The path of the massage therapist.

It's been two years since I changed careers. And yet, sometimes it feels like five or ten years. Like I've spent a lifetime getting to where I am now.

Before, I was a videographer—cameraman, editor. A creative profession, but one in which I gradually lost my strength. Until I hit a wall. I then considered becoming a physiotherapist or osteopath, but at that point, it was too big a burden for the family, for me.

So I trained as a massage therapist and trainer. 'Failing that,' that's what I believed at the time.

A very wise friend once said to me, "Sometimes we think life is blocking us, but it's actually redirecting us to what we're meant to be doing." Or something like that.

Well, she was right.

Today, I thrive in this profession. It's not without its challenges, but it gives me the freedom and creativity I need. Massage therapy, for me, is both a science and an art. To practice it well, I must be in my body as much as in my head. When I achieve this, I fall into what is called flow. This state of unity. And when I find myself there, often, so do my clients.

I wanted to become a physiotherapist to help others, to take concrete action in the face of pain. But in hindsight, I realize that I might have missed something essential: a holistic view of the body. How the person inhabits it.

A physiotherapist conducts very precise assessments, seeks a diagnosis (when possible), and develops a treatment plan. As a massage therapist, I don't have the right to diagnose. But I rely on those made by other professionals to see how I can support the person with my own tools.

And what I'm developing more and more is listening. A keen attention to muscular tension, to tissues. My job is to find the way to help the body relax.

That's all. And at the same time... it's a lot.

I'm thinking of a client who came to see me with persistent shoulder pain after surgery near her spine. She was already following a plan with her doctor and physiotherapist. There had been some improvements, but things were stagnating. She came to see me for a bit to try her luck, in search of pain relief.

The first massage was a bit of an exploration. There were several things to cover. The body's story began to unfold, slowly, as I massaged. Nothing spectacular, but a bit of relaxation.

And then, at the very end, I felt a marked tension in his biceps. I didn't have enough time to go all out, but I noted it.

Luckily, she came back the following week. This time, I knew where I was going. I focused on my biceps, brachialis, and flexors. It slowly loosened up... then nothing. A blockage.

So I stopped. I listened. I waited.

And then I had a feeling: it wasn't just tension. It was like restraint. A protection of the body, like a shield. After an invasive (but vital) operation, the body had created a defense, which unconsciously kept his arm folded.

I took a risk. I shared my feelings with him: "It feels like you're wearing a shield. Something that protected you, but maybe it's no longer useful."

Her eyes changed. It resonated. She recognized what I was saying. I continued to gently move her arm, and then... the tension melted. The muscle softened. The arm regained its flexibility.

I wasn't the one who released that tension. She was. My role was simply to provide a safe space for it to happen. She did the work. She had the courage to look inward and let go.

That day, I understood better what my job was.

The doctors had made the right diagnosis, the physiotherapist had charted a course. There remained just this small, almost invisible knot in his recovery process. And this knot required something else: time, listening, space.

Not everything is muscle tension. Sometimes what we hold on to is deeper. And letting go is sometimes scary. We feel like we're falling into a void. Until the day we let go... and discover that this void is full of ourselves.

So there you have it. My job is to provide that framework. Sometimes firm, sometimes gentle. Sometimes it's a simple massage. And sometimes there are those little moments when everything aligns, when the person is ready, when I'm in the flow, and something precious is released.

You see, it's ultimately because I didn't study physio that I had time to develop something else: touch, listening. If I had had all these biomechanical analysis tools when I started, I would have mainly analyzed biomechanics. Maybe with time, I would have gotten to where I am... but more slowly. It's not that one is better than the other, simply that it wasn't my path.

And biomechanics also interests me, but it is gradually being integrated over the course of my training. The bottom line is listening: is it a contraction... or a restraint?

What nourishes me in this profession is precisely this: this living process, never the same, always creative. And in this creation, I never get bored.

Thank you for taking this time to read this. I hope you are well.

Guillaume