Rigor mortis and counting cracks.

a snippet of my journey with anxiety & healing

I’m always perplexed by the chairs for small humans at nail salons.

I didn’t get a manicure until I was a teenager. The most memorable part of the experience was the nail tech slapping my rigid hand and demanding me to relax. Despite my attempts to meet her demands, it didn’t get better that day or for many years after. All she could do was begrudgingly slather my stiff arm in lotion. 

It was one of those moments where I knew I was different. I looked around and everyone else seemed at ease, happily chatting away, not remotely concerned their arm was grasped by a stranger. Why did my arm look like rigor mortis had begun? I thought I was relaxed. Maybe I was just awkward. Maybe it was because I was a tomboy. 

I know teenage pictures are always awkward, but I really enjoy looking back at them now and wondering what I was thinking and feeling at the time. It’s made me realize how far I’ve come.

If I had to wager a bet, my nail salon tension didn’t stem from my unfamiliarity with the service or the touch of another human. It was because my body was in a permanent state of hypervigilance. My mind thought I was in danger and primed my body for defense. I entered that nail salon on high alert without even knowing it and I left there the same way. 

There’s another childhood memory that came to mind as I’ve done some recent soul-searching.

This one is a bit more positive. Although it’s only in retrospect I realize the power of the practice I stumbled upon. Almost every year growing up my family went to our town’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. It draws a pretty big crowd and is an energy-filled event—the perfect combination for little Maggie to have massive anxiety.

I recall one year in particular where I made it through the entire parade incident free. It was only on the slow, meandering walk through the crowd to get to the car that the anxiety kicked in, “I feel sick to my stomach. Where’s the closest bathroom? What happens if I puke or crap all over this sidewalk? EMRGAHD I’m going to die!” (I suppose it’s nice in a way that even though I'm 32, my good friend anxiety still uses essentially the same script)

My parent's response to this particular incident was, “Suck it up. We are almost to the car. We will be home soon.” And so anxious younger Maggie trudged along and then began to count the cracks in the sidewalk, 1,2,3,4,5.  Eventually, the counting turned to breathing. Walk over a crack and breathe in. Walk over a crack and breathe out. By the time we reached the car, my anxiety was gone. It’s a real bummer it took another 15 years for me to hear about breathwork. 

It’s only been in the last 5 years I’ve loosened up–literally.

All things considered, it’s been an amazing transformation– a reminder that the body truly does want to heal itself and can make great progress under the right conditions. I’ve gone from a dead arm at a nail salon to clearing massive energy blocks during a massage/reiki combo. The more I am in my body, the more it reinforces my passion to help people do the same. You don’t only have to live from the neck up. You can start right now.

Breathe in.

You’re aware of your in breath.

Breathe out. 

You’re aware of your out breath. 

It’s not an easy journey. In my case, it takes constant work and an ever-changing combination of practices to keep me grounded and embodied. But it’s one that I am committed to because along the way I’ve discovered many beautiful qualities about my whole self.

I’ve learned that I’m far more flexible than I realized. I discovered how much happier, and productive I am when I can sit on the floor. I learned how to guide my body back to safety so I can be present with family and friends. I developed gratitude for my body’s reminders to slow down, rest and recharge. I grew in my ability to take back my power from anxiety so I can do the things I yearn to do.

I guess I owe that nail tech and the sidewalk cracks a thank you.

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