The Things I Notice Before We Even Begin

People often ask me whether I can tell where someone is holding tension before I've even started their treatment. They usually mean, can I spot a tight shoulder or a stiff neck? The truth is, yes, we learnt that at school and sometimes I do observe in that way but those things reveal themselves soon enough, they're rarely the first things I notice.

What catches my attention are the quieter things that have nothing to do with anatomy.

I notice the woman who apologises because she's two minutes late, and then apologises again because she isn't quite sure where to put her bag. I notice the woman who laughs while telling me she's exhausted, almost as if making a joke of it somehow makes it more acceptable. I notice how you might perch on the edge of the chair arms folded, because often women arrive carrying the weight of the day before they've even taken their coat off.

Those first few minutes tell me far more than any form ever could. Not because I'm analysing anyone. I'm not. I'm simply paying attention.

Over the years I've realised that our bodies introduce us long before we start talking. Some women arrive full of conversation because the silence feels uncomfortable. Others become incredibly quiet the moment they walk through the door, almost as though their body has recognised it doesn't need to stay alert anymore. Some hold themselves so upright they barely seem to touch the chair, while others sink into it before I've even finished making tea.

None of those things are right or wrong. They're simply little clues about how life has been feeling recently.

One thing I hear surprisingly often is, "I don't really know what I booked today."

I always smile when someone says that because I think it's one of the most honest things we ever say. We like to believe we book because of a sore shoulder or a headache, but I rarely think that's the whole story. More often, the body has been quietly asking for rest for weeks, sometimes months, and eventually it wins the argument.

By the time a woman walks through my door, she's already lived a whole morning that I know very little about. She may have been answering emails before breakfast, trying to persuade children to put their shoes on, worrying about ageing parents, managing a team at work or simply carrying that endless mental list that so many women seem to wake up with. All of that arrives with her, whether she mentions it or not.

That's why I've never believed those first few minutes are just polite conversation before the treatment begins.

They are the beginning.

They're the part where trust quietly starts to grow. Where somebody realises they have booked something differenet here, they don't have to rush, don't have to explain themselves perfectly and don't have to pretend they're coping if they're not. Sometimes nothing remarkable is said at all, but you can almost feel the atmosphere in the room change as the body begins to realise it's somewhere safe enough to stop bracing. Its not by accident that I do things slowly.

Once I understand the woman sitting in front of me, the treatment almost takes care of itself.

Every body has a story. Sometimes it begins before a single word is spoken.

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