There are places we go to when the body aches, and then there are places we return to when it’s the soul that quietly asks for rest. For more than a decade, this small healing space has been my quiet refuge.
The moment I arrive, I’m greeted by a road lined with trees, branches forming a canopy as if nature itself was ushering me in. These trees have stood for years, steady and silent, grounding me even before I step inside. Each time I walk this path, I start to feel lighter because I know I am walking toward care, not just treatment.
This place has always held something personal for me. I used to come here often with my mother whenever she visited from the province. She had regular complaints about her back, and this was one of the few places where she found relief. Bringing her here wasn’t just about physical healing. It was about helping her feel seen, cared for, and comforted in a way most clinics didn’t offer. We both felt that.
Now, years later, I returned. This time, with my sister. It was her first time, and I quietly hoped she’d feel what my mom and I always felt. She had always been the type to rush to hospitals and take the first advice offered, but something changed that day. She tried acupuncture, and after the first session, she said she felt relieved. That meant so much to me not just because her body responded, but because she allowed herself to slow down and trust something gentle.
The healing area is quiet and simple. The rooms are small, barely enough to fit eight beds, and the setup is modest. It doesn’t need more. It has all the energy it needs. As I lay on the bed, needles gently inserted into my skin, I didn’t feel like a customer. I felt like a patient being truly cared for: not rushed, not ignored, not pushed to choose between expensive treatments and quick fixes. Just heard. The therapists, who I’ve seen here for over ten years, are always warm, respectful, and consistent. That alone speaks volumes about the kind of leadership behind the scenes. I’ve heard it’s run by nuns, and somehow, that makes sense. There's more compassion than commercialism in the air.
Even as I lie down, with tiny needles still embedded in my feet, hands, and even ears, the sensation isn’t discomfort. It’s surrender. It’s as if my body knows it’s being supported, not fought against. These needles don’t attack pain. They acknowledge it, and in doing so, they help it release.
While waiting for my turn, I sat by the small zen area just outside the room. There’s a quiet water feature there, surrounded by plants and old clay jars. I’ve always loved that corner. It doesn’t ask for attention, yet it draws yours. Maybe that’s what true healing is: subtle, steady, and quiet.
This center may be small—less than 50 square meters, I’d guess—but its warmth is far bigger than many hospitals I’ve stepped into. The front desk still has the same familiar faces from years ago. The reception area, though simple, is designed with ramps and spaces that welcome the elderly and persons with disabilities. It shows a kind of care that isn’t just physical—but human.
That’s what I want to share here. We need to be open to alternatives. Not everything fast is effective, not everything expensive is better. Healing doesn’t always come from prescriptions or surgeries. It comes from how we are treated, how we are listened to, and how we are cared for. Our bodies speak to us. We just need to listen to ourselves, not to trends, fear nor pressure.
So if you're in pain, or feeling unwell in ways you can’t quite name, maybe try the gentler path first. Sometimes healing begins not with medicine but with kindness.
Have you ever tried acupuncture, ventosa, or any gentle healing method that worked for you? Or do you have a place where your soul feels safe?
I’d love to hear your story. Sometimes, healing begins by simply being heard.
