The "Weird Shit" Files: Why I Speak the Language of the Unspoken
After spending the last two weeks battling the "flu-and-boogie" tag team, today felt like the first time I actually exhaled. My energy is back, the fog is lifting, and frankly, I’m just happy to be standing upright again.
Today was a classic exercise in "Salon Logic." I was overbooked and running about 15 minutes behind all day. It was one of those days where you're constantly playing catch-up, and by the time I hit that final stretch—the hour of deep-cleaning, disinfecting, and resetting the space—I was wiped.
People rarely see what happens once the lights go down. They see the service, but they don't see the constant cycle: the relentless laundry, the rigorous sanitation between every single client, and that final hour-long deep-clean at the end of the day to ensure everything is pristine and safe for the next morning. It’s an invisible, mandatory rhythm, but it’s the non-negotiable foundation of my craft.
Speaking of the schedule, the universe did that thing it does where it balances the scales. A client for tomorrow canceled—a "curiosity booking" I had a gut feeling would back out. Because of that, I was able to move another client into that slot, meaning tomorrow I won’t be overbooked. A small victory, but a necessary one.
The highlight of today? A head spa for a new client. She was so relaxed she looked at me and said, "I would marry you if I could." Honestly? Fair. I’ll take that over a tip any day. It makes all the behind-the-scenes scrubbing and the "running behind" stress feel worth it.
After two weeks of being trapped between a sickbed and a treatment table, I needed to feel human. I grabbed some much-needed adult time with a friend tonight, and we had that moment that really grounded me. They looked at me and said, "You know, I used to think you were embellishing. But after watching your life for a while, I realize you aren’t lying—your life is just consistently that weird." It actually made me tear up a little. It’s a strange relief to be truly seen—to have someone acknowledge that my life isn't just "coincidences," it’s a constant, wild, and often beautiful blur of events that you truly couldn't make up if you tried.
One of my clients asked me today, "How do you understand the body so well? It’s like you know what I need before I say it."
It wasn't an easy answer, but it’s the truth: It started with my own C-PTSD. When you spend enough time navigating the hyper-vigilance of trauma, you learn to scan the world for safety—and danger—at a cellular level. In psychology, we call this neuroception; it’s the nervous system’s ability to detect threats before the conscious brain even registers a thought. For years, my system was trapped in a state of high-alert, just trying to survive. But once I stopped letting that trauma dictate my reality and started treating that heightened awareness as a diagnostic tool, everything shifted. I didn't just heal; I learned to map the architecture of the human nervous system. I turned my own survival mechanism into a language of healing.
That foundation only deepened through the three years I spent in hospice, facilitating end-of-life transitions. When a person reaches the final stages of life, the limitations of verbal language become absolute. You learn to listen to the "heat" of the body—not just temperature, but the radiation of pain or peace from specific tissues. You learn to read the micro-fluctuations in skin texture, the subtle, rhythmic patterns of breath, and the involuntary muscle reactions that reveal a person’s truth when their voice cannot. Since 2017, my work with medically fragile and special-needs children and adults has only refined this fluency. When a nonverbal child or adult is in distress, they aren't silent—they are communicating in a frequency most people are too busy to notice. I have spent years learning to slow down enough to hear it.
My business isn't just about massage or a spa treatment; it’s about serving as an interpreter for the body. Whether it’s a child who can’t articulate where it hurts, a hospice patient in their final, sacred transition, or a client just looking to escape the noise of their own life, I am listening to what isn't being said. There is a deep, quiet intimacy in this work. It’s an honor to hold space for the body’s story, especially when that story is complex or heavy.
I’m exhausted, I’m clear-headed, and I’m deeply, profoundly grateful. My life is weird, sure—it’s full of "shit" that defies explanation—but all of that was just the price of admission for the beautiful, peaceful life I get to live today. Even through the hardest chapters, I’ve always held onto the love in my heart. Now, I get to wake up and do exactly what I love, helping others navigate their own stories, and honestly? I wouldn't trade a single second of this tapestry for anything.
If your nervous system needs a place to exhale, I offer trauma-informed massage, head spa treatments, and skin care at 888 Spa in Apple Valley, Minnesota.
