Jason Culbreth is a veteran, mental health advocate, and East Coast Regional Ambassador for Sierra Delta. He is also the founder of Cadence Wellness, a holistic center redefining wellness for veterans, first responders, and high-performing individuals. After 12 years as a U.S. Navy Helicopter Aircrewman and Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) Technician, and later a firefighter and EMT, Jason transformed his service-driven life into a mission to help others heal from trauma. Now a licensed professional counselor, he blends evidence-based therapies with innovative practices like contrast therapy, sound healing, and psychedelic integration to foster resilience and joy. His work embodies the belief that with the right support, anyone can move beyond survival and into thriving.

Two years ago, I was in a fog. On paper, I was doing all the right things — therapy, lifestyle changes, exploring the woods, even picking up a motorcycle to feel something. But despite all the movement, I still felt numb. There was a void inside me that productivity couldn’t fill. The kind of hollowness that makes you question whether joy is something you even remember how to feel.

I wanted more than happiness — I wanted that deep, abundant joy. The kind that used to come easy as a kid: flying down a hill on your bike, Christmas mornings, laughing until your stomach hurt. But it felt far away. Untouchable. And that scared me.

Eventually, I said yes to something different — a psychedelic-assisted journey in Jamaica with a group of like-minded therapists. Preparing for that trip wasn’t just about logistics. It was six months of setting intention. What was I really searching for?

My answer: to find my inner child’s abundant joy.

That phrase stuck with me. It became my Sankalpa — my mantra. The mission wasn’t to fix or force anything. It was to remember. To be still enough to listen. And when the journey finally came, that’s exactly what I did.

Inside the experience, there was no breakthrough fireworks moment. There was silence. Calm. Peace. Not the peace you earn from effort, but the kind that’s just there when you stop thrashing. I learned that joy isn’t a target to hit. It’s a space you allow.

And when I returned, the challenge wasn’t just holding onto that space — it was hearing it over the noise of daily life. Because life is noisy. Thoughts race. Responsibilities pile. My mind can feel like a firehose with no one on the nozzle, or a downed power line, arcing and wild.

That’s where Luis comes in.

Luis isn’t just a service dog. He’s a grounding rod. When that mental static starts building, he’s the one who takes that wild, chaotic charge and quietly grounds it back into the earth. I can feel my system settle around him — like I stop scattering in all directions and start being again. It’s not magic. It’s connection. It’s presence.

And in that presence, the world comes back online. The joy comes back online. That’s how I ended up on the boat — new hull, fresh start — chasing smallmouth bass with Luis at my side. Wasn’t sure if I’d feel that joy again. Wasn’t sure if he’d even like it.

But there we were.

Luis leaned over the edge, nub wagging, ears high. I reeled in our first fish and looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, I felt that abundant joy again. Not because I found it. But because I finally made space for it to find me.

There will be more days like that. More casts, more hikes, more quiet. And more joy.

To anyone out there searching: stop trying so hard to find joy. Start listening for it. And if you’re lucky, maybe you’ll find your Luis — or something like him — to help ground you long enough to feel it.