Over the years, I’ve noticed that many people come to Reiki because they are tired. Not ordinary tiredness, but a deeper kind of exhaustion that develops after years of caring for others, solving problems, meeting responsibilities, and showing up whenever someone needs help.
These are often some of the most capable people I meet. Nurses, teachers, parents, therapists, and caregivers. The people everyone else depends upon. They are accustomed to giving. What often surprises them is how difficult it can be to receive.
Receiving sounds simple. Most people assume they know how to do it. Yet many of us have spent years learning to be useful, productive, responsible, and available. We become comfortable offering support while feeling uncomfortable needing it ourselves. Sometimes we even build part of our identity around being the one who helps.
Reiki has a way of revealing this gently.
A person arrives seeking relief from stress, exhaustion, or overwhelm. They expect to learn how to help others. Instead, they discover how rarely they allow themselves to be cared for. The realization can be surprisingly emotional, not because anything dramatic happens, but because something long neglected is finally acknowledged.
One story from my forthcoming book comes to mind.
The following story is adapted from Where the Light Touches: Reiki Stories of Healing & Presence.
The Woman Who Gave Too Much
Karen was a nurse. She came to Reiki searching for another way to care, one that didn’t leave her so drained. During class, she asked detailed questions about treating patients with anxiety, cancer, and trauma. Her notebook filled quickly, her pen keeping pace with her mind.
When it was her turn to receive Reiki, she hesitated. Lying down felt almost foreign. Her breath caught as the teacher’s hands rested gently on her. Beneath those hands, the energy felt guarded, like someone who hadn’t taken off her uniform in years.
Then something began to change. A pulse moved through her arms, and she swallowed involuntarily several times. The teacher stayed still, allowing the movement to carry away whatever Karen no longer needed to hold.
The room suddenly seemed quieter, or perhaps it was her own mind that had gone quiet. Her breath deepened, her shoulders softened, and her fingers slowly relaxed against the table. It wasn’t unworthiness exactly that she felt escaping; it was the strange relief of being cared for without having to earn it.
When the session ended, Karen didn’t move right away. Later, during the sharing circle, she spoke softly. “I spend my life taking care of other people,” she said. “I didn’t realize how little I allowed myself to receive.”
The teacher nodded. “You don’t have to stop giving. But you do have to let yourself be cared for, too.”
Karen looked down at her hands, open now and resting easily on her knees. Her next breath carried no effort, only peace.
Looking back, I think Karen’s realization is more common than most people realize. Many of us learn how to care for others long before we learn how to receive care ourselves. We become skilled at giving. We become dependable. We become the person others call when something goes wrong. Over time, that role can become so familiar that we stop noticing its cost.
This does not mean giving is wrong. Giving can be beautiful. But when care only moves in one direction, something inside us gradually becomes depleted.
One of the quieter lessons Reiki teaches is that receiving is part of the practice too. Receiving is not selfish. Receiving is not weakness. It is part of the same current. The practitioner who never receives eventually has little left to offer. The person who allows themselves to be supported discovers that care was never meant to travel in only one direction.
Karen didn’t stop being a nurse. She didn’t stop helping people. She simply recognized that she was worthy of receiving the same care she offered so freely to others. Sometimes that realization changes more than we expect.
This story is adapted from the forthcoming book Where the Light Touches: Reiki Stories of Healing & Presence by Brian Brunius.
If you’ve ever found it easier to care for others than to receive care yourself, you’re welcome to stay.
Learning to receive, certainly feels like a art