the memory of home

in bodywork, we often travel through the memories our muscles, tissues, and bodies hold—memories that go beyond what we consciously remember. when we learn to shift our attention away from the stories we tell ourselves, the conclusions we’ve drawn, we tap into unfiltered information. if you’ve experienced this for yourself, it’s undeniable: the body tells the truth. you know it when you feel it.

from this deep awareness, we can understand the core of our habits, reactions, and behaviours. we begin to see why we do what we do, and why we feel safe or unsafe in certain situations.

in a session, the space we create is one of listening—where we try to catch whatever the unconscious wants to show and heal. unconsciously, we always bring to the surface what needs attention. whatever needs attention is seeking balance and healing.

one theme that often arises in sessions is the memory of the old family house.

it's a place that holds a lot of energy and information. the house—both as a structure and as a symbol—often emerges as a vessel for certain beliefs we carry in life. it can serve as a metaphor for something we’re working through in the present. the family house is where we root our core structures and beliefs. it’s where family dynamics manifest in the physical space, where certain fears can be traced to specific corners, hallways, or rooms. it’s a storage space for childhood memories. sometimes these memories don’t show up as images, but as sensations in the body.

my own family house kept resurfacing in sessions. again and again, i was brought back to that place, as if there was something unfinished—something i had to settle with before i could fully step into my life. it felt almost like a contract i had with the house itself: deeply personal, quiet, but persistent.

what I’ve noticed over time is that this isn’t unique. when people open up to inner child work, the house they grew up in often comes back online—not as a memory, but as a lived structure in the body. suddenly, certain spaces start to make sense. someone realises they always hated the attic, not because it was dark or small, but because it was where their mother would retreat when she felt unwell. the space held the absence, the silence, the unspoken worry.

in that moment, the house stops being just a building. it becomes a map of emotional memory.

the house can become a tool for restructuring and rewriting these old memories. during one session, i realised that i hold a deep sense of urgency in my ankles—a trace of running up the stairs as a child, escaping something in the hallway.

those ankles were never allowed to be in the present. they were trained to hurry, to avoid, to move away. and as long as they were holding that fear, they couldn’t be used to step into life.

only when that memory was allowed to surface and be felt, did the urgency loosen. the body no longer needed to prepare for flight. my ankles could finally arrive—here—and support me in taking my place in the world.

the house carried us when we were little, but as we grow older, we start carrying the house within us. it becomes like a treasure chest, with the ability to unlock the door and invite the memories to surface.

not to relive the past, but to release it.