The First Time Back
I didn't realize how long it had been.
Not since my last massage — I could look that date up easily enough —
but since the last time I truly let myself be cared for.
Life has a way of filling the calendar without asking permission.
Appointments, grandchildren, the never-ending errands, the quiet responsibilities that come with age.
Somewhere in all that, I slowly put myself on pause.
Weeks turned into months.
Months turned into… more.
I told myself I didn't need it. I was managing fine. I'd book "soon."
Soon became later.
Later became not at all.
But one morning, standing in my kitchen with the sunlight catching the lines on my hands,
I felt a heaviness in my chest — not sadness exactly, but something quieter.
Something like a long, deep exhale that had been waiting for me to notice it.
And I did.
So I booked again.
Walking into the room after so much time, I felt strangely shy, like I was re-introducing myself to a part of me I'd misplaced.
Would it feel the same as before?
Would I feel the same?
He greeted me gently — not overly warm, not scripted. Just present.
As if he understood that returning is its own kind of vulnerability.
When I lay down on the table, I expected the usual: tension in my shoulders, that stubborn spot by my hip,
the familiar chatter in my thoughts.
Instead, something else happened.
I softened.
Not all at once, not dramatically.
Just… slowly. Quietly.
Like a door that hadn't been opened in years easing back on its hinges.
There was no rush.
No pressure to make it meaningful.
No expectation to "relax on command."
Just steady hands, patient rhythm, and a sense of being met exactly where I was — not where I'd been,
not where I should be.
Halfway through, I realized I wasn't thinking about anything at all.
Not my to-do list.
Not my body.
Not even whether I was doing it "right."
I was simply there. Present.
And God, I'd missed that feeling.
When it ended, I didn't want to cry or cling to the moment.
I just felt… returned.
To myself.
To my body.
To a kind of ease I hadn't noticed slipping away until it came back.
I walked out lighter — not fixed, not transformed — just quietly restored.
It took me a long time to come back.
But now that I have, I think I'll stay a little closer to myself this time.