“The Pain Only Appeared at School” — On the Relationship Between the Body and Space

It must have been four or five years by then.

The mother had been attending my workshops, and over the years she had visited the salon many times — for her own health concerns, as well as for her parents and parents-in-law.

Little by little, over a long period of time, a relationship of trust had formed with the family.

One day, she contacted me about her son.

He had just entered junior high school and had begun complaining of ankle pain.

The pain had become so severe that he could no longer participate in baseball practice.

In fact, I had worked with the boy a few times before.

He came to the salon again for this ankle issue, and after the session, the symptoms settled down.

His mother felt relieved.

But later, I heard that the pain had returned.

To be safe, they visited an orthopedic clinic.

However,

“Nothing abnormal.”

Even on the X-rays, no clear cause could be found.

I had always felt that this boy was extremely sensitive by nature.

Then his mother said something interesting.

“Maybe the school environment itself is affecting him.”

I paused for a moment and asked her to bring photographs of the school grounds and the classroom.

In remote support and space-related work, I do not only look at the body itself.

I also observe the “place” where the person spends most of their time.

As I looked through the photographs one by one, my attention stopped at a particular corner of the school grounds.

There was a garbage disposal area there.

For some reason, the atmosphere around that place felt heavy.

Stagnant.

I could not explain it logically, but there was a lingering sense of discomfort.

As I focused more carefully, an image came to mind.

A younger student, reluctantly carrying garbage after being told by an older student,

“Hey, go throw this away.”

Of course, I do not think the older student meant any harm.

It is probably a completely ordinary scene in many schools.

But when those small stresses and hierarchies repeat themselves over many years and many generations, a certain atmosphere can remain in a place.

I adjusted the connection between the boy and that particular area.

So that he would not absorb it too deeply.

So that he would not become entangled in it.

A few days later, I contacted the mother because I was concerned about him.

She replied,

“The pain hasn’t returned since then.”

That experience reminded me once again that the body does not exist in isolation.

People are influenced far more deeply than we realize by the spaces and relationships they are surrounded by every day.

Of course, I do not believe that every issue can simply be blamed on land or environment.

Reality is never that simple.

But there are certainly cases where:

medical tests show nothing abnormal,

yet the person is undeniably suffering.

That does happen.

And there was something else I realized as well.

The reason they came back to consult me again was because trust had already been built over many years.

If it had been a one-time encounter,

if there had not already been a foundation for sharing and recognizing change,

perhaps that would have been the end of it.

Remote support, bodywork, and healing work ultimately exist on top of human trust.

I believe that deeply.

And lately, I have come to feel more and more strongly that

to “restore the body”

also means

to look carefully at the place a person returns to every single day.