How I Learned What Massage Actually Is
Massage in the Background
For most of my life, massage lived quietly in the background. It wasn’t something people talked about the way they talked about yoga, running, or nutrition. Conversations about health were usually filled with gym routines, diet plans, or meditation habits, and massage, if it came up at all, was framed as a birthday gift or an occasional spa trip. It was nice, yes — helpful, maybe — but never treated as something essential. I thought of it the same way, until my body began to rely on it more than I realized.
The Navy Years
I first started getting massages in the Navy, using a Massage Envy membership once a month to keep the aches and fatigue from building up. The sessions were predictable — dim lighting, quiet music, the same sequence of movements every time — and they did what I needed them to do: help me function well enough to keep going. But I didn’t think about massage beyond that appointment each month, and I certainly didn’t imagine building a career around it.
Bali
A few years later, I traveled to Bali for a yoga teacher training, and something shifted. Mornings began early, the air already warm as I moved through vinyasa in an open-air shala, the scent of incense and frangipani drifting in with the sounds of birds and motorbikes and the rustle of leaves in the wind. By the time afternoon arrived, the sun had settled into a slow golden light, and I would find myself on a massage table, the work unhurried, the air thick with warmth and stillness, my body sinking into rest without resistance. Evenings ended with slow dinners in front of sunsets so vivid they seemed to dissolve the edges of the day.
Massage in that space felt entirely different from the sessions I’d known. It wasn’t something to fit in between other obligations or to fix a problem that had gotten out of hand. It was part of the rhythm of life there — woven into movement and rest, into beauty and quiet. In that environment, it felt whole, and in that wholeness something in me shifted.
The Turning Point
When I returned home, I slipped back into my routine and continued studying for my psychology degree, but the memory of those afternoons in Bali stayed with me. My truth kept pulling me back toward massage, even though I didn’t yet see a clear path forward. Then COVID arrived, and everything changed. The quiet, the distance, and the sudden absence of daily human contact made me realize how deeply I needed to be present with other people — not just in passing, but in a way that felt grounded and real. I began looking for a way to do that, and I found a massage school where I could train for my professional license.
Finding My Roots
The program covered everything you might expect — anatomy and physiology, movement and assessment — much of which I had already explored through two 200-hour yoga teacher trainings. What stood out to me most were the classes on ethics and history. Those gave the work depth and context, connecting me not just to the techniques but to the lineage, the responsibility, and the meaning of what I was learning to offer.
As I studied, I began to see massage differently. In Ayurvedic medicine, abhyanga — the daily application of warm oil to the skin — nourishes tissues and calms the nervous system. In Chinese medicine, massage is part of a whole system that includes acupuncture and herbs. In Thailand, it is practiced on a mat, fully clothed, its rhythm guided by breath and relationship. In many African and Indigenous traditions, massage is part of birth and grief, postpartum care and community healing.
What I’ve Learned in Practice
In all of these traditions, massage isn’t an indulgence or a last resort. It’s ordinary care — a way to keep the body steady through change, to keep the spirit connected to itself.
Once I understood that, I started to feel it every time I touched someone’s shoulder or rested a hand at the base of their skull — that deep, human recognition that this is how we’ve always cared for each other. In the U.S., we’ve been taught to see it as pampering for those with extra time and money, or as a clinical fix when something has gone wrong. But in its truest form, it’s neither. It’s a place to arrive as you are, without having to justify your need.
When I began practicing, I noticed small moments that said more than any technique ever could — the way a breath would suddenly deepen, the way the weight of a limb would drop fully into my hands, the way someone’s shoulders would lower without them realizing it. These shifts weren’t always dramatic, but they carried a quiet truth: the body knows how to return to itself when it’s given the time and space.
Massage can help with headaches and tension, yes — but it can also meet the parts of you that are harder to name. The tiredness that has nothing to do with sleep. The feelings that live under the surface. The part of you that just wants to feel safe again.
It isn’t luxury — it’s presence. It belongs to a lineage older than the wellness industry, older than the idea that rest must be earned. When you receive massage in this way, it isn’t an extra. It’s a return to something your body has always known.
If your body is asking for that, I would be honored to meet you there.
