Spiritual Chiropractic™ 🦴
🌀 Spiritual Chiropractic™ 🦴 vs. Shadow Work 🗣️
I used to think something was wrong with me. That I needed fixing. That healing meant smiling more, crying less, and learning how to “calm down” — whatever that meant. 🥣
In my house, calm was a setup. A word tossed into the air right before something exploded. Like we were all supposed to pretend it meant peace, even as the room grew tighter and the silence got loud.
I learned to stay alert. To anticipate. To shapeshift. The nervous system doesn’t forget that.
So when I started shadow work — or what I now call spiritual chiropractic — I wasn’t trying to transcend anything. I just wanted to stop feeling like a haunted maraca. 🪇
I wanted to rest. But I didn’t know how. 🛌 I wanted to be held, but I wasn’t sure if I deserved it. I wanted to be calm without it meaning collapse, or control, or walking on cáscaras de huevo. 🥚
💥 When the Body Tells the Truth
No one warned me healing might smell like something leaving your body. 🦨 Or that a leg might twitch on its own. Or that grief might show up with the same intensity as rage. Or that I’d feel embarrassed just... existing in real time. ⏳
This isn’t about being broken. This is about what happened to us — not what’s wrong with us.
There were days I twitched on the couch. My breath shallow, my heart racing, my underarms soaked through a dress I loved. 👗 There were moments I needed to write through the wave — not to make sense of it, but to remind myself I wasn’t crazy for feeling this much. 🥵
Some call that shadow work. I call it getting honest.
What we’re not always told is that spiritual abuse can leave behind a different kind of scar. One that doesn’t look dramatic but feels like second-guessing every intuition we have.
And maybe what’s most healing is not performing clarity, but letting the fog exist without needing to explain it.
🧂 The Funk Is Sacred
I had to learn to trust the funk. The smell, the twitch, the emotional sweat. It wasn’t decay. It was detox. 💦
Sometimes what leaves the body smells like years of silence. Like swallowing feelings to keep the peace. Like trying not to take up too much space in a room where “sensitive” was an insult and “calm down” meant “make yourself disappear.”
I don’t have a perfect ending to offer. Just some nap stains, maybe a loud exhale, and a little more capacity than I had last week.
We don’t have to polish it. We don’t have to turn it into a lesson. We can name it, write it, survive it — and eat something good afterward. 🍲
There’s relief in not having to explain yourself to anyone. There’s power in letting the body testify without interruption.
And sometimes that’s enough. I use to see Doña Fela, close her eyes and would say abuela go to sleep and she would say “I’m not sleeping I’m resting my eyes” Now I get sometimes closing my eyes is all I do.
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