Last year, as many of you know, I travelled to the USA to attend the first in-person conference on Psychophysiologic Disorders in Boulder, Colorado. I’d been teaching in San Francisco with Lissa Rankin the previous weekend, which meant I was perfectly attuned to the time zone.
Not so this year. The week before the conference had been an extremely busy one, and I turned up to pre-clearance at Dublin airport feeling a bit frazzled. After some surprisingly intense questioning I was through and planning to have a good sleep on the plane. Needless to say that didn’t happen, but I did get through a lot of overdue admin. I arrived in Denver feeling tired but satisfied.
The first day was set aside for acclimatisation and we went for a hike up the mountains. Autumn is a very popular time of year to visit Colorado: the aspen trees are changing from green to rich gold and the scenery is so beautiful. During the hike, though, I began to feel a little dizzy and nauseous. My chest was tight and I was short of breath. In other words, all the classic symptoms of altitude sickness. They don’t call Denver the ‘mile high city’ for nothing! Those symptoms, together with jet-lag, prevented me getting much sleep for a second night.
Despite this, I felt relaxed the next morning when my colleague Jennifer Franklin and I went through our presentation before the conference began. Since the previous year’s conference, the organisation had changed its name to the Association for Treatment of Neuroplastic Symptoms (ATNS), but apart from this little had changed, and it felt a bit like coming home. I was surrounded by familiar faces and trusted colleagues, and sounds of delighted recognition and laughter formed a backdrop as we mingled during the registration hour. It was exciting to see so many health providers practising this methodology. But as I smiled and nodded, encouraging others to talk to me, I noticed that I was feeling unsteady. My voice croaked and as my chest tightened, I began to feel overwhelmed. The altitude sickness lurked like a shadow.
It takes a particular type of energy to embrace so many new faces. I’d met many of the practitioners for the first time last year, but of course there were others I didn’t know. Everyone was so friendly and eager to say hello. There was also much excitement around the conference’s new format. The previous year it had all been lecture-style presentations in one huge space, but this time attendees were given the choice of joining breakout sessions and had the opportunity to actively participate in role plays, mindfulness sessions and demonstrations.
My presentation with Jennifer the following day was on cultivating internal and external safety to reduce neuroplastic symptoms. An important part of this was about taking time to adjust to our external environment, and I was to present an experiential guided movement session. My concern was to preserve my voice and throat, which was also causing me problems by this time. Jennifer anxiously asked me what would happen if I lost my voice altogether. I realised I needed to pace my interactions with others in order to give it the best chance of holding up.
Thankfully, when it came to our time to present on the second day, my voice didn’t trouble me at all. This was remarkable, as our presentation was in the main hall and I needed to project to some 200 people. It was terrific fun and I had no voice issues, yet my chest was still tight.
Later that day, I attended a session led by two bodyworkers. We have a lot in common. They led us through a mindfulness exercise during which we were invited to focus on an area of our body that was demanding attention. I placed the palm of my hand over my sternum, where the tightness still lingered. We continued for over ten minutes and I lost myself in their instructions. Gently, we were encouraged to release our focus on the troubled area. I took a huge breath and the painful tightness dissipated. It was simply no longer there. Slightly sceptical, I did an internal body scan to see if it had shifted to another part of my body. It hadn’t, and my chest felt lighter and softer.
At the end of the session the bodyworkers leading the session encouraged feedback. I was invited to tell my story, which was received with much excitement. Speaking to them later, I thanked them for their help. Since then, the tightness hasn’t returned. They gave me an unexpected gift; a wonderful surprise for which I am so grateful.