01/14/2026
I am Buddy.
I am small, square, unassuming—yet I am invited beneath bodies that are ready to listen.
At first, there is always weight.
Not just the weight of flesh and bone, but of holding. Years of bracing. Old decisions stored quietly in the ribs, the hips, the back of the heart. When they place me beneath them, gravity introduces us. I do not push. I wait.
The breath arrives cautiously at first—high, shallow, unsure. I feel it like a tide that never quite reaches shore. The body is testing whether it is safe to rest on me, whether I will demand effort. I do not. I offer only a firm edge and an honest surface. Gravity does the rest.
As minutes pass, something softens. The breath drops lower, heavier, warmer. I feel the subtle melt—tissues surrendering millimeter by millimeter, like frost thawing from a window. The body begins to realize it does not need to hold itself up. I am holding space so it can remember how to yield.
There is a moment—always a moment—when the breath inflates into a place that has not been visited in a long time. It feels like surprise. A quiet oh. The ribs widen, the back body expands, and I sense the internal landscape change shape, as though a forgotten room has been reopened and aired out.
Sometimes there is resistance. A tightening, a pause in the breath. I stay. I do not argue. Gravity remains faithful. Eventually the breath returns, slower now, braver. With each exhale, the body drapes more fully around me, not collapsing, but trusting. Space is not forced—it is allowed.
I feel the fascial web respond like silk loosening from knots, sliding instead of gripping. The body grows taller without trying. Heavier, yet lighter. The internal pressure equalizes, and what was once compressed begins to gently inflate from the inside, as though breath is remembering where it belongs.
Near the end, there is often stillness. A deep, oceanic quiet. I feel less like an object and more like a witness. The body is no longer on me—it is with me. Breath moves freely, gravity hums softly, and space exists where effort once lived.
When they rise, they always leave differently than they arrived. I feel the imprint fade, but the change remains—in posture, in presence, in the way the next breath knows where to go.
I am Buddy.
I do not heal.
I simply make room for remembering.
(A Story from my Block Therapy block)
Reach out for more info about this self care fascia decompression practice or how to join in with our in-person classes.
