The body keeps the score

Part two of a quiet series I’m sharing — letters that tell the truth of where I’ve been, and how I found my way through

Some stories we keep private. Others we only share when we finally understand them ourselves. This is one of those stories.

After Benjamin died, my pain wasn’t only in my heart — it was in my back, my body, every nerve ending. My back ached constantly. There were days when the simple act of sitting through a meal or a Zoom call felt unbearable. I remember lying on the floor after a session, flat on my back, quietly weeping on the carpet so no one would hear.

For almost three decades, I carried the weight of someone else’s survival. I flew across continents, fought in courtrooms, and held myself together in emergency rooms with just two hours of sleep. In all that, I forgot to ask: what was this relentless strain doing to my body?

Doctors chalked it up to stress, fatigue, old injuries. But I sensed it was deeper. I knew that my body was holding onto every moment of hypervigilance and fear — 27 years of living with the constant terror of losing Benjamin. My cortisol levels had soared, imprinting that fear into every muscle, every vertebra in my spine.

I realised I needed healing on a subconscious level as much as a physical one.

That’s when I sought help from a chiropractor who did more than adjust my spine. He helped open my awareness to the silent build-up of cortisol, showing me how years of hyper-vigilance had worn on my body and mind. This was a wake-up call — my body was screaming for a reset.

I soon discovered cranial sacral therapy. In sessions that felt like gentle conversations with my own energy, the therapist worked to align my spine and release the tension hidden in every joint. The subtle shifts in my body were like whispers of a long-forgotten calm returning.

I also turned to trauma massage — a practice that blurred the lines between physical treatment and energetic release. It wasn’t just about speaking the unspeakable; it was about letting the vibration and energy within me come to the surface during the massage. With the therapist, I experienced a dialogue deeper than words — a conversation between my body’s stored pain and its yearning for ease.

Little by little, the pain began to change. It didn’t vanish in a flash — it ebbed and flowed. But now, I see it as a signal rather than a burden. My back isn’t just a source of pain; it’s a map of my journey, a reminder that I need to keep choosing myself each day.

In sharing this, I’m not offering a cure or a magic fix. I’m simply telling you a truth about the cost of carrying so much weight — both physical and emotional — for so many years. I’m sharing something special in these letters: authentic stories of how I learned to listen to my body, to honour every whispered signal, and to find healing on levels both seen and unseen.

If you’ve ever felt that your body is trying to tell you something, know that you’re not alone. Your body remembers. And sometimes, listening to it is the first step towards real, lasting healing.

Thanks for reading.

Love,

Rita