The Pushy Goat

Bodies have biographies.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot since writing last week about the intersection between my anthropology background and my work as a massage therapist.

After more than 20 years of working with bodies, I’ve learned that the body on my table is never just a body.

It’s the music teacher who has spent decades demonstrating the same movements.

The gardener whose hands have worked in soil for years.

The hairstylist whose arms spend more time above shoulder height than most people’s ever will.

The parent who carries a toddler almost exclusively on one hip.

The person who spends eight hours analyzing data while barely moving at all.

The body that once played a sport.

The body that survived an injury.

The body that changed careers.

The body that has spent decades adapting to whatever life asked of it.

Because that’s what bodies do.

They adapt.

They find another way to move. They compensate. They get stronger where strength is needed. They protect. They accommodate. Sometimes those adaptations serve us beautifully for years — until something changes and they don’t anymore.

That’s what bodies are incredibly good at doing.

And when someone comes to see me because their shoulder hurts, their jaw won’t relax or their low back has been complaining for six months, I’m interested in what hurts — but I’m also interested in the life surrounding it.

What does your day look like?

What do you do over and over again?

What has changed?

What does your body have to be good at?

That’s context.

And increasingly, I think it’s one of the most interesting parts of the work I do.

Bodies have biographies. And I want to get better at listening to them.

I was already a massage therapist when I went back to college.

By then, I’d spent years working on cruise ships and in spas, working with bodies every day. Then I went back to school and earned a degree in biocultural anthropology — studying bodies from an entirely different perspective: evolution, adaptation, people, culture, history, environment, and the ways humans make sense of the world.

Somehow, I still put those things into separate boxes.

Massage was what I did.
Anthropology and biology were what I studied.

But walking through these landscapes and seeing the petroglyphs on this trip made me start questioning that separation.

I found myself looking at those ancient carvings and wondering about the people who made them. How they moved through their world. What their daily lives demanded of their bodies. What they experienced. What they carried.

And then, inevitably, I started thinking about the people who climb onto my table.

We don’t arrive as collections of muscles and joints.

We arrive as people who have spent years moving through a particular world.

Our work, our hobbies, our injuries, our stress, our habits, our histories — all of it leaves a little bit of a map on the body.

Maybe that’s where these seemingly separate pieces of my life meet.

Biology helps me understand the body.
Anthropology helps me stay curious about the person inside it.
Massage gives me a way to work with both.

And maybe those things were never sitting in separate boxes after all.

I’m starting to wonder how much going back to school changed the way I see the work I was already doing — without me fully realizing it at the time.

I think there’s something there worth exploring.

One of the unexpected things this trip gave me wasn’t rest.

It was perspective.

Standing beneath landscapes shaped over millions of years—and beside stories carved into stone a thousand years ago—made me think differently about the human body.

Every body that ends up on my table carries a story. Some are recent. Some have been carried for years.

Massage can’t erase a story.

But it can create space for the next chapter.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot this week.

After a week of red rock, rivers, long drives, and more quiet than I’ve had in a while, walking back into my treatment room felt… different.

Not because the room had changed.

Because I had.

Travel has a way of reminding me to pay attention again. To notice tiny things I’d normally walk past. A flower that opened while I was gone. A new shoot pushing through the soil. The way light changes throughout the day.

Massage asks for that same kind of attention.

It isn’t just knowing anatomy. It’s noticing subtle shifts. The places that soften. The places still holding on. The rhythm of someone’s breath. The conversations a body is having long before words are spoken.

So today wasn’t really about getting back to work.

It was about bringing that sense of curiosity back with me.

And walking into a room full of plants, a massage table waiting, and a little “Welcome back” heart from the girls didn’t hurt either. ❤️

I’m happy to be back.

Thousands of years ago, someone stood here and carved a hand into stone.

Not a handprint.
A hand, intentionally carved.

Part of a much larger story from the Archaic and Fremont cultural periods. A story that has outlived the person who made it by centuries.

It made me wonder…

We spend so much of our lives trying to leave something behind. Sometimes we think it has to be big. A business. A career. A masterpiece.

But maybe what lasts isn’t always the biggest thing we create.

Maybe it’s the people we help.
The bodies that hurt a little less.
The conversations someone remembers years later.
The moments of kindness that quietly become part of someone else’s story.

That little carved hand reminded me that every life leaves marks.

Some are etched into stone.

Others are etched into people.

Somewhere during a massage today, my clock stopped.

I don’t know when.

I only know where I was when I noticed it.

For a split second, panic set in. I had no idea how long I’d been working.

Then I looked around.

The room was quiet. The afternoon light was pouring through the windows. My client was completely relaxed. My hands knew exactly where they needed to be next.

I had gotten so immersed in the massage that I stopped paying attention to the clock altogether.

When I finally checked the time on my phone…

I had finished exactly on time.

Not because I was counting minutes.

Because after years of doing this, something else has taken over.

Experience.
Presence.
Trust.

Massage isn’t just following a routine. Every session is a conversation—one that’s mostly silent. My attention shifts between muscles, breathing, tension, movement, and the subtle cues your body gives me.

Sometimes I glance at the clock.

Sometimes… apparently the clock quits on me.

Thankfully, after all these years, my internal one still works pretty well. 🤍

For years, I watched people leave vacation spas saying they “finally understood the hype” around massage.

I also watched plenty of people leave wondering what all the fuss was about.

As someone who spent months working aboard cruise ships, I understand both experiences.

Those therapists are incredibly talented. They’re also often working long days, seeing client after client, trying to create a wonderful experience in a very demanding environment.

That’s why I don’t think a disappointing vacation massage automatically means massage “doesn’t work.”

It may simply mean your body has only met that therapist once.

The most meaningful therapeutic work rarely happens in a single appointment. It happens when someone begins to recognize your patterns, remembers where you hold tension, notices what’s changing, and adjusts their work as your body changes over time.

That’s not because vacation massage is bad.

It’s because consistency allows great therapists to do their best work.

So if you’re on vacation… book the massage. Enjoy the robe. Enjoy the music. Enjoy the quiet hour where someone else takes care of you for a change.

Then when you come home, if your goal is lasting change instead of a wonderful memory, find a therapist you trust and give your body the chance to be known.

Because the best massage usually isn’t the fanciest one.

It’s the one given by someone who has spent time learning your body.

🤍

Have you ever had a vacation massage that completely changed your opinion of massage—for better or worse? I’d love to hear your experience.

In March, a milestone came and went quietly.

Ten years of owning and running my business.

No party. No big announcement. No balloons or cake. Just one thoughtful message from a friend who remembered, and honestly, that was enough.

Lately, with some extra stress on my plate and a few unexpected challenges, I’ve found myself reflecting on that anniversary.

The older I get, the more I realize that not everything needs an audience. Some accomplishments are valuable simply because you lived them.

Ten years of showing up.

Ten years of figuring it out as I went.

Ten years of carrying the weight of decisions, responsibilities, taxes, leases, continuing education, marketing, client care, scheduling, repairs, and all the other things that come with running a business that most people never see.

What I’ve realized is that accomplishments don’t become more valuable because more people clap for them.

The work still happened.

The late nights, the risks, the learning, the mistakes, the persistence, the clients who trusted me, and the countless hours spent trying to build something meaningful.

Somewhere along the way, this little business also gave me experiences I once only dreamed about. It gave me confidence, friendships, adventures, and memories I’ll carry for the rest of my life. For that, I’ll always be grateful.

Ten years later, I’m still here.

Not because of recognition, awards, or fanfare, but because I genuinely love what I do and believe in the work.

And while the anniversary passed quietly, I’m proud of it.

Sometimes the milestones worth celebrating are the ones you simply survive long enough to reach.

Thank you to everyone who has trusted me with their care over the last decade. You’ve helped make this little dream of mine possible.

Here’s to ten years. 🖤