Learning to Listen (Reiki Level One)
By the time autumn rolled around in 2019, I’d reached a tipping point. Reiki was no longer just something that happened to me – it was something I felt connected to. I’d spent months on the treatment bed, letting go, peeling back layers I didn’t even realise I was carrying. Eventually, a question emerged: What if I could offer this to someone else?
Signing up for Reiki Level One training wasn’t just a decision. It felt like a reclamation. A step toward something I didn’t yet fully understand, but knew I needed. It wasn’t about becoming a healer. It was about remembering who I was underneath the noise.
I turned up expecting… well, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. Maybe a circle of women in floaty clothes and someone handing out chakra charts. And yes, there was definitely a bit of that – but there were also men there too. Six of us in total. Different backgrounds. Some spiritual, some just curious. I realised quickly that I’d made a few assumptions. This wasn’t just a women’s space. This was a human space.
We gathered in the same therapy room where I’d first encountered Reiki. The massage bed had been folded away, and instead we sat cross-legged on yoga bolsters and cushions, surrounded by incense, printed handouts, and an undeniable sense that this was not going to be like any other training I’d ever done.
And believe me, I’ve done a lot of training. Thanks to the corporate world, I’d completed everything from manual handling (I worked in an office, but oddly that one turned out to be quite useful in life) to Myers-Briggs profiling, HR workshops, sales psychology – the works. All neatly delivered in conference rooms with plastic chairs and coffee machines.
This? This was very different.
There was tea. Not PG Tips, but an “ancient herbal blend” carefully chosen to open chakras and allow emotional release. I don’t even drink tea. To me, tea’s always felt like the drink of choice for blokes in flat caps reading the Racing Post. But here I was, sipping this murky liquid, surrounded by people with spiritual tattoos, crystals in their bags, and floaty yoga-style clothing. I was in dark jeans and a polo shirt. Classic uniform. Smart-casual. Collar = authority.
I suddenly didn’t feel so sure of myself. These people seemed comfortable here. They belonged. I didn’t know how to join in. Do I crack a joke? Ask a question? I’ve always been confident in groups – except now, I wasn’t. I was overthinking everything.
But once we opened our manuals – slightly wonky, roughly stapled together pages – I felt a shift. This I could do. I could read. I could process. I could learn. Suddenly we were on level ground again.
We broke for lunch, came back in the afternoon, and began to get hands-on. That’s when I noticed the next voice creeping in: What if I can’t do this? What if I don’t feel anything? What if everyone else gets it and I don’t?
But actually… I did. I could feel the energy. I could sense it. And I wasn’t alone.
The training wasn’t academic or performance-based. No tests. No competition. Just learning. Quietly. Together. There were moments of doubt, sure. But there were also moments of complete stillness, of awareness, of connection – where something shifted, and I didn’t need to understand it to trust it.
Reiki Level One taught me how to listen. Not just with my ears, but with presence. With attention. With my hands. It showed me that healing isn’t always about doing. Sometimes, it’s about being. Being open. Being still. Being a safe space for someone else to just exist.
I didn’t walk away a guru or a master – far from it. But I walked away with a different kind of confidence. Not the kind built on status or knowledge, but the kind that comes from paying attention. From noticing. From remembering something I’d buried under years of noise and stress.
That weekend marked the moment I stopped being a passive recipient and became an active participant – in both my own wellness, and in the possibility of supporting others. It didn’t feel flashy or dramatic. But it felt right.
The journey was only just beginning – but now, I had my hands in the game.