Stories in Your Skin: An anthropologist's notes from the massage table

Massage is often framed as physical—about muscles, fascia, pressure, pain relief. But underneath every session lies a deeper story. One shaped by history, culture, identity, and belief.

Why do we carry tension in our shoulders, but not our calves?Why do some bodies flinch from care while others melt into it?Why is touch healing for some—and threatening for others?

These questions don’t have purely anatomical answers. They live in the terrain of anthropology—the study of how humans move through the world, shaped by culture, conditioned by systems, and transformed by story.

This series explores massage through that lens.Each post offers a window into the why beneath the how:

• Why certain touch feels sacred

• Why posture becomes politics

• Why pain speaks when words don’t

• Why some bodies feel safe to soften, and others never have

We’ll look at global healing traditions, trauma-informed care, energetic practices, gendered embodiment, nervous system repair, and more. This is about massage not as a luxury, but as ritual, resistance, and reconnection.

Massage isn’t neutral. Touch is never just physical. When we meet the body with knowledge, reverence, and cultural humility—healing happens.

Welcome to Stories in Your Skin.

Let’s begin where all stories do: the body.

Touch Is Never Neutral: How Culture Shapes the Way We Heal

When I tell people I have a degree in anthropology and a career in massage therapy, I usually get a curious look. But for me, the connection is obvious: both are about human beings—our stories, our pain, and how we try to feel better in a complicated world.

Massage therapy is often talked about like it's just about relaxing muscles. But as someone who works with bodies every day, I can tell you: there’s a lot more going on beneath the surface. Every session involves unspoken rules, personal beliefs, and cultural messages about what touch means. In short—touch is never neutral. And understanding that can change how we heal.

My Table Is Not Just a Table

Over the years, I’ve had clients flinch when I gently rest a hand on their back. Others have burst into tears the moment I began working on their shoulders. Some tell me they can’t remember the last time someone touched them without wanting something. These moments remind me that massage isn’t just a physical act—it’s emotional, cultural, and deeply personal.

Anthropologist Janice Engebretson (2002) points out that Western medicine often trains practitioners to be emotionally detached—to focus on the body as a mechanical system, not a person. In contrast, healing systems around the world often include emotion, spirit, and community.

In traditional Hawaiian lomilomi, for example, the massage therapist may include prayer, chant, or breathing with the client. It’s not just about sore muscles—it’s about restoring pono, or balance, in the whole self.

That difference matters. When clients come to me, they don’t just bring their physical pain—they bring their experiences, fears, identities, and the silent messages they’ve absorbed about touch.

Culture Teaches Us How to Be Touched

Different cultures have different rules about touch. In the Philippines, hilot is a respected healing art that combines massage with spiritual elements like herbs and energy clearing (Oumeish, 2005). In many Latin American traditions, sobada is used for prenatal care, guided by midwives who are often the trusted healers of the community.

In contrast, American culture tends to treat massage as either a luxury or a medical service. It’s often clinical and quiet, even sterile. That’s not necessarily a bad thing—but it leaves out the full picture. Our culture’s discomfort with touch shows up in how we teach boundaries, how we view bodies, and even how we assign value to care work.

In one study of Healing Touch therapy used with pediatric patients in Hawaii, researchers found that how families responded had everything to do with their cultural values (Ghiasuddin et al., 2015). Some embraced the practice. Others declined, not because it didn’t “work,” but because it didn’t fit their traditions or sense of safety. The lesson? Even when the hands are skilled, healing has to feel right for the person receiving it.

Trauma Lives in the Skin

Some of the most powerful moments in my work happen when someone’s body finally lets go of something it’s been holding for years. But that only happens when trust is built. And trust isn’t automatic—it has to be earned, moment by moment, breath by breath.

For survivors of trauma, massage can feel deeply vulnerable. For queer and trans clients, it can feel unsafe. For people from conservative or gender-segregated cultures, touch from a stranger—especially one of a different gender—can feel confusing or even forbidden. These aren’t just personal reactions. They’re shaped by social and cultural histories.

That’s why I try to approach each session not just as a technician, but as a witness. I watch how someone breathes, how they guard certain parts of their body, how they respond to being offered care. I adjust. I listen. I try to show that touch can be respectful, healing, and safe. Anthropologist Hedstrom and Newton (1986) wrote about how women in different cultures are touched during childbirth—some are held and soothed, others left alone. These patterns reflect not just medical beliefs, but deep cultural values about care and control.

The same applies on the massage table. Some clients expect quiet. Others need conversation. Some want stillness. Others feel safer when I explain what I’m doing. There’s no one-size-fits-all. There never was.

Every Touch Carries a Story

Massage therapy isn’t neutral. It never has been. It carries the weight of colonialism (how Western science dismissed or stole traditional healing systems), capitalism (who can afford to rest), gender roles (who’s allowed to receive nurturing), and race (who’s seen as “safe” or “trustworthy” enough to touch others).

When I touch someone in session, I’m not just interacting with their tissues—I’m interacting with the stories their body has learned to carry. Some of those stories are painful. Some are beautiful. My job is to create a space where they can loosen, breathe, or shift.

Massage, when done with care and awareness, becomes a kind of conversation—one where no words are needed, but everything is understood.

Final Thoughts

Understanding the cultural meaning of touch doesn’t make massage more complicated—it makes it more human. It reminds us that healing is not just about anatomy and technique. It’s about presence, power, and permission.

Touch is never just a tool. It’s a form of language. And when we use it wisely, it can say:

You are safe here. You are allowed to rest. You are not alone.

Sources:

• Engebretson, J. (2002). Culture and Complementary Therapies: Integration of Alternative Therapies in Western Biomedical Culture.

• Oumeish, Y. (2005). The Cultural and Philosophical Aspects of Pressure Massage.

• Ghiasuddin, S., Wong, R., & Slavin, S. (2015). Ethnicity, Traditional Healing Practices, and Attitudes Toward Healing Touch in Pediatric Oncology.

• Hedstrom, J., & Newton, R. (1986). Touch in Labor: A Comparison of Cultures and Eras.

Next in the series: The Ritual of the Table: Massage as Modern-Day Ceremony — exploring how a massage session can become sacred space.