The Healing Touch

I hadn't had a vacation in three years. Hadn't taken a sick day, hadn't called out for mental health, hadn't done anything except work myself into the ground until my doctor looked at my blood pressure results and said, "Emma, if you don't take a break, your body is going to take one for you."

That's how I ended up at Serenity Springs—a wellness resort in the mountains of Vermont that promised "holistic healing for the modern woman." My sister had booked it for me as a birthday present, refusing to take no for an answer. Four days of yoga, organic food, and apparently a lot of expensive spa treatments.

I didn't know how to relax. I barely remembered what it felt like. But I was here, and I'd promised my sister I would try.

The massage was scheduled for my second day. Deep tissue, ninety minutes, with someone named Sage Morrison who the brochure described as "our most requested therapist."

I showed up ten minutes early because I'm constitutionally incapable of being anything else. The spa was all warm wood and soft lighting, the kind of peaceful aesthetic that probably cost a fortune to achieve. A receptionist with an unnaturally calm voice directed me to a waiting room where herbal tea and cucumber water were laid out like offerings.

I was too wound up to drink anything. I sat on the edge of a bamboo chair, checking my phone every thirty seconds even though I'd promised to stay off email.

"Emma?"

I looked up and felt the breath leave my body.

The woman standing in the doorway was not what I expected. I'd pictured someone older, maternal, with sensible shoes and a ponytail. Sage Morrison was maybe my age—mid-thirties—with silver-blonde hair cut short and tousled, sleeve tattoos peeking out from under her white spa uniform, and eyes the color of sea glass.

"I'm Sage. I'll be taking care of you today." Her voice was low and warm, with a slight rasp that did something unexpected to my nervous system. "Ready?"

I followed her down a hallway lined with those little electric candles that flicker like real flames. The treatment room was small and dimly lit, with a massage table in the center and the sound of running water coming from somewhere I couldn't identify.

"First time at Serenity?"

"First time at any spa, actually. I'm not very good at this whole relaxation thing."

She smiled, and it transformed her face—made her look younger, softer. "That's okay. That's why you're here. Let me do the work. Your job is just to breathe."

She stepped out so I could undress and get on the table. I did it mechanically, folding my clothes with the same precision I brought to everything, lying face-down under the sheet like a patient waiting for surgery.

When Sage returned, I heard her moving around the room. The click of an oil bottle. The soft sound of her hands rubbing together.

"I'm going to start with your shoulders. Let me know if the pressure is too much."

Her hands made contact, and I immediately understood why she was the most requested therapist.

There's a difference between a massage that's technically competent and one that feels like the person is actually listening to your body. Sage was listening. Every knot, every tight spot, every place I held tension without knowing I was holding it—she found them all. Her fingers moved with a certainty that said she'd done this a thousand times but was still paying attention to this specific body, this specific moment.

I tried to stay in my head at first. Ran through my to-do list, thought about the presentation I had next week, wondered if I'd remembered to respond to that email from accounting. But Sage's hands were relentless in the best way, pressing into muscles I'd forgotten I had until they released and I felt myself sinking deeper into the table.

"You hold a lot of stress in your upper back."

"I sit at a desk twelve hours a day."

"That'll do it." Her thumbs worked along my spine, finding spots that made me gasp. "What do you do?"

"Corporate law. Mergers and acquisitions."

"Ah. A professional stress collector."

I laughed—actually laughed, a sound that surprised me. "That's exactly what it is."

She worked her way down my back, over my hips, down to my legs. Every touch was professional, clinical almost, but something about the way she moved—the care she took, the attention she paid—felt intimate in a way I couldn't explain.

I'd had massages before. Quick thirty-minute sessions at the spa in my gym, usually while answering emails on my phone. This was different. This was—

I felt tears prick at my eyes. Out of nowhere, completely unexpected. Sage must have noticed the way my breathing changed because she paused, her hands resting warm and still on my lower back.

"It's okay. This happens sometimes. The body stores emotions as much as tension. It's good to let them out."

I didn't let them out. I held on, the way I always did, forcing the tears back down through sheer will. But something had shifted. Some wall had cracked, just a little.

When the ninety minutes were over, I felt like a different person. Lighter. Looser. Like someone had rewired my entire nervous system.

"Drink lots of water today," Sage said as I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest. "And try to take it easy. Your body just released a lot of toxins."

"That was..." I struggled for words. "I don't think I've ever felt that relaxed in my life."

She smiled again, that transformative smile. "That's what I'm here for. Same time tomorrow?"

I'd only booked one session. But I heard myself say "Yes" before my brain could catch up.

The second day, I showed up exactly on time. Sage was waiting in the hallway, and she lit up when she saw me.

"How do you feel?"

"Sore, actually. But good sore."

"That's normal. Your muscles are learning to let go."

This session was different. More focused on my neck and shoulders, the places where I felt like I was carrying the weight of a thousand deadlines. Sage talked more—about her training, about how she'd ended up in Vermont after years of working in high-end spas in Manhattan.

"I burned out. Different industry, same story. Worked too hard, forgot who I was, woke up one day and didn't recognize my own reflection."

"How did you fix it?"

"I got out. Moved somewhere quieter. Started doing work that actually felt meaningful instead of just impressive." Her hands found a particularly stubborn knot, and I groaned as she worked it loose. "It took a while. But I'm happier now than I've ever been."

"I don't know if I could do that. Just... walk away from everything I've built."

"You don't have to. You just have to ask yourself if what you've built is serving you, or if you're serving it."

The question stayed with me long after the session ended. Through dinner at the resort's farm-to-table restaurant. Through the yoga class I took the next morning, where I was embarrassingly inflexible but no one seemed to judge. Through the hike I went on that afternoon, my first real physical activity in months.

By the time my third appointment with Sage rolled around, I was starting to understand why people paid so much for places like this. It wasn't about the luxury. It was about having space to think.

The third session was on my last full day at Serenity. I was dreading going home—dreading the return to emails and meetings and a life that suddenly felt like it belonged to someone else.

Sage must have sensed my mood because she was gentler today. More soothing. Her hands moved like she was trying to give me something to carry back with me.

"You seem different than when you arrived."

"I feel different. I'm trying to figure out if it's going to last."

"That depends on you. On whether you're willing to make changes."

"What kind of changes?"

She was quiet for a moment, her hands working along my spine. "Can I tell you something that might be unprofessional?"

"Okay."

"When you first walked in here, you reminded me of myself five years ago. Wound so tight you were vibrating. Wearing your exhaustion like a badge of honor. I wanted to shake you and tell you that you're worth more than your productivity."

"And now?"

"Now I see someone who's starting to wake up. And I'm—" She stopped. Her hands stilled on my lower back. "I'm finding it harder to maintain professional distance than I usually do."

My heart, which had been calm and steady for the past hour, suddenly kicked into a higher gear.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I think about you between sessions. It means I look forward to seeing you in a way that's not entirely professional. It means—" Another pause. "This is completely inappropriate. I'm sorry. Forget I said anything."

"What if I don't want to forget it?"

Silence. I turned my head, trying to see her. She'd stepped back from the table, her hands no longer touching me, her expression uncertain.

"Sage."

"You're a client. I could lose my job for this."

"I won't be a client after today."

"That's not—"

"I've thought about you too." The words came out before I could stop them. "Every session, I've walked out of here feeling like something shifted. And not just physically. You make me feel—seen. In a way I haven't felt in a long time. Maybe ever."

She stared at me. I stared back. The distance between us felt charged with something electric.

"If we do this—if we cross this line—there's no going back."

"I know."

"I don't do casual."

"Neither do I."

She stepped forward. Slowly. Giving me every chance to change my mind. Her hand came up to cup my face, and I leaned into her touch like I'd been waiting for it my entire life.

"After your session is officially over," she said, her thumb tracing my cheekbone. "Meet me at the fire pit behind the main lodge. Eight o'clock."

"What about your job?"

"You're not my client anymore as of six o'clock today." She smiled, that sea-glass glint in her eyes. "After that, we're just two women who happened to meet at a spa."

I arrived at the fire pit at 7:45. The sun was setting behind the mountains, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. Sage was already there, wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater instead of her spa uniform. She looked different out of her professional context—more relaxed, more real.

"You came."

"Was there any doubt?"

"I spent the last two hours convinced I'd ruined everything."

"You didn't ruin anything." I sat down beside her on the log bench, close enough that our shoulders touched. "If anything, you woke something up."

"Yeah?"

"I've been so focused on work for so long that I forgot what it feels like to want something. To want someone." I turned to look at her. "When you touched me today—"

"Emma."

"Let me finish. When you touched me, I felt something I haven't felt in years. Maybe ever. And it wasn't just the massage. It was you. The way you looked at me. The way you listened when I talked. The way you called me out on my bullshit without making me feel judged."

"I meant it when I said I don't do casual. I'm forty-one years old. I've had my share of flings and hookups and relationships that were convenient instead of real. I'm not interested in any of that anymore."

"What are you interested in?"

"Connection. Honesty. Someone who's willing to do the work."

"I live in Boston. You live here."

"I know."

"That's not exactly convenient."

"I know that too." She reached over, took my hand. Her fingers were warm, strong, familiar now in a way that made my chest ache. "I'm not asking for forever tonight. I'm just asking for tonight. And maybe the chance to see where this goes."

The fire crackled. The stars were coming out, more than I'd ever seen in the city. Somewhere in the trees, an owl called.

"I've never been with a woman before."

"Is that a problem?"

"I don't know. I've spent my whole life following a script that someone else wrote. Good school, good job, good apartment, appropriate relationship. I never stopped to ask if any of it was what I actually wanted."

"And now?"

"Now I'm sitting here with you, and everything in me is saying this is what I want. This is who I want. Even if it doesn't make sense. Even if I don't know how it works."

She leaned in and kissed me. Soft at first, questioning. Then deeper when I kissed her back. She tasted like peppermint tea and something sweeter underneath. Her free hand came up to tangle in my hair, and I felt myself melting into her the way I'd melted into the massage table—surrendering, finally, to something bigger than myself.

When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

"Come with me."

I didn't ask where. I just followed.

Her cabin was small and tidy, with hand-woven rugs on the floor and plants in every window. She lit candles while I stood by the door, suddenly nervous now that we were here.

"We can just talk," she said, reading my hesitation. "We don't have to—"

"I want to. I'm just scared."

"Of what?"

"That this is a fantasy. That I'll go home tomorrow and real life will drown it all out. That—"

She crossed to me, took my face in both hands.

"This is real. Whatever happens next, whatever we figure out or don't figure out—this is real. And I'm right here."

What happened next was slow and tender and nothing like I expected. She undressed me the way she'd massaged me—with attention, with care, with a focus that made me feel like I was the only person in the world. She taught me her body, learned mine, and somewhere in the middle of the night I stopped thinking and just felt.

When I finally slept, it was the deepest sleep I'd had in years. And when I woke up, she was still there.

⏳ One Year Later

I quit my job in February. Took the severance package they offered to make me go away quietly—enough to pay off my student loans and live on while I figured out what came next.

What came next was Vermont.

Not immediately. We did the long-distance thing for six months—weekends in Boston, weekends in the mountains, phone calls every night and texts throughout the day. It was hard and inconvenient and worth every mile I traveled.

The move felt inevitable by the time I made it. I'd been looking for an excuse to reinvent my life, and Sage was the best excuse I'd ever found.

I do contract work now—consulting for small businesses, helping them with legal questions without the hundred-hour weeks. I make less money, but I actually see the sun. I hike and cook and read books that aren't about case law. I'm learning to meditate, badly, while Sage laughs at my inability to sit still.

We live in the cabin. She added on a room for my home office, put in a garden, adopted a ridiculous orange cat named Butternut who sleeps between us every night.

"Any regrets?" she asks sometimes, usually when we're lying in bed watching the snow fall outside our window.

"Only that I didn't find you sooner."

"You weren't ready sooner. Neither was I."

"The universe's timing?"

"Something like that."

She still works at the spa. Still heals people with her hands, still helps them find their way back to themselves. Sometimes I get jealous of all the other women who get to experience her touch—but then she comes home, and her hands are for me, and I remember that some things are worth sharing.

My sister came to visit last month. She took one look at me—tan and relaxed, laughing with my mouth wide open like I used to as a kid—and burst into tears.

"I've never seen you like this," she said. "You look like you finally showed up for your own life."

That's exactly what it feels like. Like I spent thirty-five years waiting in the wings and finally stepped onto the stage. Like everything before was prologue, and this is where the story really begins.

Sage says I'm still learning to relax. She's not wrong. But I'm getting better every day. And with her hands on me, her voice in my ear, her life intertwined with mine, I'm finally finding the peace I thought I'd never deserve.