My last client of the evening seemed familiar to me. As we spoke before her massage, I noticed that she had difficulty maintaining eye contact. Something about her face triggered a memory, but I couldn't immediately place it. I kept wondering where I had seen her before, yet I chose not to mention it.
Then, somewhere between preparing the treatment room and beginning the massage, I remembered fourth grade.
In 1980s Long Beach, California, I attended Jane Addams Elementary School, where I had been a student since kindergarten. Most of the children in my neighborhood attended the same school, and I had older siblings who had gone there before me. It was a familiar place where I generally felt safe, but that changed when two girls, Christie and Ebony, came into my life.
They began calling me names and threatening me, whether we were in the cafeteria or on the playground. Their behavior made school feel considerably less safe than it had before, and I learned to avoid them whenever possible. I had my own friends, and I wanted nothing more than to get through the school day without becoming their next target.
One afternoon, my friend Lina and I decided to take a different route home. Inspired by the movie A Nightmare on Elm Street, we chose Elm Avenue instead of our usual streets. It would add a little distance to our walk, but at the time, it seemed like an innocent adventure.
Unfortunately, we encountered Ebony, another girl I didn't recognize, and Joshua, a boy I remembered from school. I immediately recognized Ebony and warned Lina that if the group started talking to us, we should ignore them. I explained that Ebony had been looking for a fight with me.
We continued walking, hoping they would leave us alone. Instead, Ebony called out to me repeatedly, demanding that I turn around. When the other girl joined in, threatening to come after us if I didn't respond, I finally turned back. I told Lina that if anyone asked, she should say she was my cousin and that we needed to get home. She agreed.
As soon as I reached the group, Ebony shoved me against a wooden fence. She was much taller than I was, and I was a small child, barely 4 feet 8 inches tall and weighing approximately 65 pounds. She positioned herself in front of me, trapping me against the fence and daring me to challenge her.
She accused me of threatening to beat up a girl named Lorena, whom I had never heard of. I tried to explain that I didn't know who Lorena was, but my explanation only seemed to make things worse. Ebony slapped me, and the others joined in, accusing me of lying and mocking me for being afraid. I remember feeling confused more than anything else because I had no idea what they were talking about, yet I was being punished for an accusation I couldn't even understand.
A teenage couple happened to walk past us, and the young man noticed what was happening and challenged Ebony, asking whether she was picking on younger children. She denied it, claiming they were only talking, but I spoke up and told him the truth. He told them to pick on someone their own size, and for a moment, I thought someone had finally intervened on my behalf.
Once the couple had walked far enough away, however, Ebony punched me in the stomach and accused me of trying to get her into trouble. I didn't hit her back or cry, and I tried not to show any reaction to the blows. Lina stood nearby as the girls and Joshua eventually walked away, laughing.
All I wanted was to get home. I was less concerned about the humiliation I had just experienced than I was about the punishment I might receive from my father if I arrived home after he did. That was the reality of being a child who was being bullied while also worrying about what awaited her at home. I had learned to endure the moment and keep moving, even when I didn't know how to make sense of what had happened.
For years, I remembered those girls with anger and thought about the cruelty, humiliation, and helplessness of being a little girl who couldn't understand why someone had decided to make her a target. Then, decades later, I found myself standing in a massage treatment room, working with a client whose appearance had brought those memories rushing back.
I couldn't prove that she was the same person from my childhood. A familiar face is not confirmation of someone's identity, and I had no intention of confronting a client over a memory that might have been mistaken. Nevertheless, the resemblance was enough to stir up feelings I hadn't expected to revisit.
As I worked, I found myself thinking about the little girl I had been. I remembered how small and vulnerable she was, how she had stood against a fence and tried to explain herself, and how she had walked home carrying an experience she didn't know how to process. But I wasn't that little girl anymore.
I had grown up, built a career, and spent nearly three decades developing my skills as a massage therapist. I had learned how to remain composed in difficult situations and how to separate my personal feelings from my professional responsibilities. Whatever I was feeling internally, my client was there for a massage, and I was responsible for providing a professional service.
So I did my job. I gave her the same focused attention and professional care I would give any other client, without bringing up my childhood, asking whether she remembered me, or allowing my suspicions to interfere with the treatment.
When the session ended, she was delighted. "Wow, that was the best massage I've ever had," she told me. "I can go home and relax now." I thanked her politely and wished her a pleasant evening, and she returned the courtesy before leaving. She went home feeling relaxed and satisfied with her massage, while I was left reflecting on an unexpected encounter with a painful part of my past.
There is something remarkable about realizing how much time has passed since you were a child who felt powerless. The memories may remain, and the emotions may resurface when you least expect them, but you are no longer limited to the choices available to you back then. I cannot change what happened on Elm Avenue or go back and protect the little girl I was, but I can recognize how far I have come.
The child who once stood against a fence, trying to defend herself against an accusation she didn't understand, grew into a woman who could stand in a treatment room, experience an unexpected flood of emotion, and still conduct herself professionally. That evening reminded me that healing doesn't always mean forgetting what happened; sometimes, it means recognizing that the past no longer has the same power over you.
I may never know whether my client was one of the girls who bullied me decades ago. What I do know is that I handled the encounter differently than the child I once was could have imagined. I was no longer powerless, and I didn't need to prove it to anyone. I simply did my job, maintained my professionalism, and let the past remain where it belonged: behind me.
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