In Listening to Spravato, you share part memoir and part practical meditation on how music shapes the experience of Spravato treatment for depression. Why was this an important book for you to write?

When I began Spravato, I realized that almost no one was talking about what the treatment actually feels like from the inside. I’m a conservatory‑trained musician — my first instrument is drums — and I studied with the infamous composer and songwriter Leonard Bernstein as well as the Count Basie drummer “Papa” Jo Jones when I was a very young drummer. My whole life has been shaped by sound, yet nothing in my musical background prepared me for the sensory and emotional intensity of Spravato. I wrote the book I desperately needed: something honest, grounded, and willing to describe the strange, disorienting, and sometimes beautiful interior of the experience.

What did you feel was missing from existing conversations about Spravato treatment?

Most conversations focus on dosage, insurance, and side effects, but almost none address the inner landscape — the dissolution of time, the shifting sense of self, the vulnerability, the unexpected clarity. And almost no one talks about how music shapes that experience. Music isn’t background noise in Spravato; it’s part of the treatment. I wanted to bring nuance, honesty, and practical guidance to a space that often feels clinical and incomplete.

I also discovered a huge gap: while there are many playlists for raw ketamine — and I researched a tremendous number of them — almost none are designed specifically for Spravato. And the timing differences matter. Raw ketamine sessions are generally much longer, and more intense with long, slow ascents and descents that unfold over a wide emotional arc.

Spravato, by contrast, is a structured 120‑minute treatment, but the shape of the experience is completely different: a sharper onset, a shorter and more concentrated peak, and a more abrupt descent. Using a raw‑ketamine playlist for Spravato is like using a marathon training plan to run a 5K — the proportions and pacing are simply wrong. That gap was one of the reasons I felt compelled to write the book.

What themes were important for you to explore?

I wanted to explore disorientation and grounding, control and surrender, and the emotional truth of sound. Spravato forces you to listen with your nervous system, not your ego. It also taught me humility: that “good” or “bad” music depends entirely on for whom and for what purpose. The music that defines my identity as a musician is not always the music that supports me in the chair.

Were there genres or artists that surprised you by working especially well—or especially poorly?

Absolutely. As a trained musician, I assumed I knew exactly what would work. I was wrong.

Ambient and drone‑based music — which I once dismissed as “New Age nonsense” — turned out to be surprisingly stabilizing. Jazz and hard bop, much of the music I make, would blow a Spravato patient out of the water; it’s too energetic, too directional, too full of forward motion.

Vocals were the most intrusive — they activate the language center of the brain, which pulls you out of the Spravato experience. And on top of that, my favorite pop/rock ballads — Joni Mitchell, Paul Simon, James Taylor — are songs where the lyrics are as meaningful (or more)  as the music. Many of them make me cry. That’s not what you want when your brain is in a state of heightened neuroplasticity. You don’t want to be pulled into narrative, memory, or emotional autobiography; you want space, not story.  

That said, jazz isn’t completely off the table. The book includes a jazz playlist built from ballads and gentler classics — the kind of pieces where the swing is subtle, the harmony is warm, and the emotional temperature stays steady. When curated intentionally, that kind of jazz can work beautifully.

What conversations do you hope Listening to Spravato sparks among patients and providers?

I hope it helps people talk about the experience, not just the protocol. Questions like: What did you hear? What grounded you? How can we make this safer and more intentional? Ultimately, I want people to feel less alone — whether they’re sitting in the Spravato chair for the first time or guiding someone through it.

Author Links: GoodReads | Website

You’re sitting in the chair, the medicine starts to rise… and suddenly, everything feels unfamiliar—and you don’t know how to navigate it. You came to Spravato hoping for relief, but instead you’re facing something intense, unpredictable, even overwhelming. The room is quiet, the experience is shifting—and no one really tells you how to move through it.

Listening to Spravato: Sound, Silence, and the Medicine of Music is not another clinical manual or vague “relaxation guide.” It is a grounded, compassionate roadmap that explains exactly how to prepare, what to expect, and how to use sound and music as anchors during treatment. Bridging clinical understanding with lived experience, Justin Page invites readers into the Spravato chair as a real, vulnerable space—where what you hear, feel, and bring with you matters more than you’ve been told.

Inside the book, you will discover:

• Preparation: How to walk into your session feeling calm and supported instead of anxious and uncertain.
• Sound as structure: The invisible force shaping your entire experience—and how to make it work for you, not against you.
• Music pitfalls: The overlooked mistakes that can quietly destabilize a session, and how to avoid them completely.
• Session phases: What really happens inside your mind as the medicine takes effect, and how to move through each phase safely.
• Environment: Why light, blankets, headphones, silence, and even clinic noise matter—and how to take gentle control of them.
• Landing the session: The often-missed moment where the experience truly “lands,” and how to make it count.
• Integration: A simple, grounding way to make sense of what you experienced—without overthinking or overwhelm.

Drawing on years of severe depression, suicide attempts, and the fragile hope of esketamine treatment, Page writes with rare tenderness and precision. He treats sound not as background, but as architecture, shelter, and sometimes a lifeline. Ambient music becomes a room you can rest inside; a soft piano line feels like a hand on the shoulder; carefully chosen playlists help the mind move through altered states with more safety and coherence.

This isn’t theory alone. The book includes practical tools, sample playlists, and exercises that patients and clinicians can use immediately—like having a calm, experienced guide sitting beside you. Page is skeptical of grandiose claims about “healing frequencies,” yet generous enough to acknowledge that symbolism and intention can matter deeply when the nervous system is open and afraid. His approach is humble, precise, and focused on care in the smallest, adjustable details.

Listening to Spravato invites readers to see the Spravato chair as more than a medical setting: it is a sonic environment, a threshold, and a place where attention to sound can gently reshape the experience of treatment. For anyone navigating Spravato—patients, loved ones, nurses, therapists, and clinic staff—this book offers language, structure, and tools for turning one of the most vulnerable spaces you will step into into something steadier, kinder, and more intentional.

Enter your next session with confidence, safety, and something steady to hold onto.

Clinically Reviewed