nathalie shushan

I sought out a recommendation for a local physio by the end of my second tear-filled day of the yoga retreat. Desperate for a reprieve from pain, I reached out to a contact that was shared with me as “Ukraine Massage Physio Therapy.” When the mysterious physio responded confirming availability for 3pm the next day, I accepted without hesitation. It was only later in the afternoon that I thought to ask where the office was located. Unable to offer an address in the middle of the mountains above Dharamshala, Ukraine Massage Physio Therapy shared their location as coordinates on Whatsapp. “See you tomorrow,” they wrote and I slept easier that night in anticipation.

The walk to the physio the next day was treacherous. The clouds darkened and opened as soon as I left the ashram. 13 minutes on Google Maps became an hour and a half on unfamiliar wet mountain terrain. Despite leaving an hour early, I arrived 20 minutes late and found the door locked. Looking for refuge and wifi in a nearby cafe, defeated and drenched, I immediately messaged Ukraine Massage to apologize for my lateness and explain the circumstances. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” they quickly responded. I ordered a spiced tea to warm my bones and waited until my phone buzzed on the table to tell me it was time to go.

After a half hour of waiting, I made my way back to the office. I removed my shoes and jacket at the entrance before walking hesitantly inside. A stern, sturdy woman was was seated on the couch at the entrance. “I’m so sorry I was late,” I said again. “I got lost on the way.” 

“Everyone knows Katrina,” she replied cooly, as if my lateness was offensive to her reputation. 

Up until that point, I’d known her exclusively as “Ukraine Massage” and a set of coordinates but explaining that didn’t seem like it would endear me to her so I just apologized again. 

She looked at me, unsmiling, as rainwater dripped from my clothes onto her carpet. “Take your clothes off,” she commanded with a heavy Slavic accent. “It’s cold.”

The chill had seeped beneath my skin so I complied. Very aware of her watching me, I removed my clothing piece by piece and looked around for something to use to cover myself before we began. No such luck. I hugged myself for warmth and concealment as my eyes wandered across the small room.

“So what do you want?” she asked as I stood shivering in front of her. Arms crossed, I explained the nature of my injuries and the sensations I had been experiencing during yoga and meditation. I asked for a clinical massage. She suggested a combination of massage and acupuncture.

In general, I am a huge proponent of acupuncture. It was the most effective way of increasing my mobility by a long shot and my favorite way to treat myself after a stressful week back in New York. Still, I could feel that my body was sensitive so I told her I’d rather not do acupuncture. “I’m a professional,” she said for the first time that session. “Trust me.” Desperate and already there, I agreed.

Katrina got out of her seat and asked me to stand straight so she could look at the alignment of my body. In front of me, she somehow looked smaller and stronger than she did while she was sitting down. I unfolded my arms and lengthened my back. “Ah, yes. Your shoulders are crooked and one leg is longer than the other.” Sick. She was so matter-of-fact in her delivery and I, already emotional about the misalignment in my body, felt like someone punched me in the gut. She asked for specific details of the car accident: where it hit me, what other injuries I’d sustained, if I flew and how I landed. My heart became a weight in my chest as I recounted as much relevant information as I could. It seemed like the right moment to warn her that I’d been feeling tender for the past couple of days, physically and emotionally, and that I had been crying often. She only looked at me to tell me to get on the table and lie on my side. I nodded and silently obeyed.

When I reclined, I faced a wall with sketched portraits that reminded me of the ones my mom has of her great grandparents. I idly wondered if they were people from this woman’s family or just figures she admired – and then, without warning, she went in. I tried to breathe through the pain as she moved across my body. She cracked my back, stretched my arm, pulled my leg, cracked all of my toes. I inadvertently pulled my leg back from her grip and she reminded me, once again, that she’s “a professional.” She spent a lot of time on my hips, trying to push and pull them back into alignment, guessing aloud that something in my spine must have shifted when the car hit me.

Maybe it’s because we hold so much emotional stress in our hips (queue crying in yoga, part 4) or maybe it’s because I had effectively dissolved any shame I had about crying in public – but, not only could I not contain my tears, I had no interest in doing so. I was being pulled like a rag doll by a cold woman with colder hands and, more importantly, I recognized the powerful release that I was experiencing. After thinking about the car accident with so much stoicism and indifference, I was finally beginning to move through the necessary stages of grief. When she asked me to turn onto my other side, she looked at my face to find that I had been crying.

“Sorry,” I began, half laughing. “I told you, I’ve been sensitive. I basically haven’t stopped crying for two days.” Her only response was to raise her eyebrows in my direction and continue the same torture on the other side. In an effort to distract myself from the pain, I started asking if she had any suggestions about how to approach yoga with my injuries, if there was anything in particular I should do or avoid. “No asanas, I think. Maybe stretching is good”

“No asanas,” I repeated in shock. I thought about how I truly, deeply loved yoga and how, even when it was challenging, it was still something that served every part of me. 

“Yes, I think so. No asanas.”

In addition to physically beating me up (presumably for some greater good, I had to believe as I was lying there naked and in pain), she was serving me one emotional blow after another. 

At that point, the tears were no longer silent. Katrina was pointedly unimpressed by my inability to maintain composure. She began to tell me stories of other patients that she had seen, ones who, in her “professional” opinion, were much more resilient than I was. It was this weird combination of toxic positivity (“be grateful it’s not worse”) and an acute lack of sympathy. In any case, her vague attempt to make me feel better was not effective. I just stopped responding and oscillated between feeling the pain she was inflicting and ignoring it, allowing the tears to fall down my face regardless. 

Finally, realizing she couldn’t soothe me with her patronizing stories, she opened up a big ziplock bag full of smaller ziplock bags and pulled out a little brown ball. 

“Here,” she commanded, handing it to me along with a small glass of water. “Take this.”

“What is it?” I asked as I examined it, turning it over in my hand.

“It’s Tibetan, good for balancing mood. Chew a little first” 

“Okay but what’s it called?” I love an herbal remedy but even I was skeptical of this mysterious Tibetan tranquilizer. 

Katrina only stood in front of me and crossed her arms, waiting impatiently until I cracked it between my teeth and swallowed. I was angry about the tranquilizer. I was finally learning, for the first time in my life, not to retreat in the face of sadness. Jaw clenched, I offered a tight-lipped smile so we could proceed. 

“Lay on your stomach now.”

I rolled over, waiting patiently for Katrina to continue the massage before I realized that she was gathering acupuncture needles from the medicine closet. The crying had stopped but the force of my breath was still strong, body tense. I suddenly felt the prick of a needle and the muscles in my back tightened around it. It was the most pain I’d ever felt from acupuncture. Each needle caused different parts of my body to spasm, and she must have placed 20 around my entire back. Once she finished with my back, she came around to my right side to place one between my ribs. It shot a searing pain through my body like an electric current and I flinched (which I would recommend against if you ever find yourself with a bunch of needles sitting in your skin.) The pain didn’t settle so I told her to take the last one out.

“Ahh, a princess,” she said while she pulled the needle from my torso. “You know, when you cry, you have to think about what it does to your face. Makes pretty girls ugly tomorrow.”

Never have I ever. My sadness turned quickly into anger. Was that what she meant by mood balancing?

I have always been acutely aware of my high threshold for pain but it was no longer something I was proud of. On the contrary, it felt like a burden, a defense mechanism that I was desperate to release. This woman was intent on making me feel like this newfound sensitivity was a weakness when, to me, it felt like strength. It was like a dam broke open inside of me and my feelings were finally able to move freely within me. In the stillness of the mountains, I was brave enough to sit with discomfort instead of packing it tightly away like I’d always been so deft at doing.