It happened on a Thursday afternoon in my massage therapy studio, a space I’d built from nothing over the past six years. The studio was my sanctuary, my pride, my proof that I could create something beautiful and meaningful with my own hands. Located in a converted Victorian house in the arts district, it felt more like a home than a business—soft lighting, essential oil diffusers, and the kind of peaceful atmosphere that made people’s shoulders drop the moment they walked through the door.
I’d been a licensed massage therapist for eight years, having discovered my calling somewhat accidentally after a career change in my late twenties. What started as a way to help people heal their physical pain had evolved into something deeper—a practice that allowed me to witness and facilitate healing on multiple levels. My clients trusted me with their bodies, their stress, their stories, and I never took that responsibility lightly.
