Your Body Isn’t the Problem. But Here’s Why It Feels That Way.

Last week we were in the territory of injection anxiety — the second-guessing, the late-night Googling, the quiet fear that you’re doing this wrong and have no way to know it. If you sat with that, you may have noticed something underneath it. What the uncertainty was really about wasn’t the injection at all.

It was older than that.

Most of the women I work with couldn’t tell you exactly when they stopped trusting their bodies. It wasn’t a single moment, usually. It was a slow accumulation of many years of the outside world teaching her to ignore or devalue her own experience.

For many women, that teaching started early. Research on adverse childhood experiences — ACEs — shows us that growing up in environments marked by stress, instability, emotional unavailability, neglect, or abuse doesn’t just affect us psychologically. It affects the way the nervous system develops, and with it, the ability to accurately read and respond to the body’s internal signals. Clinicians call this capacity interoception — the felt sense of what’s happening inside your own body. Hunger. Fullness. Fatigue. Tension. Ease. When a child’s environment requires her to override those signals — because having needs wasn’t safe, because the adults around her were unpredictable, because making herself small was the smartest survival strategy available, or because focusing on everyone else’s needs was the only way to keep the peace — interoception doesn’t develop the way it should. She learns to stop listening. And that lesson doesn’t expire when childhood ends.

By the time the medication arrived, the disconnection was already there. The GLP-1 didn’t create the problem. It just removed the layer that was masking it.

Here’s what I want you to understand — really understand — about why this is happening to you.

The History Your Body Is Carrying

There is a well-documented body of research on what are called adverse childhood experiences — ACEs, in the clinical literature. ACEs include things like emotional, physical, or sexual abuse; neglect; growing up with a parent who struggled with addiction or mental illness; witnessing domestic violence; household instability. They don’t have to be dramatic or obvious. Sometimes they look like chronic emotional unavailability — a parent who was physically present but psychologically elsewhere. Sometimes they look like a household where tension was constant and unpredictable, where the safest thing to do was make yourself small and stop having needs.

What the research shows, consistently, is that early adverse experiences change the way the nervous system develops. When a child grows up in an environment where stress is chronic or unpredictable, the nervous system adapts. It becomes hypervigilant — always scanning, always braced. And one of the quieter casualties of that adaptation is the relationship with the body’s internal signals.

When you’re a child in an environment that feels unsafe, your body’s signals — hunger, fatigue, distress, desire — can become liabilities. You learn to override them. You learn to stop listening. You learn that what your body needs is less important than what the environment requires of you. That adaptation makes complete sense. It was protective. It may have been necessary.

But you carry it into adulthood. And it shows up, decades later, as a woman who genuinely does not know what her body is telling her — not because something is wrong with her, but because she was taught, very early and very thoroughly, that paying attention to her body’s signals wasn’t safe.

What This Has to Do With Your GLP-1

When the food noise stopped, something important happened: you lost the layer of noise that had been standing between you and your body’s quieter signals. Food noise is loud. It demands attention. It fills the space. And for many women, that noise — exhausting as it was — also functioned as a kind of buffer. You didn’t have to listen to what was underneath it, because the noise was always louder.

Now it’s quiet. And in the quiet, all those signals you were never taught to read are right there, waiting.

This is why “just listen to your body” lands the way it does — like an instruction in a language you were never taught. It’s not that you’re incapable of learning it. It’s that no one ever taught you the alphabet. You didn’t grow up in a household where someone showed you how to sit with discomfort without either fixing it immediately or numbing it. You didn’t learn that hunger is information, not an emergency. You didn’t learn that fatigue means you need rest, not that you’re weak. You learned something else entirely.

And now the medication has cleared the noise, and you’re standing in the silence, and someone is telling you to listen — and you’re trying, and all you can hear is the old fear: I don’t know how to do this. I never have. What if I never will?

That fear makes complete sense. It is not evidence of failure. It is evidence of history.

What Body Trust Actually Looks Like at the Beginning

I want to be honest with you about something: body trust is not a destination you arrive at. It is a practice you build, one small interaction at a time. And it does not begin with the big questions.

It does not begin with what does my body need? or am I listening correctly? or am I doing this right? Those questions come later, when you have some vocabulary to work with. Right now, at the beginning, the only task is noticing — not interpreting, not problem-solving, just noticing what’s there.

The research on body awareness — what clinicians call interoceptive awareness — shows that it is a skill that can be developed at any age. The nervous system is more plastic than we used to believe. The disconnection that began in childhood is not permanent. But rebuilding it requires starting where you actually are, not where you think you should be.

And where you actually are is exactly the right place to begin.

A Way Forward

When I ask women to check in with their bodies, the most common response I get is some version of I have no idea how. That’s not resistance. That’s an honest answer from a nervous system that learned, a long time ago, to stop paying attention to internal signals.

So instead of asking an open question your body doesn’t yet know how to answer, try this. Once a day — just once — pause for sixty seconds and work through this brief check-in. You’re not trying to solve anything. You’re just practicing noticing.

Tension: Is there tension anywhere in your body right now? Your jaw, your shoulders, your chest, your stomach? You don’t have to know why it’s there. Just notice if it is.

Hunger: Are you hungry? If so, does it feel urgent — like something that needs to be handled immediately — or manageable, something that’s just present? Those feel different, and learning to tell them apart is its own skill.

Fatigue: Are you tired? And if so, is it your body that’s tired or your mind? Body-tired feels heavy, physical, like your limbs have weight. Mind-tired feels like noise, like too many tabs open. They’re different, and they call for different things.

Anxiety: Are you anxious right now? If so, does that anxiety have a location — does it live in your chest, your throat, your stomach — or does it feel like it’s everywhere at once, like a weather system rather than a specific sensation?

That’s the whole practice. Four questions. Sixty seconds. No fixing, no solving, no judgment. Just noticing what’s there.

One Thing to Hold Onto

You are not disconnected from your body because you are broken. You are disconnected because you adapted — intelligently, protectively — to circumstances that required it. That adaptation served you. It got you here. And now you get to do something different.

You don’t have to do it all at once. You don’t have to become fluent in your body’s language overnight. You just have to start paying attention — slowly, gently, without judgment — to what’s already there.

The medication cleared the noise. What’s underneath it is not a problem to solve. It’s a conversation you’re only just beginning to have.

You deserve to be part of that conversation.

A note: this article is educational in nature and reflects my experience as a psychologist and professor. It is not therapy, and reading it does not establish a professional relationship between us. If this material brought something up for you — if you found yourself recognizing your own history in ways that feel heavy or hard to sit with alone — that’s worth paying attention to. You may benefit from support beyond what an article can offer. I encourage you to reach out to a licensed mental health professional who can be with you in it personally. You deserve that kind of care.

Someone in a Facebook group once posted that she had injected an entire dose into the needle cap. Not her body. The cap. She hadn’t removed it before injecting, and the medication went nowhere, and she had no idea until she looked down.

The responses flooded in. I’ve done that. Oh god, I thought I was the only one. I did this twice before I figured it out.

That post has lived in my head ever since — not because it’s funny, though there’s a dark humor to it — but because of what it represents. These are women who were handed a syringe and left to figure out an injectable medication entirely on their own. Of course mistakes happened. Of course the anxiety followed. When there’s no reliable feedback mechanism, no one checking your technique, no nurse saying yes, you’re doing it right — your nervous system fills the silence with doubt.

And the doubt is relentless.

Am I injecting in the right place? Does the site affect how well it works? Am I on the right dose? Should I go up? Go down? Stay here? What if I’ve been doing this wrong the whole time and I don’t know it?

You didn’t sign up for this. You signed up for a medication, and instead you got a second job — with no training, no supervisor, and no way to know if you’re getting it right.

I Know This Because I Lived It

I want to tell you something I haven’t shared publicly before, because I think it matters for you to hear it.

When I started compounded GLP-1 medication, I received a vial, a box of syringes, and nothing else. No instructions. No orientation. No nurse walking me through what to expect in week one versus week four.

I learned to inject myself from Facebook groups.

My primary care physician — who had not prescribed this medication — had no guidance on diet, no recommendations on exercise, no framework for what was about to happen to my body, my appetite, or my relationship with food. I figured out the entire beginning stage of this process alone, in real time, learning as I went.

I’m a psychologist with over thirty years of clinical experience. I have a professional understanding of the mind-body connection that most people don’t have access to. And I still felt completely at sea.

If you’ve been second-guessing yourself , wondering if you’re doing this wrong, wondering why it feels so hard, wondering why your doctor seems less equipped to answer your questions than a stranger in a Facebook group, I want you to know: that’s not your imagination. That’s the reality of how GLP-1s have been rolled out. The medication moved faster than the guidance infrastructure around it. You were handed a tool with no manual and told to figure it out.

That’s not a personal failure. That’s a systemic one.

What’s Actually Happening When You Second-Guess Yourself

Here’s what the second-guessing is really about. It’s not just about the dose, or the injection site, or whether you should move to the next level on your titration schedule. Those questions matter, and you deserve actual answers to them. But underneath those questions is something deeper: a fundamental loss of trust — in your body, in your care team, and in the process itself.

When we don’t have reliable information, our nervous systems move into vigilance. This is not anxiety as a personal flaw; it’s anxiety as a biological function. Uncertainty feels like danger to the brain, so the brain does what it was designed to do: it scans, it doubts, it loops. What if I’m doing this wrong? What if I’m hurting myself? What if I’m not doing enough? The looping isn’t weakness. It’s a stress response to an objectively stressful situation.

And here’s what makes it worse for many women specifically: control is what has made your life manageable. You have learned — probably over decades — that if you just stay on top of everything, if you research thoroughly enough, if you manage it all carefully enough, things will be okay. That strategy has served you. It may have saved you.

GLP-1s don’t cooperate with it. There is no amount of research that will tell you exactly what your body will do at week six. There is no dose that is definitively “right” the way a math problem has a right answer. Your titration schedule is a starting point, not a prescription for a specific outcome. And when your go-to coping strategy stops working, the anxiety doesn’t just stay steady — it escalates.

This is a control issue. And once you name it as one, you can actually do something about it.

What You Can Control. What You Can’t. Why That Distinction Changes Everything.

There’s a framework I come back to constantly in my work — one most people recognize from the Serenity Prayer, even if they’ve never thought of it as a psychological tool. The core of it is this: when you’re stuck in anxiety, the first move is to distinguish between what you can control and what you can’t. Then you act on what you can change, and you practice accepting what you can’t. Both of those are learnable skills. Neither comes naturally under stress.

Applied here, it looks like this.

What you can control: the quality of the guidance you’re getting. If your prescriber is not answering your questions adequately, that is a legitimate gap in your care, and you are entitled to push back on it. You can ask specific questions and expect specific answers: What is the protocol for injection site rotation? What symptoms indicate I should pause my titration? Who do I contact if I have a concern between appointments? Write the questions down before your appointment. Bring them in. Read them off the page if you need to. You are not being difficult. You are being a patient. That’s within your control — and exercising it matters.

What you cannot control: the inherent variability of how this medication works in your particular body. No provider can tell you exactly what week six will feel like for you. No Facebook group can tell you whether your current dose is the right one for where you are right now. This uncertainty is not a gap in information. It’s a feature of individualized medicine, and no amount of research eliminates it.

This is the harder part. Learning to tolerate not knowing — without collapsing into the not-knowing — is a genuine psychological skill. It requires noticing when the looping has started, when you’ve searched the same question for the fourth time and still don’t feel settled, and recognizing that more data is no longer what’s needed. The anxiety is what needs attention now. And anxiety responds to presence, not to more information.

One thing that actually helps: a brief pause before injections. Not a ritual, not a performance — just thirty seconds of noticing where you’re holding tension, taking a breath, and acknowledging that you are doing something hard. That acknowledgment matters. It interrupts the vigilance cycle. It tells your nervous system: I see what’s happening here, and I’m not in danger. Small, but real.

You can’t control everything about this process. You absolutely can control how you meet it.

What Comes Next

The anxiety about dosing and injections tends to ease as you accumulate experience. Not because the uncertainty disappears, but because you build evidence — evidence that you can handle what comes, that you’ve navigated the hard weeks, that your body is more resilient than the fear suggests.

But building that evidence takes time, and in the meantime, you need support that actually meets you where you are. Not just clinical information, but a framework for the emotional and psychological terrain of this process — because no one handed you that, and you needed it from the beginning.

That’s exactly what I write about in my email newsletter, After the Noise. Every week I give you something actionable — not more things to add to your plate, but tools for navigating the parts of this experience that your prescriber didn’t prepare you for. If the essays here help you feel seen, the newsletter is where we figure out what to do about it.

Subscribe to After the Noise on Kit →

You are not doing this wrong. You are doing something genuinely hard, with genuinely inadequate support. There’s a difference — and knowing that difference is where it starts.

The box arrived at my door on a Tuesday.

I had ordered compounded tirzepatide online. It was convenient — easier than I expected, honestly. What wasn’t easy was what happened next. I opened the box and stared at a vial and a syringe with absolutely no instructions. No pamphlet. No guidance. Nothing.

I had never given myself an injection before. I wasn’t sure how full the syringe was supposed to be. I wasn’t sure where to inject. Where exactly do you inject something like this? Does it hurt? How do you know you’re doing it right? What if you do it wrong? Will it even work? I was holding a medication that felt too important to get wrong — and nobody had actually shown me what to do with it. I sat there for a moment, a little nervous, but mostly determined. I was going to figure this out.

So I did what millions of women before me have done. I went to Facebook.

I found a group, asked my questions, and pieced together enough information to give myself that first shot. It worked. But I remember thinking — I’m a psychologist with more than thirty years of clinical experience, and I’m learning to inject myself from strangers on the internet. What is happening right now?

What was happening was this: I had been handed a powerful medication and sent home without a roadmap. That is where the overwhelm begins. Not with the side effects. Not with the dietary changes. With the very first step.

What’s Actually Happening in Your Brain

There’s a concept in psychology called cognitive load — the total amount of mental effort your working memory is carrying at any given moment. Every unanswered question, every new skill you’re acquiring, every decision you haven’t made yet takes up space. And your brain, unlike your phone, does not have unlimited storage.

Starting a GLP-1 medication doesn’t change one thing. It changes nearly everything — simultaneously, and without a manual.

You’re learning to inject yourself, which is a skill that takes practice and that nobody walked you through. You’re managing nausea you didn’t fully anticipate and may not know how to relieve. You’re discovering that you can only eat a few bites before feeling full, which sounds straightforward until you realize you still need to hit a protein target for the day — and nobody told you what that number was or why it matters. You’re learning that hydration is now something you have to be deliberate about, because dehydration hits differently on this medication. And somewhere in a podcast or an online forum, someone told you that you really need to be doing resistance training to preserve muscle mass, which means you now need to build an exercise habit on top of everything else you’re managing.

Each of these things is learnable. Together, all at once, while your body is adjusting to a medication that is actively reshaping your relationship with food — it is a lot. And the fact that you’re overwhelmed is not a sign that you’re doing it wrong. It is a predictable, completely understandable response to being handed a complex medical intervention with almost no support.

The Support Gap Nobody Talks About

Here is what the research tells us, and what your doctor likely did not say plainly: GLP-1 medications are remarkably effective at reducing appetite and promoting weight loss. What they don’t come packaged with is a behavioral roadmap. The medication addresses the biology. The rest — the injection technique, the nutrition, the hydration, the movement, the psychological adjustment — that is on you to figure out.

Some women are fortunate enough to have exceptional support. Physicians who specialize in obesity medicine bring deep expertise to this work — understanding not just the medication, but the behavioral and psychological adjustment that goes with it. That level of care exists, and it makes a real difference.

But many women start these medications through their primary care physician or an online prescriber, where appointment times are short and the focus is, understandably, on the medication itself. The demand for GLP-1s has outpaced the infrastructure to support the women taking them. And the result is that the figuring out happens in Facebook groups, Reddit threads, and late-night Google searches. Through trial and error. Through nausea that could have been better managed, muscle loss that could have been prevented, and a persistent low-grade anxiety that you might be doing this wrong because no one gave you a clear picture of what doing it right actually looks like.

The gaps in your knowledge are not gaps in your capability. They are gaps in the support you were given.

What You Can Do With This

You can’t change the fact that your appointment was too short. You can’t single-handedly fix a healthcare system that is still catching up to the scale of this medication’s reach. What you can do is stop interpreting your overwhelm as evidence that something is wrong with you.

You are not struggling because you are weak, or undisciplined, or not trying hard enough. You are struggling because you were handed something genuinely hard, without adequate support, and you have been doing your best with what you have. That deserves to be said before anything else.

And when you’re ready for what comes next — there is a path through this. The cognitive load of starting a GLP-1 is real, but every piece of it is learnable. The injection has a technique. The nausea has strategies. The protein goal has a number. The exercise question has an answer that is far less complicated than the fitness industry wants you to believe.

You don’t have to sort all of it out at once. You just have to know that you don’t have to figure it out alone.

If you want help with that — figuring out what comes first, getting the list out of your head, and giving everything else a conscious rain check — that’s exactly what my weekly email is for. Every week I send one small, manageable step to the women in this community. No overwhelm. No long to-do lists. Just one thing that moves you forward.

You can subscribe to my email newsletter at the link below. When you do, this week’s email will be waiting for you.

https://evolve-integrative-wellness-llc.kit.com/

This is a space exclusively for women who are already here, already in this. Think of it less like a comments section and more like a quiet corner booth where the real conversation happens. I’ll bring questions worth sitting with, observations from my work, and topics that don’t fit neatly into a newsletter. You bring whatever you’re carrying.

No performance required. No need to have it figured out. Just women navigating the same terrain, with a psychologist at the table.

I’d love to see you there.

Join chat

How to get started

1. Get the Substack app by clicking this link or the button below. New chat threads won’t be sent sent via email, so turn on push notifications so you don’t miss conversation as it happens. You can also access chat on the web.

Get app

2. Open the app and tap the Chat icon. It looks like two bubbles in the bottom bar, and you’ll see a row for my chat inside.

3. That’s it! Jump into my thread to say hi, and if you have any issues, check out Substack’s FAQ.

You used to look forward to this. The restaurant you two always go to, the booth in the back, the way two hours disappears when you’re with her. You’d split something. Order dessert without negotiating it. Leave full and unhurried and glad.

Now you sit across from your closest friend, and you are managing.

You’re scanning the menu for what you can actually tolerate today. You’re calculating portion sizes before you order. You’re watching her eat freely while you push things around your plate, hoping she doesn’t notice, knowing she probably does. You’re performing fine when what you actually feel is something you don’t quite have a word for yet.

This is not a small thing. And it is not about food.

What’s Actually Happening at the Table

Humans have eaten together as a bonding ritual for as long as there have been humans. Sharing food is one of the most primal signals of safety and belonging we have. It says: I trust you. I am with you. We are the same.

When your relationship with food changes — when you can’t eat much, when certain things don’t sit well, when what used to bring pleasure now registers as almost neutral — you are not just changing what’s on your plate. You are changing your participation in one of the oldest forms of human connection. And no one in your prescribing physician’s office mentioned that part.

The research on GLP-1 medications is extensive on metabolic outcomes. It is nearly silent on what happens to a woman’s social and relational world when her body stops responding to food the way it always has. That gap is not an accident — it’s a reflection of what medicine has historically decided matters. Your inner life didn’t make the list.

So you’re navigating this without a map.

The Invisible Labor Nobody Sees

Here is what’s actually happening when you sit down to lunch with your friend: you are tracking your own physical experience — what you can order, what you can tolerate, how much is too much — while simultaneously monitoring the emotional temperature of the person across from you. You are managing your own discomfort while managing hers, even if she hasn’t expressed any.

This is a particular kind of exhaustion, and it is one women know intimately. You were socialized from the time you were small to attune to other people’s feelings, to smooth the social moment, to make sure everyone at the table is comfortable. That training did not pause when you started the medication. It is running in the background of every shared meal, every dinner party, every coffee where someone ordered a pastry and you didn’t.

You may find yourself eating past your comfort so she doesn’t feel self-conscious finishing her plate. You may over-explain your order to the server so your friend doesn’t worry. You may deflect when she asks if you’re okay, because the true answer is complicated and lunch is supposed to be easy.

And you come home tired in a way that has nothing to do with how much you ate.

The Loss Underneath the Logistics

There is something else worth naming, even though it’s quieter and harder to articulate.

You may be grieving a version of yourself you didn’t know you’d miss — the one who ate with abandon, who said yes to everything on the table, who used food as fluent social language. The one for whom lunch with a friend was uncomplicated pleasure. That self has changed, or is changing, and the people who love you are watching it happen without fully understanding what they’re seeing. Neither, perhaps, do you.

This is not ingratitude. You wanted the medication to work, and it is working, and it is also costing you something that doesn’t show up in any clinical measure. Both of those things are true at the same time.

The One Thing Worth Reconsidering

Your job at the table is no longer to match. It is to be present.

Those are different things, and for a long time you may not have known they were different, because matching — eating the same things, in the same amounts, at the same pace — was how you signaled presence. It was the social currency of belonging.

But presence is not matching. Presence is showing up as yourself, in the body you actually have today, at the table with someone who loves you. It is letting the conversation be the connection, not the shared appetizer. It is trusting that the friendship holds more than you think it does — that it does not depend on what you order or how much you finish.

You don’t have to perform comfortable. You don’t have to manage her feelings about your plate. You can let lunch be what it actually is: two people, a table, and a relationship that was never really about the food.

If you’re a subscriber to After the Noise, watch for this week’s email newsletter — I’m sending one practical reframe you can carry into the next meal that matters to you.

→ Subscribe to my email newsletter here

Disclaimer:

Educational content only. Not medical or psychological advice. Evolve Integrative Wellness, LLC does not establish a therapist-client relationship. If you are seeking treatment, please consult a licensed mental health professional.

You started a GLP-1 expecting your body to change.

What you did not expect was to feel emotionally worse at the same time you were finally seeing results. To feel irritable, or hollow, or quietly sad in moments you thought would feel like relief. To be winning, by every external measure, and still feel like something was wrong.

Nothing is wrong. But something is surfacing — and it deserves more than a shrug and a prescription refill.

Food Was Doing More Than You Knew

Here is something nobody told you before you started: eating has never just been about food.

For most women, food is comfort. It is reward. It is the signal that the hard part of the day is over. It is what you reach for when you are overwhelmed, when you are lonely, when you are celebrating, when you are bored, when you need five minutes that belong to no one else. It is the thing that works — quickly, reliably, without requiring anything from you in return.

Then the medication changed the signal. The cravings quieted. The urgency lifted. And suddenly the thing that worked to meet those needs... didn’t.

This is where women are often caught off guard. Not by the reduced appetite — that part they expected. By what was underneath it. By the emotions that had been running quietly in the background, managed and muffled by food for years, that now have nowhere to go.

Irritability that surfaces at strange times. A low-grade sadness with no obvious cause. Anxiety that feels different than it used to — sharper, less predictable. You might find yourself snapping at people you love and not quite understanding why. You might feel hollowed out in moments you expected to feel triumphant.

This is not a side effect listed in the pamphlet. But it is real, and it is happening to more women than are talking about it.

The Research Gap Nobody Mentions

Women have been using food as an emotional regulation tool for a long time — not because we are weak or undisciplined, but because we were taught to. Hunger, we learned early, is something to manage. Our own needs come after everyone else’s. Emotions are best kept contained. And so we found the quietest, most socially acceptable way to take care of ourselves: we ate.

The research on GLP-1 medications was not designed with this in mind. The clinical trials focused on metabolic outcomes. They were not built to account for the emotional architecture that food has constructed in women’s lives over decades of socialization and stress. They were not asking what happens psychologically when you remove the thing that was functioning as a coping mechanism.

So the data is thin. And the conversation in most medical offices is even thinner.

What this means is that you are navigating something largely unmapped, and probably feeling quietly confused about why this is harder than it looks from the outside.

The Feelings Are Information

These emotions don’t mean the medication is causing a problem. They mean something that was already there is now coming into view, no longer being managed or muted through eating.

This is not a comfortable thing to sit with. But it is also not something that is happening to you without reason, and it is not something you are powerless over.

The first step is simply to name it. When the irritability comes, or the low mood, or the quiet grief that does not make sense — instead of reaching for an explanation that blames you, ask a different question: *What was I managing before that I’m not managing now?*

You do not have to answer it immediately. You just have to stop assuming the feeling means something is wrong with you.

Because nothing is wrong with you. You are a woman who built a coping system with the tools that were available to her. That system is shifting. And now you get to build something more intentional in its place — something that actually fits who you are becoming.

That is not a setback. That is actually the work.

If this is landing for you, you’re not imagining it — and you’re not alone. After the Noise is where we talk about the part of GLP-1s no one prepares you for: the emotional and identity shifts that come after the weight starts to change. Subscribe below to keep going.

→ Subscribe to my email newsletter here

Educational content only. Not medical or psychological advice. Evolve Integrative Wellness, LLC does not establish a therapist-client relationship. Consult your healthcare provider for personal care.