crying at the spa
when our nervous systems have had enough.
It can be deeply disorienting when you try to do everything right and yet, things still fall apart. You can ask all of the right questions, follow the rules, trust strangers — and still, you can get taken advantage of.
I had one of those weeks. One of those comes-in-threes kind of weeks. A minor car accident spiraled into an insurance mess, followed by a predatory tow truck company exploiting the situation for profit. On top of that, the scam calls haven’t stopped. Even as I write this, a message came through asking me to verify suspicious bank activity (delete and block!). Our data is out there more than ever, and scrubbing it occasionally online doesn’t always guarantee us a clean slate.
Normally, when I’ve had a particularly difficult time, I reach for comfort such as a warm meal, a glass of wine or if I’m honest, an edible or two. I don’t regularly get massages, but someone suggested it might help. So I booked one, hoping to calm my nerves. By the time I got on the table, letting myself fully settle, I started to silently cry. The woman massaging me checked in gently, but I wasn’t crying from pain. My body had simply found stillness, and with it, the space to release what it had been holding all week.
That quiet room was the first place since the accident where I felt still enough to process all of my feelings.
It’s hard to stay soft when the systems we live in seem designed to wear us down. You follow the guidelines, you do what you’re supposed to, and still, you’re treated like a dollar sign. A target. An afterthought. It wasn’t just the scam or the accident that shook me — it was the erosion of trust. The slow realization that even when you play by the rules, someone else can rewrite them for their own benefit.
This happens every day, in a hundred different ways with varying degrees of severity. Whether it’s a tow truck scam, a landlord gaming the system, or something more urgent — like people being unlawfully detained, evicted, or pushed out by policy. Corrupt systems dehumanize people in order to profit from them and it’s maddening. For many, it’s sadly not occasional — it’s constant.
What I’m learning is this: our nervous systems weren’t built for this kind of ongoing stress. No wonder we feel frayed, exhausted and guarded. We grieve not just the event itself, but the loss of ease. The loss of the self that once believed things would mostly work out, or that kindness would be enough.
And still, I know that I’m lucky. I walked away from that accident uninjured. I have safety, love, a roof over my head and a partner who really showed up for me. I hold that gratitude tightly. But I’ve also learned that gratitude doesn’t outright cancel grief, they exist side by side.
If you’ve had a similar experience, then I know you can relate. These systems are loud, but our nervous systems are louder. We need to listen to them. To give ourselves space to reset, to cry, to feel and not be hard on ourselves for it. We don’t have to power through with a smile or justify our emotions either. We can learn to let ourselves actually feel it, even if it hits us in weird places – such as the spa table. I find that naming every emotion I’m experiencing also helps to acknowledge the feelings that come up. These tiny actions may not fix the world, but they can help us move through it a little easier and with more clarity and grace.
Amid the messiness of this week, there were still moments of beauty: A hummingbird hovering outside my window (nature). My 60-year-old Armenian neighbour, who offered me a joint and a beer after hearing about my accident (community). A silly video of my mom dancing to a song on blast (joy). And stopping to smell the roses on an afternoon walk (movement). All of these little things helped ground me and gave additional perspective. Because in a cold, harsh world, we can learn to witness the softness around us — we just have to be willing to notice it.
So yes, maybe crying at the spa was exactly the right response. Not because things are unbearable, but because sometimes, the weight of holding it all together finally lifts, and in its place, there is release. There’s a little more room to breathe.
Before I leave you, I want to recommend the new album Natural Light from Canada’s very own Dan Mangan.
Click the image to access his linktree for streaming options.
He released it this past Friday, and I would say it’s some of his best work. The lyrics are raw, reflective, and timing wise — quite comforting, especially the final lines of the track “Soapbox”:
“There are those who take in strangers,
I suppose the kindness sets them free.
There are those who leave a light on,
in case another needs to see.”
I’d like to think I’m someone who leaves the light on, but if I’m honest, it doesn’t always feel that easy. If leaving the light on means staying open in a world that keeps trying to shut us down, then yeah, I’m still trying.