The title sounded promising —"Microdosing with Amanita Muscaria". Finally, I thought. A proper guide to a mushroom that’s weird, legal, misunderstood, and stubbornly magical. A book that would clear the fog, not add more to it.
Amanita is tricky—it’s legal, but not simple. Mysterious, but not mystical. We need guides.
I work in the same space. I guide people through legal, natural microdosing tools. So I’m hyperaware of the responsibility this work demands. That’s why I’m reviewing this book not as a competitor—but as someone who wants better standards across the board.
When I picked up Baba Masha’s book, I hoped it would be that.
Accessible, demystifying, hopeful.
And then I started reading.
And then I started digging.
And very quickly, Microdosing with Amanita Muscaria turned into a detective story. Not about the mushroom — but about the author.
Chapter 2: The Phantom Doctor
According to the publisher, Baba Masha is a doctor of medicine, trained in both pediatrics and obstetrics and gynecology. She also holds a bachelor’s in chemical engineering.
Okay. Possible. Strange combo, but okay.
And then there’s more.
She lives in Northern California. Has hosted a Russian-language podcast since 2013 called Radio Psychedelix.
Hmm.
I speak Russian. I looked.
That podcast? Nowhere. Not on Spotify. Not on Apple. Not on Yandex. Not on YouTube. Not on SoundCloud. Not even a ghost page on Wayback Machine.
It’s been “hosted” since 2013, but never heard, never archived, and never found.
So either this is a secret podcast transmitted only telepathically, or someone at Inner Traditions publishing needed a filler line for the author bio.
Then there’s her visual presence. On the few podcasts where she’s interviewed, she appears either in silhouette, behind a curtain of curls, or in what looks like a slightly askew costume-shop wig. Sometimes she hides her face entirely.
And listen — I’m not saying every expert needs to go full influencer. But in a field as misunderstood as Amanita microdosing, where people rely on your guidance to avoid toxicity, hallucination, or a trip to the ER — maybe showing your face is part of the job. Nature medicine is already a gray area with the government thanks to the big pharmaceutical lobbying. The last thing it needs is a ghost with a lab coat.
This isn’t just some underground fringe thing. Even people pushing mescaline on Reddit show their face. What is she hiding? This isn’t heroin. Amanita muscaria is legal. No one is coming to arrest you for publishing safe guidance.
So… Who the hell is Baba Masha? And why is she hiding under that weird wig?
Chapter 3: Maybe the Content Saves It
And look—if she wants to stay anonymous, that’s her right.
Strange, yes. Suspicious, definitely.
But not disqualifying on its own.
Because maybe she’s just shy. Maybe she’s been burned by the internet. Maybe she’s protecting herself from trolls, skeptics, Russian censorship, or I don’t know—Big Pharma assassins.
Fine.
If the content is solid, I can live without the face.
So I turned the page, hoping for what the title promised:
Microdosing with Amanita Muscaria.
Not a memoir. Not a movement. A manual.
Something grounded. Something helpful. Something you could hand to someone who’s scared, confused, curious—and trying to do this without ending up sick, dissociated, or disappointed.
Because the world doesn’t need more noise.
It needs clear voices. It needs rigor. And if not rigor, then at least coherence. A little honesty. A little humility.
So what is in the book?
Chapter 4: The Promise
The book opens with a tone that feels almost sacred. Reverent. Like we’re being welcomed into a secret temple.
Not a lab. Not a protocol. A temple.
Amanita is presented not just as a mushroom, but as a healer, a teacher, a mirror of the soul.
A gentle force that brings balance, calm, and clarity — without the fireworks of psilocybin or the friction of SSRIs.
And that’s compelling. Especially if you’ve tried everything else. Especially if you’re looking for something softer than trauma therapy and more natural than pharmaceuticals.
Then come the claims.
One after another. Dozens of them. Hundreds.
She describes people microdosing with Amanita and healing… just about everything.
Hormonal dysfunction. Eczema. Depression.
Addiction to alcohol, nicotine, caffeine, opiates.
Insomnia, arthritis, low libido.
Even stroke recovery. Even cardiac arrest.
Yes — cardiac arrest.
It’s not that any one claim feels impossible. Amanita is complex. It does have effects on the nervous system. It interacts with GABA. It regulates. It softens. There’s ancient wisdom there.
But the sheer volume of conditions this mushroom is said to fix — without hierarchy, without differentiation, without evidence — it starts to feel less like medicine… and more like mythology.
And that’s where you start asking:
Okay, how do we know this?
Are you going to give us data?
Did you run any studies?
Where are the actual numbers?
Chapter 5: The Reports
What we get… is something else entirely.
Instead of studies, we get stories.
Instead of data, we get… volume.
The heart of the book — and I mean literally, two-thirds of it — is a massive, unfiltered archive of user submissions.
Eight hundred and three of them.
Eight hundred and three emails, comments, diary-style notes, and Telegram messages from people who microdosed Amanita and felt… something. Or nothing. Or everything.
And I’m not here to dismiss the people. The voices are real. The experiences are real.
But they’re not structured. They’re not categorized. They’re not analyzed in any meaningful way.
No demographics. No dosage consistency. No sourcing. No safety notes.
Just raw, unedited slices of life — stacked back-to-back like receipts from a very spiritual CVS.
One says, “I felt my inner child return.”
Another says, “My rash disappeared.”
Another says, “I stopped drinking coffee. My wife came back. I’m playing cello again.”
And it goes on. And on. For 200 pages.
At first, it’s charming. Then it’s moving. Then it’s… exhausting.
Because you’re not learning anything new — you’re just drowning in testimony.
No themes. No patterns. No insight.
Just vibes.
And the subtext is clear: If this many people say it works, it must work.
But that’s not how medicine works. That’s not even how good journalism works.
That’s how folklore works.
That’s how belief spreads.
That’s how cults get started.
Chapter 6: Dangerous Half-Truths
But okay. Let’s say you’re not here for data.
You’re not here for studies or protocols.
You just want to know how to do it.
How to safely use Amanita.
How to start small.
How to avoid messing yourself up.
Surely that’s where the book redeems itself, right?
Sort of.
She does offer some practical advice.
There are sections on drying mushrooms. Some generic recipes. Loose suggestions about dose sizes. A basic sense of “start low, go slow.”
And that’s something.
But it’s not enough.
Because when it comes to preparation, she gives you recipes — not safety.
And that’s like handing someone a cocktail book without saying which bottles are poison.
There’s no mention of testing for alkaloid content. No lab guidance. No High-Performance Liquid Chromatography or similar lab tests, no muscimol quantification. Nothing about ibotenic acid conversion — or how failure to decarboxylate properly can lead to nausea, tremors, full-on dissociation.
There’s no mention of strain variation.
European Amanita can be gentle.
North American strains are mostly too toxic to bother.
And she never explains the difference.
There’s zero warning about common Amanita lookalikes — some of which are lethal.
No quality control. No sourcing tips. No safety ranges by weight, age, sensitivity.
It’s a book about a powerful psychoactive mushroom.
And it forgets to say: “Here’s how not to poison yourself.”
This is where my empathy ends.
Because once you publish a book, you don’t get to say,
“Well, people should know better.”
If you’re giving spiritual or medical advice — especially with a substance like this — the burden is on you to explain the risks.
Not to romanticize them.
Not to ignore them.
And definitely not to bury them under 803 Telegram messages and a recipe for mushroom oil.
Chapter 7: Let’s Be Fair
And still…
Let’s be fair.
This book wasn’t written by a pharmaceutical company.
It wasn’t ghostwritten by a wellness bro trying to sell his fancy amanita tincture.
It was written — or compiled — by someone who, for all her mystery, clearly believes in what she’s doing.
And belief matters.
People like this book because it gives them hope.
Because the official channels — doctors, psychiatrists, regulators — aren’t exactly lining up to talk about Amanita muscaria.
So when someone says, “Hey, this might help. It helped me. It helped others.”
— that’s powerful.
And there are some useful parts.
There’s a sense of history here.
Of tradition. Of reverence.
It’s not a protocol.
But it can be an entry point.
A starting place for curiosity — if you take it with a grain of salt and a lot of external research.
And here’s the thing:
No one else — no one — tried to compile 780+ personal accounts of Amanita microdosing.
That’s Herculean.
Even if it’s clumsy. Even if it reads more like an inbox than a study.
This book is not research. It’s a moodboard.
But even a moodboard can start a movement.
She brought attention to a misunderstood mushroom.
She made it feel approachable, soft, feminine, helpful.
That matters.
Intent matters. But so does impact.
Chapter 8: Who’s Responsible When It Goes Wrong?
Because after all the curiosity, all the mythology, all the generous interpretation — there’s still the question no one wants to ask:
What happens when someone uses this book… and gets it wrong?
When they eat the wrong strain.
Or take too much.
Or give it to someone vulnerable.
Or skip real treatment for something that actually needed a doctor, not a dried mushroom and a Telegram thread.
Who’s responsible?
Because the author isn’t reachable.
The publisher will hide behind a disclaimer.
And the people quoting Masha on Reddit? They’ll say “Do your own research.”
Look, this isn’t about trashing the book.
It’s about reminding all of us — researchers, guides, users — that even natural medicine deserves real rigor.
Not perfection. But honesty. Caution. Clarity.
Because you don’t get to position yourself as a medical authority… and then vanish.
You don’t get to prescribe without accountability just because you wrapped it in poetry.
I don’t care if you’re a mystic in a wig or a scientist in a lab — if you tell people how to use a psychoactive substance, you owe them clarity. Not charisma.
And yeah, maybe Baba Masha is just a pen name.
Maybe she’s real, maybe she’s not.
Maybe this whole thing was a well-intentioned collage of healing and hope.
But when the stakes are someone else’s body, someone else’s brain, someone else’s life?
