
What’s happening here isn’t just healing for the patient.
It’s healing for the caregivers too.
There’s a deep sense of peace in this house.
There is reverence here.
Love. Safety. Compassion.
Every person here has treated us like family—from the medical team to the kitchen staff.
We’ve felt held. Nourished. Seen.
And as I sit with all of this, I know I’m being called to go deeper.
To understand this medicine fully.
To honor where it came from.
To sit in the rich history, culture, and sacredness of the plant and the people who have protected it for generations.
I don’t know exactly what will happen when Joe comes out of that room.
I don’t know what healing will look like.
But I know this: healing is not a destination. It’s a path.
And we are on it.
God is here—in the house, in the stillness, in every heartbeat.
And I hear Him clearly:
“Well done, my good and faithful servant. Now go. Tell the world who I am and what I can do.”
And I will.
I am.
