I first lay down on a reiki table in 2016, as a client. In 2020 I took my first reiki module, and I’ve been learning and practicing since. Six years in, I still get a little nervous when someone asks what I do. Not because I doubt it, but because I want to answer honestly, and the honest answer has more than one part.
Here’s the part I’m sure of. My very first session caught me completely off guard. I was lying there, fully clothed, with nothing happening that I could point to, and my body started reacting in ways I couldn’t control. First I started laughing, then I started crying, both for no reason I could name. I hadn’t expected anything like it, and I couldn’t talk myself out of it or steer it. That was the moment I understood that energetic work is something worth exploring, at least for me. I’m not claiming it proves anything for anyone else. But I couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.
It’s also what I see from my side of the table now. People come carrying something heavy: a racing mind, a jaw they can’t unclench, a chest that feels too tight to breathe into. Somewhere between the first and the last hand position, something in them often softens. Shoulders drop. Breathing slows. Sometimes there are tears, sometimes a long exhale, sometimes they fall asleep. I’ve seen this many times, and I don’t take it lightly.
Here’s the part I’m less sure of. I was taught that this happens because universal life energy flows through my hands and helps rebalance the subtle bodies, the emotional and mental layers that surround the physical one. I believe that, in the way I believe in things I’ve experienced but can’t prove. I also know the research doesn’t back me up. When studies compare reiki to a sham version, the difference tends to shrink or disappear. I used to find that threatening. Now I find it interesting. Maybe the stillness, the safe space, the unhurried human attention are doing more than my explanations give them credit for. I’m at peace with not knowing which story is true. What people feel on the table is real either way.
What I won’t do is tell you that reiki is the answer to anxiety. It isn’t the answer. For me, it’s one small, gentle thing among many.
My own anxiety didn’t ease because of one miracle. It eased because I did several unglamorous things at once. I saw a therapist and learned to notice my thought spirals. I made moving my body a daily habit, not as a rigid routine but as a simple rule: some kind of movement every day. Some days that’s a walk or a run, other days yoga, dancing, bouldering, or surfing when the conditions allow. What matters isn’t the activity, it’s that my body gets to move and my mind gets to follow. I learned to breathe slowly, with long exhales, in the middle of a panicky afternoon. I slept more. I kept my one cup of coffee a day, because I never overdid it and it was never the problem. Not everything needs fixing. And yes, I kept going to my reiki healer, which gave me one hour where nothing was asked of me. That hour mattered. It was not the whole picture.
So here is what I tell the people who come to me:
If your anxiety is getting in the way of your life, see a doctor or a therapist. Please. Good treatment exists, and it works for a lot of people. Medication and therapy aren’t a failure of spirit. They’re tools, and I’d be a poor practitioner if I stood between you and them.
Then add what nourishes you. Movement in whatever form you enjoy. Breath. Time outdoors. Massage, yoga, meditation, a friend who listens. Reiki, if it appeals to you. Think of these as a circle of support around the care you’re already getting.
Be wary of anyone who promises a cure. That includes practitioners, myself included. If someone tells you their method fixes everything, or that you should stop what your doctor prescribed, walk away.
Notice what actually helps you. Not what’s supposed to help, but what leaves you a little more settled afterward. Your own experience is worth trusting, and it’s worth testing gently over time.
I think of my work as offering a pause: a quiet room, a pair of warm hands, and permission to put the day down for a while. Whether that works through energy, relaxation, or the plain kindness of being cared for, I can’t say with certainty. But I’ve watched it help people breathe a little easier, and for now, that’s enough for me to keep showing up.
Be gentle with yourself this week. And if you’re struggling, reach out to someone who can help carry it.
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