It’s funny, I never thought I’d find myself laying flat on a bamboo mat in a tiny room somewhere off a back street in Chiang Mai, trying to quiet down my buzzing head. But here I am — or well, was — and I guess I needed it more than I knew.
See, I’ve been carrying around this stupid tightness in my shoulders for what feels like years. You know that feeling when your neck kinda crunches every time you turn? That was me, plus about a million tabs open in my brain. I read somewhere — can’t remember where — that stress sits in the body. Well, duh. Turns out it does.
So I found this Reiki place by accident. Didn’t even plan it. I was hunting for a cheap noodle stall and a girl at a café said, “Try Reiki, you look tired.” I did. I half expected incense and crystal balls and someone chanting awkward stuff. But it was mostly just silence and a woman with gentle eyes. She told me to breathe, again and again, until my brain got annoyed and then — kinda gave up. I wish I could tell you it was magical or cosmic or whatever, but honestly it was just simple. And maybe that’s exactly why it worked.
When she put her hands over my stomach, I thought about my dad for the first time in months. Weird, right? Stuff bubbles up when you stop running your mouth. I felt tears push up but they didn’t spill. She didn’t ask questions. Just kept her hands there, like she knew everything and nothing at once.
I left the room an hour later not “fixed” but… softer? It’s hard to explain without sounding like one of those spiritual wannabes on YouTube. My shoulders still click, my brain still yells at me at 3am, but now there’s this pocket of quiet in me that I keep poking when life gets too loud.
If you’ve never done Reiki, maybe read this thing here. But honestly, don’t overthink it. It’s not about believing or chanting or buying crystals on Etsy. It’s about letting someone remind your body how to breathe without your panic in the way.
Chiang Mai is noisy in its own gentle way — scooters squealing past temples, old men shouting about durian prices, monks gliding barefoot at sunrise. All that hum feels softer after a session like this. Maybe because you remember you’re part of it, not just a tourist dragging your suitcase up broken sidewalks.
Some quick tips: come on time, wear loose pants, leave your phone outside. Trust the silence. Let your mind wander and fail. It’s fine. Nobody’s grading you. Pay what feels fair — a little extra won’t hurt you, and it’ll keep this place humming along for the next tired wanderer.
Would I do it again? Probably next week. Or maybe tomorrow, if I eat too much khao soi and need to nap my way into forgiveness. Life’s short, and sometimes you find your quiet moments between a stray dog barking at shadows and a stranger’s hands hovering above your heart.
If you’re reading this and thinking, “Maybe I should try,” then go. Don’t tell too many people though. Let it stay a little hidden, tucked behind a wooden door that squeaks just loud enough to remind you you’re human.
Alright, enough ramble from me. There’s a mango sticky rice stand with my name on it and I’m pretty sure I deserve it. Be kind to your tired bits — they miss you more than you know.
