The Real Cost of Healing Work (When You’re the Healer)

The Hidden Weight Behind the Healing

A few years ago, I hit a wall. Not the kind you gently lean against when you're tired—but the kind that knocks the air out of your lungs. I'd been holding space for others, working in massage therapy while trying to outrun the weight of my own trauma. At first, the work felt like a lifeline. But eventually, I realized I was running on empty. My nervous system was frayed. My body was whispering, then screaming: You need to stop.

So I did. I stepped back from massage entirely and took nearly a year off. Not by choice—it felt more like being forced to listen. Everything in me resisted the pause: guilt, fear, pressure to keep going. But the truth was, I couldn’t fake it anymore. The burnout wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, spiritual, cellular.

During that time off, I returned to therapy—this time focused on trauma and emotional regulation. I began DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy), not expecting a magic fix but needing something grounding. It helped me confront the quiet parts of myself I’d avoided: grief, perfectionism, the compulsion to earn worth through care-taking. Slowing down revealed how deeply I’d been bypassing my own healing in service of others.

Healing work often looks gentle on the outside—warm rooms, soft linens, grounding touch—but the emotional labor underneath can be immense. When you're the one people turn to for relief, it's easy to slip into the role of always being calm and stable. But being a healer doesn’t mean being invincible. And it definitely doesn’t mean self-sacrifice.

What emerged wasn’t just recovery—it was a new relationship with healing itself. A slower rhythm. A deeper connection to intuition. A kind of sacred restraint—where less becomes more powerful, more honest, more sustainable.

I. Healing Others Begins With Healing Yourself

The Burnout That No One Talks About

There’s this idea that if you work in the healing field, you must have your own life completely together. A regulated nervous system. Boundaries of steel. A diet of kale and clarity. But many of us—especially those called to this work through pain—know that’s a myth.

I didn’t come to massage therapy from a place of peace. I came from disruption—abuse, loss, instability. I was seeking grounding, not a profession. And for a while, I found it. But working with bodies while your own body holds unprocessed trauma takes a toll. There’s a fatigue that goes beyond the physical—a nervous system fatigue that starts to erode your capacity to give.

When the Body Says No

Eventually, my body made the decision for me. Panic attacks. Insomnia. Days of uncontrollable crying. I couldn’t push through anymore. I didn’t take a planned sabbatical—I disappeared from the work for nearly a year.

That year wasn’t restful—it was raw and disorienting. I felt guilt for stepping away, shame for needing rest. But trauma doesn’t move on a marketing schedule. It took months to realize that my value wasn’t tied to how many people I helped. I could still be a healer, even when I wasn’t working.

The turning point was understanding that I couldn’t offer what I hadn’t reclaimed. If I wanted to support others in nervous system regulation, I had to feel it in my own body first.

Therapy as a Reclamation

DBT became my structure. Emotional unlearning became the work. Saying “I don’t know how to regulate myself” after years of guiding others toward calm was humbling—and liberating.

I let go of the belief that I had to be okay to be of service. I began grieving what I’d bypassed. I learned to sit with my shame instead of spiritually bypassing it. That’s when I began to understand what it really means to hold space—not as a performance, but as presence.

If you’re curious about how my own healing philosophy translates into what I offer, you can explore the types of sessions I give —each one rooted in presence, consent, and care.

“Some hands hold more than muscle—they hold memory, grief, and the quiet labor of presence.”

II. The Emotional Labor of Being a Healer

Touch Isn’t Just Physical—it’s Energetic

Massage isn’t just muscles. It’s memory. It’s emotion. It’s energy.

Clients often carry unspoken grief, anxiety, trauma. Their bodies whisper it—through breath, posture, stillness. And if you’re not mindful, you absorb it. Especially as an empath or sensitive practitioner.

That’s why energy hygiene isn’t optional. Before and after every session, I ground myself, clear energy, shake things off—literally. I set boundaries not just around my time, but my nervous system. I’m not here to fix anyone. I hold space—but I also know when to step out of it.

The “Healer” Myth

There’s this silent myth that we have to be serene at all times. Regulated, wise, composed. It’s not real. Sometimes I’m just trying not to spiral mid-day.

The pressure to always appear grounded is heavy. But pretending doesn’t help anyone—not your clients, not you. Clients don’t need perfect. They need real. They need someone who’s been through fire and stopped pretending it didn’t burn.

Now, when I’m not okay, I cancel. I rest. I tend to myself. Not as productivity. Not as optics. Just as a person honoring what’s real.

III. Healing Doesn’t Always Look Productive

The Capitalist Trap of Constant Output

If you’re a solo practitioner, it can feel like you’re only as valid as your latest booking or post. Rest starts to feel like erasure. Healing becomes something you have to prove.

I’ve been there—watching others launch retreats, build followings, scale quickly. Meanwhile, I was in therapy, trying to feel safe in my own body again. It made me feel behind. But our nervous systems aren’t built for constant visibility and hustle. The push to monetize healing becomes a trauma response in disguise.

There’s also a kind of invisibility to real healing. It’s quiet. It’s slow. It’s unseen. But it matters. It builds the foundation under everything.

Redefining Success

Eventually, I rewrote what success meant to me. Not volume, but depth. Not popularity, but presence. Could I hold space that didn’t burn me out? Could I make healing sustainable—for me and the client?

Fewer, deeper sessions. Slower growth. More truth. That’s what aligned. That’s what lasts. Because not everything worth building moves fast—and I’m no longer interested in building anything that betrays my body to get there.

IV. Veluna’s Philosophy: Sacred, Slow, and Real

Sustainability as a Spiritual Practice

The way I pace myself, the way I set boundaries, the way I create space—it’s all part of the offering. Every session begins with intention. Not a performance. Just presence. A breath. A check-in. A remembering.

If I’m off-center, I pause. If my nervous system isn’t in a place to hold space, I wait. The work I do is intuitive, relational, energetic. And it only works when I’m honest about where I’m at.

The sessions I offer aren’t just for physical relief. They’re for integration. For nervous system safety. For remembering that we’re not machines—we’re people, with breath and heartbreak and healing to do.

Not Just Relaxation—Repatterning

Massage can be more than relaxing. When it’s attuned, slow, and trauma-informed, it can repattern the nervous system.

Our bodies store trauma. In muscles, breath, posture. Safe touch helps the parasympathetic nervous system kick in—that’s where real healing happens (Porges, 2011). The kind of healing that says: You’re not in danger anymore.

I don’t press deeper to fix something. I listen. I wait. I follow the body’s cues. That’s what creates lasting change—not just relief, but reconnection. Clients often say, “I feel more like myself.” That’s the shift that matters.

If this kind of healing resonates with you—slow, attuned, body-based—you might want to read more about my approach and what drives the heart of this work.

“You don’t have to hold the world to be worthy of rest.”

V. For Healers: It’s Okay to Be the One in Need

A Love Note to Fellow Practitioners

You’re allowed to need. You’re allowed to not want to hold space. You’re allowed to rest. Being human isn’t a flaw in this work—it’s the core of it.

There’s pressure to be the light, the regulated one. But regulation isn’t an aesthetic. It’s a practice. And sometimes, it’s messy. That messiness? It’s what makes us trustworthy.

Clients don’t feel held because we’re perfect. They feel held because we’re present. And presence starts with ourselves.

Healing That Honors You, Too

We’re not here to martyr ourselves in the name of service. That’s reenactment, not healing. Growth comes through boundaries. Through truth. Through rest. Through saying no when we need to.

Let your humanity into the room. Build a practice that nourishes you. Because when you feel resourced, when you feel whole—you become the safe space the world actually needs.

The Healer’s Return: From Sacrifice to Self

I used to think being a healer meant being strong. Calm. Certain. But that was survival mode wrapped in a spiritual mask.

Real strength is presence. Real strength is honesty. Healing isn’t a role—it’s a relationship. With yourself. With others. And relationships ask for reciprocity.

When I honor my own needs—when I stop performing, and start being—something shifts. Healing becomes less about fixing and more about unfolding. Less about control, more about connection.

This is what I choose now: slow, sacred, sustainable. Letting the work evolve with me. Letting it breathe. Letting it be enough.

Because healing—when it’s real—doesn’t ask us to sacrifice ourselves. It asks us to come home to ourselves.
And that’s what I want every session to feel like: a return.

If you're ready to explore what that kind of healing could feel like for you, check out my booking page. While I’m currently based in Phoenix, I offer sessions on a limited basis as I prepare to open fully in Santa Fe later this year.

New here or have questions? My FAQ page covers everything from how to prepare to what it’s like to work with someone who honors the nervous system first.