Footnotes from the Heart: My Life as a Reflexologist

Feet. Let’s start there. Those amazing, hardworking, sorely underrated structures that carry us (and all our imprints—physical and emotional) through life. I’ve spent the better part of three decades with feet, and I can say, hand on heart—and foot in hand—there’s nothing quite like the stories they reveal.

My days begin with a herbal tea, a breath of fresh air, and a mental check-in of who I’ll be seeing—though no two days ever really look the same. My clients range from tradies with cracked heels and tight calves, to new mums running on three hours’ sleep, to teenagers navigating growing pains, to stressed-out office workers who walk in carrying the weight of the world… and walk out floating.

While I’m a qualified massage therapist, myotherapist, aromatherapist and educator, reflexology holds a special place in my heart—and under my thumbs. It’s more than a therapy; it’s a dialogue. A foot-to-heart connection that never ceases to amaze me. Reflexology isn’t just about rubbing feet (although that’s part of the magic). It’s an intricate map—a storybook of the body and soul. One gentle pressure point can calm a busy mind. Another might ease a belly in knots. And sometimes, it’s just about making someone feel held. Really held.

I still remember one of my early clients—a stoic older man, ex-army, not one for small talk. But once his socks were off and my thumbs found his solar plexus point, tears welled. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” he whispered. I just nodded and said, “That’s okay. Your body does.” That’s reflexology in a nutshell: it bypasses the mind’s chatter and lands where healing is most needed.

There’s something incredibly humbling about working with people’s feet. You see everything: vulnerability, tension, resilience. Some clients are shy—apologising for not having had a pedicure, or for the callouses from years of physical work. I always tell them the same thing: “Your feet are beautiful. They’ve carried you through life. They’ve done their job.” And in return, I do mine—with respect, presence, and intention.

Over the years, I’ve developed what I jokingly call “foot intuition.” It’s the ability to read what’s going on beneath the surface. The big toe might hint at a stubborn tension in the neck or jaw. A sensitive heel might speak to past trauma or unresolved emotion. I don’t claim to be psychic—but there’s an energetic language to the feet that I’ve come to understand deeply.

Some days, I blend in myotherapy techniques or massage and aromatherapy into the session. Other times, I keep it purely reflexology. The beauty of having a few modalities under my belt is that I can truly tailor each session. No two clients get the same treatment, because no two people need the same thing. That’s the art of it.

Teaching reflexology has been just as meaningful as practising it. I’ve taught hundreds—maybe thousands—of students over the years. Many come in unsure. “Feet? Really?” they say. But then they start to understand: this is not just about anatomy—it’s about connection, presence, and trust. Watching someone’s hands learn to listen—really listen—to another person’s body is one of the most satisfying parts of my work as a teacher.

I’ve taught nurses wanting to offer gentler care, massage therapists adding a new string to their bow, career changers seeking something more heart-centred, and everyday people who just want to help their loved ones feel better. Some of my students have gone on to create thriving practices. Others have simply deepened their ability to support those around them. Reflexology is generous like that—it gives back on many levels.

One student stands out in my memory. She was a full-time carer for her partner and came to learn reflexology so she could bring comfort into their daily life. She wasn’t sure if she’d “get it,” but by the end of the course, not only had she mastered the technique, she’d also found a renewed sense of purpose. She later told me, “This saved me. Not just him—me.”

I often reflect on how fortunate I am to do this work. To hold space for people’s stories, pain, joy, and growth. To witness their transformations—not always dramatic, but always meaningful. One woman I see regularly tells me her migraines have disappeared. Another—a young man navigating anxiety—says he sleeps better now. A new mum, exhausted, said to me recently, “This is the first time I’ve felt like myself in weeks.” These aren’t just ‘results’—they’re ripples. And they mean everything.

The best part? Reflexology is endlessly fascinating. I’m still learning. Still curious. Still moved by the intricacy of the body and the simple power of touch. And after all these years, I still get that warm, buzzy feeling when a client sinks deeply into relaxation, or when a student has their “a-ha” moment.

So, what’s it like to be a reflexologist? It’s a dance between science and soul. It’s being a space-holder, a quiet witness, and sometimes, a detective. It’s having a well-trained thumb and a soft heart. It’s deeply human. It’s also incredibly fun—I get to laugh with clients, hear incredible life stories, and yes, sometimes compare toe lengths and bunions with great enthusiasm.

If you’re thinking of stepping into a meaningful profession, reflexology might just be it. It’s not about fixing people—it’s about reminding them of their body’s ability to heal. It’s not glamorous. You’ll deal with cracked heels, socks that have seen better days, and the occasional ticklish giggle fit. But you’ll also be part of something ancient, something potent, and something that genuinely helps people feel more like themselves.

And honestly? I can’t imagine doing anything else.