Have you ever looked at someone and thought, “Wow, they have it all together – healthy, vibrant, and nothing seems to phase them?” It’s easy to assume others have it easier, that their bodies aren’t carrying the same weight of a history, injury, or trauma. But the truth is, everyone has a story – layers of experience held in the body, often without words.
I’ve known for a long time the body can hold on to past experiences. In fact, I teach a class titled ‘Emotional Storage’ for this very reason. I’ve seen powerful emotional releases in countless sessions, and I’m deeply grateful when clients feel secure enough in my clinic and with my hands to let their bodies let go. Sometimes these releases come with a flood of memories, but often they arrive without any clear connection to a specific event – and that’s perfectly okay. We don’t always need a memory to justify the emotions our bodies carry.
This has been on my mind lately as I try to get back into running, preparing for my fourth Mudgirl run with my daughter. I cherish this annual mother-daughter adventure – the mud, the laughter, the shared challenge – but returning to running has been harder than I expected. I initially thought my struggle stemmed from a head injury I suffered in 2018, and while that’s part of it, a different memory surfaced recently that reminded me how deeply the body can hold on to trauma.
In 2012, about 6 months after running the NYC marathon, I had one of the most terrifying medical experiences of my life. After a performance of Voca People, I made dinner at home. I was on a juice cleanse and had a pesky tooth infection at the time. That night, I spiked a 105-degree fever and developed an intense migraine – my first ever. I remember telling Jacob that if I didn’t feel better by morning, I would go to the ER, fearing it might be spinal meningitis.
The next day, feeling even worse, I walked myself to an urgent care clinic, calling my mom to keep me company on the phone just in case I passed out. The urgent care doctor agreed with my self-diagnosis and sent me to the hospital for immediate treatment. That’s when things went from bad to worse. The resident doctors put me on an antiviral/antifungal medication that triggered a severe allergic reaction – ‘Red Man Syndrome’ – causing my body to turn bright red from my belly button to my clavicle.
Then came the lumbar puncture. It took three young resident doctors more than 10 attempts to get it right, one of which temporarily paralyzed my legs – a terrifying experience, especially for a runner. My nervous system was shot, and I started to vomit while the needle was still in my back. The doctor panicked, telling me to stop vomiting – as if that were possible. It was one of the worst nights of my life.
Two weeks ago, I awoke in the middle of the night with a vivid, visceral memory of this experience. It felt like my body had decided it was time to process what had been held for over a decade. I reached out to my biomechanics study group, and they immediately responded with support and guidance, helping me reconnect with my body and join my journey to move forward.
Despite the horror of that experience, I am profoundly grateful – grateful that those young doctors had the courage to try, grateful for my resilient body that has adapted and carried me through so much, and grateful for my colleagues, some of the smartest people I know, who stand beside me now as I work through this. My body, as always, is teaching me to listen, to let go, and to move forward.
This experience has reminded me that just like our voices, our bodies carry the stories of our lives. They hold the tension, the trauma, the memories we can’t always speak, and they also hold the power to release, to recover, and to reclaim freedom.
If you’ve ever felt stuck – in your body, in your voice, in your life – know that you’re not alone. We are all moving through layers of experience, some of which we may not even fully understand. And that’s okay. Healing is a process, and every step we take toward awareness and release is a step toward resilience.
With gratitude for every breath and every step,
Christine
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