No Apologies Necessary

"I hope you don't mind a little bald head."

"My skin is kinda dry from the cold."

"I just didn't have time to shave today."

"I need a pedicure."

(stomach gurgles) "Oh! I'm so sorry!"

This is just a short sample of the hundreds of different ways clients apologize to me about their bodies.  I'm sure every massage therapist can relate.  Our clients come in and trust us enough to let us touch them, but they still want to make sure we therapists are comfortable.

This has led me to establish The Rule.  Outside of bigotry or sexual innuendo, I try not to have rules about what clients should or should not say.  My office is a safe, private space.  Sometimes people need a place to say out loud the scary or possibly unaccepted thing they are thinking about their lives.

But, one day, I had enough of the above, so I now have The Rule, which is:
You don't apologize for your body.

And The Subrule, which is:
You don't make anyone else feel that they need to apologize for their body.

Most of my clients are women.  Many of my clients are facing or have faced significant medical challenges which have altered, scarred, or otherwise changed their bodies.  Most of these changes fall outside the subjective norms of "what women are supposed to look like."  I aim to create at least one place in the world where any person can feel comfortable and confident that their body is not under any sort of judgement.  That they are accepted and valued for who and what they are right now.  That on my table and in my space, everyone-- EVERYONE-- is beautiful.

I grew up the official fat kid of my elementary school.  I remember feeling the need to apologize for my body every single day.  When my clients started apologizing to me, I felt tremendous empathy for them.  Those things they apologize for do not disrupt their massage or offend anyone.  Whether you have or don't have hair and where it is on your body, the condition of your skin, the state of your feet -- any of that and more -- has no bearing on your worth as a person.

And that last one, the stomach noises?  That happens when your body is deeply relaxed.  That right there is massage applause.

Not Your Therapist

I often tell my students that not everyone is their client, that they are not everyone's therapist.   As part of my ongoing adventures in learning to market, I am experiencing this very profoundly.

Yesterday, I volunteered at the Chicago Marathon -- a big, boisterous fun day of post-event massage and lots of energy.  I thoroughly enjoyed the entire day, but is also know that pretty much none of the people I worked on were "my" clients.  

I worked in the medical tent, mostly providing cramp relief for dehydrated and/or undertrained athletes.  About two hours after the start, we started to get patients in.  As expected, the first hour or so was filled with people who had pulled out without finishing the race due to injury or other complications.  Early on, I worked with Drake*, a young man who had completed an endurance event the week before, but pulled out of the marathon around mile 19 because of pain in his knees and ankles.  He said it was normal for him to have pain in those areas because of a chronic health condition, but that is was also normal for him to exercise outdoors for several hours a day.  

I was gently working around Drake's knee, trying to identify any muscular issues.  I found an area of restriction, and Drake insisted that I could "go harder. " I said to him: "Yeah.  I could go harder.  But last week you finished this ultra event, and you just ran 19 miles today, so your muscles need recovery, and I'm not going to go harder."  Drake seemed disappointed, but he didn't insist.  Whether it was because I convinced him with logic, or because he was born in the year I graduated high school, I can't be sure.  

Either way, it was clear that Drake's view of massage (hard, rough, painful) had nothing to do with mine.  He was not, and will never be my client.  Earlier in my career, I might have tried to be his therapist and sacrificed my professional judgment for my client's preferences.  Now, I know better.  I'm not going to go harder.  

*-- name and identifying details have been changed

Niche

I am in the process of finding and targeting my niche.  I prefer to call this "knowing and speaking to my people."  This is proving to be more difficult than I thought.  Of course, people who are in or have a history of cancer treatment are my people.  But there is another piece to this puzzle which I am having a hard time defining.

My current (inadequate) description of my people is: stressed-out women over 40.  What I mean by this is: people for whom massage is as much about emotional wellness as it is about physical.  In school, one of my instructors described my massage as having an intensity similar to that of a mother caring for a child.  My classmates teased me about my "momssage."  I labored against this description for a long time.  It is not necessary to be (or want to be) a mother in order to be nurturing.  Clearly, I thought, what my teacher meant was that I have focus, and that I am able to be present for my clients.  Over time, though, I kept coming back to "momssage."  

My people, the ones who respond most favorably to my massage, are carers.  They have people in their lives who rely on them for support and strength.  Most of my people enjoy this role, and they are good at it.  But sometimes, they are exhausted.  I think the shared reason they come to me is for care. I feel like for them, beyond the physical relief, the massage is time to refill.  Of course I am guided by the needs of their physical bodies, and of course we often see significant reductions in pain, iimprovements in joint movement and all those massage-y things.

That's not what makes them my people, though.  It is the intensity of focus (which I have some days better than others) on them as whole people.  When I am trying to define my people, I keep thinking of this scene from "One Day at a Time" where the main character (a single mother of two teenage girls) is arguing with her boyfriend.  She is not feeling well and wants him to take care of her.  He accuses her of wanting to be "babied," and she responds, "I don't want to be babied! I want to be mommied!"  That character is my people.  A stressed-out woman over 40, in need of some time to be taken care of, not in the way where she loses all will and direction, but in the way that acknowledges her challenges and anticipates her needs.  Mommied.

Res(is)t

Of course caregivers don't know how to take care of themselves.  Of course physicians, nurses, holistic wellness practitioners, and massage therapists counsel balance, moderation, and self-care all while running themselves into the ground.  And, of course, most of us think we are the exception.  We are the ones doing all the right things while our colleagues run themselves into the ground.  We can be arrogant, too.

I recall one of my students talking about massaging a veteran therapist.  He was shocked (his word) at the condition of her back muscles, and at the level of postural distortion he saw.  He asked me, "We are trained to know body mechanics.  We are supposed to know how to move and stretch so we don't hurt ourselves.  How does somebody who knows this get so messed up?" I shook my head, said something about the difference between what we know and what we do, and silently congratulated myself on my superior self-care.

Arrogance.  Schadenfreude. But, as a friend once said, the karma train makes all stops.  Last week, it slammed right into me.  I woke up with a painfully sore throat, and over the course of the day, started to feel feverish and dizzy.  Rather than go to bed, or go to a doctor, I muscled through some classes and meetings.  Finally, after three days and no improvement, I admitted that I was sick.  I cancelled all my clients for the next few days, and weakly drove myself to a clinic.  The conclusion: some kind of virus.  Nothing to do but drink lots of fluids, and rest.

Rest? 

I settled in to my couch with water bottles and internet devices in reach.  After the first fluff video and midday nap, I emailed one of my clients, saying that I knew I would be fine by the end of the week, and would she like to reschedule?  This was her response:

"Though I will sign up for more massages (of course), it seems mercenary to schedule something at this moment.  I am solely focused on your well-being this morning! Just keep getting better."

Rest. So, with that coaxing and permission, I did.  I often tell my clients that doing nothing is "the hardest easy thing in the world." I certainly felt it this week.  Clearly, though, I needed it.  Now that I am actually feeling better, I am grateful for taking the rest.

Human Kindness

Several years ago, I participated in a three-day walk to raise money for breast cancer research and prevention.  The whole event was carefully constructed and well managed.  In addition to the logistics of directing, feeding and taking care of thousands of people, the organizers spent time creating an entire worldview.  We were all together, working towards the same goal.  We had a responsibility to each other.  The theme for the weekend was "Human Kindness."  They told us to be kind to each other, and we were.  

When I went home from the event, I felt a little sad that the whole world did not share that basic drive to be kind to each other.  I tried to keep it going in my own life, with varied success.  Some days, the tourist traffic and odd smells of public transportation made it nearly impossible.  

Last weekend, I was reminded again of the importance of being kind.  I went to massage a man who was on hospice.  While I was there, his pastor came to pray with him and the family.  I moved a discreet distance away while they shared their moment.  As the pastor left, he thanked me for my work and called me an "angel" for doing it.  I thanked him and went back to the massage.

Later I had time to reflect on the moment, and to realize how uncomfortable it made me.  Yes, I was aware of and grateful for the kind words.  Yes, I was humbled by the depth of the compliment.  And, yes, I felt boosted up by the acknowledgement of my work.  But I remembered that three day walk, and how just by practicing kindness, we created so many deeply touching moments.  It wasn't superhuman -- angelic -- it was just humans taking care of one another.  Is kindness really so rare in the world that it seems divine to us? 

 So, no, I am not an "angel," I am simply a human, trying to be kind to other humans.  On the days when it works, it can be beautiful.  On the days when it doesn't, usually there is some other human showing me how it's done.  We live on this earth, briefly.  We work on this earth just the same as the people around us.  Our kindness, our attention, elevates us.  Be kind, humans.

Sanctuary

sanc·tu·ar·y

noun, plural sanc·tu·ar·ies.

1.

a sacred or holy place.

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about sanctuary.  Massage practitioners use that word often when describing their practice:  "Welcome to your sanctuary," "This office is a sanctuary," etc.  I wonder if, when we use the word, we also put in the work behind making it true.  

A sanctuary is a sacred place, a place removed from the daily life of the world where a person comes to connect with something higher in themselves.  It takes more than quiet music, warm tables and soft sheets.  It even takes more than a skilled practitioner. Creating sanctuary takes work and intention.  Every time I walk into my massage room, I build this sacred space again.  

I start by turning on the music in the room, for the practical reason of adjusting volume and testing equipment, and to replace all the scattered thoughts in my head with focus on my clients for the day. Then I put sheets on the table, smoothing them down to be inviting and comforting.  The simple act of choosing sheets involves thinking of the client who will shortly be using them.  Does this person run hot or cold?  Is their skin sensitive?

I try to manage myself in the massage space as well -- even when clients are not there.  I save my task-based worries and general anxieties for my desk, with varying degrees of success.  I have been trying to convey this idea to my students, and I am running up against the wall of metaphor:  check your bags at the door, leave your garbage on the curb, put it at the coat check.  At any rate, I know that whatever I set aside will either wait for me to come back and care for it or walk away.

I soften my hands -- easier to let go that way -- and root my feet.  I create in my body something solid and rooted, but flexible and agile.  The truth about creating a sanctuary is that it is a relationship with the space, and as such, requires work.  I can call a place a sanctuary, but if I haven't put in the work behind it, the place is merely quiet.

The Universe Has a Message for You

"The greatest glory lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall."
--Nelson Mandela

That quote is the one that convinced me that I am magic.

Well, not magic, really.  It just made me think that there is a possibility of fate being bent and shaped in just the right way -- that meanings are not always constructed in our minds, sometimes they appear outside us like shapes in the mist.

With my first graduating clinic class, I started a tradition, a closing ceremony.  On their final clinic shift before graduation, I gathered up a bunch of inspirational quotes, then wrote them on notecards.  I put the cards in unlabeled envelopes and shuffled them so I didn't know which was which.  Before the students arrived for their shift, I put a notecard in each of their massage rooms.  Everyone got a message.  I didn't know which.  At the time, it seemed nothing more than fair.  What if I assigned quotes to people and someone thought theirs was harsh, or took it the wrong way?  This way, I took myself mostly out of it, and they could make their own meaning out of it.

That day, Kim got the envelope with the above quote.  I have written about Kim before, how during her final term she was mugged, knocked to the ground and beaten.  By the final clinic shift, she was physically recovered, but still mentally reeling.  She came into the student lounge, notecard clutched in her hand and said, "This one!  You planned this!"  She knew I hadn't planned it, and so did I, but the coincidence touched both of us.  We hugged and cried.  Kim tucked the notecard into her shirt and kept it there for the entire shift.

I went home that night feeling contented, thinking what a nice, random thing to happen.  So the next time I had a graduating class for clinic, I did the exercise again.  My most cerebral student got the quote about overthinking.  I did the same ceremony the following term.  One student and I had spent an earlier shift talking over her negative body image and self talk, and I spent a long time gently persuading her to try being as kind to herself as she was to everyone else.  She got the quote about internal beauty.

There are more examples, some beautifully matched like these, some where it was clear to me that meaning was being drawn onto the situation by the students.  Still, every time I did this exercise, people left feeling like they had received a truly personalized message.  I decided to turn down my practical brain, and named the ceremony "The Universe Has a Message for You."

I have just started a new term, and I have a clinic group who will be graduating at the end of it.  I am looking forward to the messages that will come to them.