Man or Woman, It Doesn't Matter — We All Hold Onto Things: What Happens When Your Body Finally Releases

While I was away recently, I treated myself to several massages. Combined with my personal yoga practice, my gosh — it shifted some energy. While the trip away was amazing, followed by a day of holiday blues, it wasn't all relaxation and sunbathing.

And I'll be honest with you: it wasn't all blissful.

Yes, there were the wonderful calming, melting, relaxed feelings we expect. But there were also a few days that were pretty touch and go, where some heavy stuff came right to the surface. It was not comfortable, that much I will say.

I'm sharing this because I think we don't talk about it enough: committing to your wellbeing isn't always comfortable. And if you've ever felt a little off after a powerful yoga class or a deep massage — a bit teary, irritable, heavy, or strangely emotional for no obvious reason — I want you to know there is nothing wrong with you. In fact, something very right is happening.

The massage that almost undid me

Let me tell you about that one, because I think the honest detail matters.

It was probably my third massage in the first week and a half — and somewhere in the middle of it, something happened. Something big shifted, and out of nowhere I felt a huge urge to cry. To lash out. To kick. To scream. To beg the woman to *stop*. Honestly, if she could have seen what was rising up in me, she'd probably have thought I was nuts. It would have probably scared her!

But I breathed through it. Every tool my yoga practice has ever given me, I used on that table.

And here's how I knew this one was different: when it ended, I was grateful. I have never once felt that in a massage. I'm the person who soaks up every last second and quietly resents the moment I know it's coming to an end. Not this time. This one was intense and deeply uncomfortable — and I couldn't get off that table fast enough.

But I had one advantage: I knew what was happening. I knew that something painful and heavy, something I'd been holding onto, was shifting and being released. So while I didn't lash out mid-massage (I don't recommend you do that, by the way), I did cry my eyes out afterwards. I meditated. I spent time alone. I did some grounding breathwork.

And then came the part nobody puts on the wellness brochures: I spent the next two days incredibly anxious. Crippling, can't-think-straight anxious. But I told the people I was with the truth — this is normal, I'm just shifting some stuff.

Because here's the thing: you don't need to know what you're shifting — just that you are. You don't have to dig up the story, name it, analyse it. Your only job is to surrender to the process and trust that it's normal. Committing to your healing and your wellbeing sometimes means leaning into the really uncomfortable parts of it.

I knew from my yoga releases over the years that it would take a few days to pass. And voilà — two days later I was on top of the world.

I'll admit something else, too: even knowing all of this, I was scared to go back for another massage. That's how uncomfortable it was. But one of my life goals is to never let fear hold me back again — it did for too many years. So back I went. I continued with my massages, and all was well.

So yes, I'm a yoga teacher. Yes, I'm committed to my healing. Am I all healed, free of inner demons and heaviness? No. I'm just like you — human.

Why we feel things when we finally slow down

Most of us spend our days in some degree of fight or flight — our sympathetic nervous system quietly running the show. Deadlines, parenting, scrolling, rushing, holding it together. We get very good at *holding*.

Practices like yoga and massage do something deceptively simple: they slow time. They give the nervous system a rare window of safety. And when the body finally feels safe enough to come out of survival mode, it takes the opportunity to release what's been keeping it there.

Often, that means *feeling* whatever is being released.

Sometimes it's physical — shaking, yawning, sighing, a tight hip that suddenly lets go. But sometimes it's emotional. Tears arriving out of nowhere. A wave of sadness or anger with no story attached. Old grief surfacing in savasana or face-down on a massage table.

One of the massages I had was so intense that it took every bit of my yoga training just to breathe through it. And I'm not talking about physical tension — I'm talking about real, uncomfortable emotions moving through and out of my body. Years of practice, and it still humbled me.

"What the hell is happening to me?"

That week, this very thing opened up a conversation with a couple I met while away.

The husband — a middle-aged politics lecturer, sharp as anything — confessed something to me once he found out I taught yoga. Every time he had a massage, he felt an overwhelming urge to cry.

"Jade, what the hell is happening to me when this happens? What are they bloody doing to me?"

It made me smile — partly because I'd been on exactly the same journey that week. But mostly I was just so glad he asked.

I put it simply: "You are releasing what you've been holding onto."

Man or woman, it doesn't matter. We all hold onto things. Stress, grief, disappointment, pressure, old hurts we never had time to feel. The body keeps the score, and when someone spends an hour telling your nervous system *you're safe now*, the body takes its chance.

We had a really open chat, and by the end of it I think I'd convinced him to do something radical: next time the urge to cry arrived mid-massage, *let the tears flow* — and then notice how he felt over the following days.

His answer broke my heart a little:

"I was taught not to cry growing up. Men don't cry."

Men don't cry — and other nonsense we were taught

It genuinely saddens me how many men carry this. Generations of boys taught that tears are weakness, that emotions are something to swallow, that "manning up" means sealing it all in.

But here's what I said to him, and what I'd say to any man reading this: you're smart enough to know that's socialised nonsense. Before you are a man, you are a *human*. And humans are built to release. Tears are not a malfunction — they're one of the body's most natural and intelligent release valves. Crying literally helps discharge stress hormones and settle the nervous system.

Every time you resist those tears on the massage table — jaw clenched, breath held, fighting it back — you are fighting the very release your body is craving. You're paying for relaxation and then working overtime to stay tense.

The same is true in yoga. I see it in the studio: the moment in a slow practice or a yin class where something softens, and a student's eyes glisten, and you can almost watch them decide whether to allow it or armour back up.

Allow it. Please. It's not a breakdown. It's a release.

By the end of our conversation, my lecturer friend was laughing: "Right, well — next time I'm face down and sobbing, I'll have you to thank."

I'll take that.

What release can feel like (so you're not alarmed)

If you're newer to yoga or bodywork, here's what's completely normal in the hours or days after a deep practice or massage:

- Feeling unexpectedly emotional, teary or tender

- Feeling tired or heavy, like you need an early night

- Vivid dreams

- A short-lived dip in mood before feeling noticeably lighter

- Old memories or feelings surfacing seemingly at random

None of this means the practice "didn't work" or that something is wrong with you. It usually means the opposite — your body finally trusted you enough to let something go. Be gentle with yourself: rest, drink water, walk, journal if that's your thing, and let the wave pass through rather than fighting it.

(And of course — if heavy feelings persist or feel overwhelming, please do reach out for proper support. Release work sits alongside professional help, never instead of it.)

The discomfort is the doorway

Here's the truth I keep coming back to, on my mat and on that massage table miles from home:

The calm is lovely. But the *release* is where the change happens. And release doesn't always feel like a spa advert. Sometimes it feels like crying face-down on a towel and not entirely knowing why. Sometimes it feels like wanting to lash out and feeling totally unstable and overwhelmed unexpectantly.

Committing to your wellbeing means making room for both. The softness and the storm. The relaxation and the release.

Man or woman — you are still a human. You hold onto things. And your body, given half a chance, knows exactly how to let them go.

Your only job is to stop fighting it.

Big love to you all,

Jade

xx

*If this resonates and you've been curious about yoga but feel a bit nervous, you are exactly who Inner Lifetime was built for. We're a beginner-friendly studio in Lincoln where it's completely okay to feel whatever comes up — tears included.

Come as you are.*

🤍