I never meant to end up in a ketamine clinic. I came in with a biology degree, a psychology minor, and the vague ambition of becoming a physician assistant someday. I thought I'd be taking blood pressures, updating charts, maybe handing out flu shots. Instead, I found myself in a dim room filled with recliners, blankets, noise machines, and people preparing to dissolve.

Two years. That's how long I lived inside the strange, suspended world of Spravato.

People think the job is clinical. It isn't. It's human. Intensely human. You learn patience first — not the polite kind, but the deep kind, the kind that lets you sit with someone who is terrified, dissociated, or crying without knowing why. You learn to speak softly. You learn when not to speak at all.

A typical day? It starts with greetings. Most patients know me; routine becomes ritual. They walk in with their playlists ready, their candies arranged in color order, their blankets folded just so. Some journal. Some meditate. Some breathe deeply before dosing, like they're about to dive underwater.

I watch them prepare their applicators — shaking them even though shaking doesn't do anything, tapping them, holding them wrong until I gently reposition their fingers. "Sniff like a flower," I say. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just enough.

Then the dissociation comes.

Some people slip quietly into it, reclining with their headphones on, drifting. Others thrash, rock, hum, or sing loudly without realizing it. I've walked in at the forty-minute mark and been screamed at because my presence felt like an intrusion into whatever world they were seeing. I've watched people hallucinate floating objects, phantom figures, colors that weren't there. I've seen hands move in slow motion, like the air had thickened around them.

Bright lights make it worse. Mirrors make it unbearable.

The hardest moments are panic attacks. They come suddenly — a spike of fear, a gasp, a shaking hand reaching for mine. I've held those hands more times than I can count. I've breathed with people in counts of four until their bodies stopped trembling. I've sat on the floor next to a recliner because that's where someone needed me to be.

And yes, boundaries get blurry. Vulnerability makes people attach quickly. Some patients mistake familiarity for intimacy. Some try to cross lines — asking for phone numbers, social media, more of me than I can give. A few become angry when we enforce rules, especially the fifteen-minute late policy. One tried to steal a Spravato box. Another used the treatment to get high instead of to heal.

But most? Most are good. Most are trying. Most are fighting battles I can't see.

I've never had a coworker escalate a situation. We're trained well, and we learn from each other. The providers are calm, steady, and present. I've learned how to act fast, how to soothe, how to protect the space. I've learned how to be the person someone trusts when they're at their most vulnerable.

People come from other clinics and tell us horror stories — cold rooms, indifferent staff, chaotic dosing. They say our place feels safer. Softer. Kinder. I like hearing that. It makes the long days worth it.

I've seen patients grow. I've seen them return from vacations and tell me about the ocean. I've remembered their weekend plans and asked how they went. I've watched them walk in anxious and walk out lighter.

Spravato isn't just medicine. It's a ritual. A surrender. A strange, beautiful, frightening two-hour journey into the self.

And I was there for all of it — the music, the fear, the floating hands, the whispered confessions, the quiet victories.

I wasn't just a medical assistant.

I was a witness.

Music is one of the most consistent elements patients bring into the treatment room. If you're preparing for a session and want guidance on what to listen to, our free playlists were built specifically for Spravato — by someone who has been through it.