How one massage in school forced me to face my buried trauma
Sometimes, falling apart is the only way to move forward
I wake up every morning, wanting to cry. Not over anything that’s happening in my life today — but over things that happened more than 20 years ago, that I’ve just never dealt with.
I’ve spent my whole life in survival mode. Trying to protect myself from all the things that hurt me. Trying to just get through one more day without descending into soul-crushing madness…
I can’t do it anymore.
I can’t pretend everything is fine, when inside, my house is burning. I hate everything about me. Not just the toxic traits, but the whole package. I hate the choices I’ve made over the course of my life, and I hate the way I’ve allowed those choices to define me.
My identity is in my poor choices. Each one is a reflection of all the things I’ve gotten wrong… all the opportunities I sabotaged… all the relationships I destroyed… all the obligations I abandoned…
I’m so tired of living this way.
The first time I cried after the Navy was in massage school. We were in, like, week two of a year-long program. We’d gone over the absolute basics of how to give a massage, and now it was time to get our hands dirty. (Not like that! OMG…)
It was our first opportunity to give — and receive — a Swedish massage. We’d just learned that Swedish massage is all about relaxation, that the movements and techniques involved actually create a “relaxation response” in the client. I’m sure there’s a better, more clinical label for what happens… but basically, yeah, you massage the client in a way that it more or less makes their body relax.
And I didn’t realize it at the time… but my body hadn’t relaxed since before we entered the Gulf in early 2003… approximately two years before I wound up in massage school.
I went to massage school to start my healing journey.
I didn’t know that at the time, though. All I knew is after I came home from the war, I was lost. I couldn’t find a purpose or direction that felt big enough to take my attention off the memories of what I’d endured. I couldn’t turn off the internal dialogue, that told me I should’ve died on the battlefield.
(Even though I wasn’t on it! I was on a ship a thousand miles away… but that didn’t matter to my lizard brain that was now so highly attuned to potential threats.)
I didn’t want to be a massage therapist. I just wanted to get my grandmother off my back, and make it look like I was moving forward so that nobody would notice I was so firmly stuck in my past.
It’s hard, 20 years after the fact, to remember what it was like. I can’t fully get back into that same mindset. I can remember that I did feel completely lost, hopeless, afraid, broken, paranoid, unable to take even one full breath…
I remember that I believed I’d been part of something unforgivable… and I remember I believed I needed to be punished just for being part of Operation Iraqi Freedom…
And I remember that I couldn’t tell a soul how I felt, because I knew deep down inside, that if I told anybody what I thought of myself and the other men and women I’d served with, they would agree with my assessment that we were all monsters, and they wouldn’t even give me a chance to redeem myself.
I wasn’t giving myself that chance. I thought I deserved to die. I couldn’t understand why I didn’t.
Why did I have to come home, and live with the aftermath… when the really brave ones died in battle, and already have their final reward?
It just didn’t make sense. I knew I was damaged. If I was a horse, or a dog, somebody probably would’ve put me out of my misery. But I guess men are made to suffer.
It is where all of our growth occurs, after all.
That first massage was a defining moment in my life: the first time since I left the Gulf that I actually let myself relax. Well, technically, my body was forced into it… (I’m serious! You cannot receive a 60-minute Swedish massage, and not relax your body and mind, at least a little. You just can’t.)
I was nervous enough, just getting a massage from a cute girl a few years younger than me. I didn’t want her to see me as weak! But when my body started to relax, and my thoughts and fears came boiling up to the surface, I knew I was going to have a weak moment.
I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t get up off the table; my classmate needed the experience of giving her first massage. And I couldn’t prevent my body from responding to her soft touch. I couldn’t not relax, no matter how hard I tried.
I’d spent two years living on high alert. Afraid of everything. Trying to anticipate every possible threat to my existence… to my sanity…
And now all the walls I’d put up were coming down, and all the things that made me so afraid in the first place were staring me in the eye, daring me to acknowledge that they exist.
Somehow, I kept it together and I got through that massage without showing any of the turmoil I was in. But as I got up off the table, I knew: something was different.
Something was most definitely wrong.
I had a headache, and my stomach hurt. I felt like I was in danger — even though I knew, intellectually, that I really wasn’t.
All these thoughts were running through my head, and the overarching theme seemed to be, “Nobody can find out what’s happening to me right now.”
I tried to cover it all up. I tried to ignore it. I thought maybe I could stuff everything back inside, and if I could just wait it out, maybe it would all go away and leave me in peace, at least for a little bit.
But I just kept feeling worse.
We had another class, after the massage. I went, but I didn’t stay very long.
I’d progressed to a full-on tension headache. My body was tight and tense, and I was starting to feel like maybe I was gonna lose control. I told the instructor I wasn’t feeling well, and I needed to go sit somewhere quiet and wait for this headache to pass.
She sent me to the practice room (which, at this time, was empty), and told me to lie down and just try to rest.
There was no rest.
The moment I laid down on an open massage table, my headache became unbearable. I started to cry, slowly, quietly… then, loudly, and forcefully… as my body fought to expel the poison I’d been swallowing without even realizing it.
My headache and upset stomach quickly became my first, full-blown, adult anxiety attack. My mind traveled back to the war, to waking up on my ship every morning, not knowing if today would be the day we all die, unable to communicate my fear to even one other person because I somehow knew if I did that I would be labeled, and I would be watched, and I would probably receive a dishonorable discharge for “being afraid in the face of danger.”
I didn’t know that it’s a normal human response to feel afraid. I thought it was a sign that I wasn’t good enough. That I couldn’t hack it. That I didn’t deserve to be in the same military as all the brave men and women who never felt afraid, and never allowed something so petty and small to interfere with their ability, or commitment, to carry out the mission.
I’d spent two years running from that fear. And now, after one massage, it was all catching up with me, and I couldn’t escape it this time.
I don’t know how nobody heard me crying in that practice room. Maybe they did, and they were just too afraid to come in and get involved. Maybe they knew I just needed to cry it all out. Maybe they didn’t know me well enough, yet, to really care.
I mean, how would you respond if you heard a random stranger crying in the next room? Most people would not go and check to see if this stranger needs help. It’s just not in our culture to do that. I don’t mind, now that I understand. It wasn’t about me… it was just the way our society has become…
So I cried. And I trembled. And I screamed. And to this day, I don’t know why but I swear in between sobs I just kept repeating, over and over, how sorry I was.
I literally spoke the words, “I’m sorry,” so many times that day… without even knowing what I was sorry for. I simply knew I had to apologize. I had to make amends. I had to get every bit of it out! I had to relieve myself of this soul-crushing despair.
I don’t know how long I cried. I didn’t try to stop it, or control it in any way. I couldn’t control it, if I’d wanted to. I didn’t understand it… but I knew it had to come out.
When I finally left the practice room, school was over. All the other students had gone home. My teachers were nowhere to be found. I had to go down to the second floor, to the main office, to find a receptionist who would call my uncle for me, and explain to him that I’d had a really horrible day and couldn’t drive home, and needed somebody to come pick me up.
To his credit, my uncle came and got me and never complained.
He was drafted in Vietnam, and, even though he spent his time stateside, I guess he’d seen enough of his friends come home to know that whatever I was dealing with, wasn’t my fault… and that I just needed somebody to allow me to feel that way, and reassure me that, with time, it would get better.
I got home to Grandma’s house, too tired and too embarrassed to try and explain to her what had happened. But I think my aunt must’ve called her while my uncle came to pick me up, because when I walked in I could just tell that she knew something was off.
I made small talk, and then I went to bed and tried to forget it all. But it was all out there now, for the whole world to see. I couldn’t deny what I had felt, sobbing, alone, trapped in that practice room, unable to emerge until I had released all the emotion I was able to release at that time.
I knew everything was different now. I knew I couldn’t spend the rest of my life running from these memories.
It would still take me another twenty years, though, to learn to live with them all…
But that moment in massage school is when it all started for me…
That was the first time I knew I needed help, and that the things I had experienced on my ship would never just “go away,” but that I would have to learn how to face it all… or I would never be happy again.
I almost chose not to face it, to be honest.
That kind of reaction to my first massage ever? Forget about it! Why would I willingly subject myself to more of that kind of experience? I almost didn’t.
But I was in school on the GI Bill, and that was my only source of income… and if I dropped out, I’d stop getting it. And, I’d have to pay back what I’d already received.
I needed that money. I knew I couldn’t handle getting a job. Massage school was my only hope. Even though the threat of having another anxiety attack constantly loomed over me — and even though I did have multiple, frightening emotional reactions to receiving massage, over the course of the school year — I couldn’t quit.
I didn’t have anything else to do.
I needed the cover of massage school, so I could look like I was actively trying to move forward.
I went to my instructor, the week after my first breakdown, and I told her what happened and that I was afraid it might happen again. She looked me straight in the eye and told me, “It will happen again. And you need to decide now, if you’re willing to go through with it, or not. Because when those emotions hit, you won’t be able to turn them off.”
And I chose to stay. I chose to face something that scared me more than my last deployment. Something that left me afraid, and confused, and alone. Something that made me convinced that, if the other students ever saw me that way, they’d ostracize me. (Not sure that’s the exact word I’m searching for, but it works.)
I believed that my emotions were my enemy. That they would betray me. That they would reveal me to be a coward, a failure, a weakling, a boy pretending to be a man.
I thought for sure, that one day, my emotions would destroy me.
And still, I stayed.
I threw myself into massage school. I studied daily. I made flash cards. I crammed for every test. I joined study groups with other students.
And I started to open up about how scared I was, and how much I didn’t want to face all the things I was running from. I think I tried to convince the other students that I was hopeless, that I was irredeemable. My friends (by the end of the school year, we were friends) never treated me that way.
They saw my worth and my potential, even when I couldn’t.
They helped me, and supported me through every emotional outburst. They were my anchor. They were who I showed up for, on the days I couldn’t show up for myself. They were the ones I wouldn’t abandon.
I started to measure my success, and my growth, not in terms of how I was doing… but how much help I was providing to everybody else.
It became my mission to serve others. It wasn’t enough, that I was making it — I needed to know that I was bringing other people with me this time. That I was fighting for something more than just myself. That there was still a world outside of my own mental health… that there was something “out there” worth fighting for… worth holding out for… worth putting myself through all these challenges, that just made me want to curl up in a ball in the corner, and cry.
And to this day… I still want to curl up in a ball in the corner, and cry.
Almost every day.
I don’t know if people understand that.
I’m not just “having a hard day.” Matter of fact, my days are pretty good now. It’s taken me twenty years, but I finally have something worth living for. I’ve finally found something I can believe in, and devote my time and talents to creating.
I have a really good life, now.
But I still want to cry, every day.
I guess I’ve had to learn how to have that feeling… and now that I’m finally comfortable with it… maybe now I’m ready to learn how to let the tears flow when they need to… and not condemn myself… and not try to fight it, or stop it, or even to comprehend it…
But simply to allow it to occur.
To allow my emotions to exist.
To allow myself to experience them.
To know that it doesn’t make me weak!
And also, that it doesn’t make me strong.
It simply makes me human.
And being human… really allowing myself to embrace that, after so many years…
I will gladly cry every day for the rest of my life, if that’s what it takes to keep this “human” feeling alive. Because for so many years… all I wanted… was to die…
And now, I’m ready to finally learn how to live.
Toolkit: When Your Walls Come Down
A practical guide for navigating emotional breakthroughs
Understanding What's Happening
When we've spent years protecting ourselves from difficult emotions, our bodies and minds can only maintain those walls for so long. Sometimes a single moment—a massage, a conversation, a memory—can trigger what feels like everything coming apart at once.
This is normal. This is human. This is not weakness.
In the Moment: Emergency Protocols
When You Feel the Walls Breaking
Find Safety First
Get to a private space if possible
If you can't leave, focus on breathing slowly
Remember: You are not in actual danger, even though it feels that way
Let It Happen
Don't fight the tears or emotions
Your body is trying to release what it's been holding
Apologizing (like I did) or repeating words is normal—let it flow
Ground Yourself
Name 5 things you can see
Feel your feet on the floor
Hold something solid (table edge, your own hands)
Get Help If Needed
Call someone you trust to help you through it
Don't try to "tough it out" if you need support
It's okay to say "I'm having a hard time and need help"
After the Storm: Recovery Protocol
The First 24 Hours
Rest: Your body just did intense emotional work
Hydrate: Crying dehydrates you more than you realize
Gentle Movement: A short walk or stretching can help
Avoid Big Decisions: Your emotional system is recalibrating
The First Week
Expect Waves: Emotions may continue coming up
Be Patient: This is your system learning to feel again
Seek Support: Consider telling one trusted person what happened
Journal: Write down what you're experiencing without judgment
Building Your Support System
Who to Tell (And How)
The Trusted Person: Choose someone who:
Has shown they can handle difficult conversations
Won't try to "fix" you immediately
Respects your privacy
What to Say: "I had an intense emotional experience recently. I'm not asking you to fix anything, but I wanted you to know what I'm going through."
Professional Support
Consider reaching out to:
Therapist: Especially one who understands trauma
Support Groups: Others who've experienced similar breakthroughs
Crisis Lines: For immediate support when you feel overwhelmed
The Long View: What This Means
This Is Progress, Not Regression
Your walls weren't protecting you—they were trapping you
Feeling emotions again means your system is healing
The breakdown often comes right before the breakthrough
Expect Resistance
Part of you will want to rebuild those walls
You might feel embarrassed or want to minimize what happened
The urge to go back to "survival mode" is normal
New Patterns Take Time
Learning to feel without drowning takes practice
Some days will be harder than others
Progress isn't linear—expect setbacks
Emergency Resources
If you're in crisis:
National Crisis Hotline: 988
Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741
Veterans Crisis Line: 1-800-273-8255, Press 1
Remember: Asking for help isn't giving up—it's choosing to live.
Self-Reflection Prompt
The Walls We Build
Take some time with these questions. You don't have to answer them all at once, and you don't have to share your answers with anyone. This is for you.
About Your Walls
What emotions have you been working hardest to avoid? (Fear, anger, sadness, shame, grief, disappointment...)
When did you first learn that these emotions weren't "safe" to feel? What message did you get about showing these feelings?
What does your "survival mode" look like? How do you typically protect yourself when things get overwhelming?
About Your Breakthrough Moments
Have you ever had a moment when your emotional walls came down unexpectedly? What triggered it? How did you handle it?
If you haven't had this experience yet, what situation might trigger it for you? (A massage, a conversation, a memory, a song, being alone...)
What would need to feel safe for you to let those walls down intentionally? Who would need to be there (or not there)? What environment?
About Moving Forward
If you could say something to the part of you that's been holding it all together, what would it be?
What would "learning to feel again" look like in your daily life? How would your relationships change? Your work? Your self-talk?
Who in your life could handle seeing you in a vulnerable moment? If no one comes to mind, that tells you something important about what you need to build.
The Deeper Question
Complete this sentence: "I've been afraid that if I really let myself feel _______, then _______."
Take your time with this one. The second blank often reveals our deepest fears about vulnerability.
Remember: The goal isn't to have all the answers. The goal is to start asking the questions that matter. Your emotions aren't your enemy—they're trying to show you the way home to yourself.
This newsletter is meant to inspire hope as I share my own, unique journey toward healing.
Your story will look different from mine, and that's as it should be. Even though we're all on the same rock, each one of us has a unique path to follow.
I’m not a medical professional. The stories, insights, and advice I share are just that - stories, insights, and advice. They're not a substitute for professional help.
If you're struggling, please consult a qualified healthcare professional, or call the National Crisis Line at 988.
Please do not ignore your mental health — your life is too valuable.