You wouldn’t believe the number of strangers I touched this week with my sweaty squid hands.

Is this really my life?

I’m lying face-up on a white mat in Northern Thailand. Nine classmates hover over me as my Thai massage teacher, Khru Tiwa, dots the inside of my arm with a cobalt-blue marker, tracing my Sen energy line—the body’s invisible channel of life force. Somehow, I’ve become the class arm and hand model.

Years ago, my dad suggested I try hand modeling. He had a dental patient who did it and thought it could be a fun, lucrative side hustle. I laughed it off. But now, halfway through massage school, offering up my limbs in a 100-degree classroom? Not quite what he meant—but here we are.

Later, while I’m working on my morning massage partner, I see Khru across the room with that puzzled face she makes—half curious, half amused—and I immediately know I’ve done something wrong. I look down and realize I’ve flipped my hand the wrong way on Gemma’s foot. I adjust, self-correcting the tension in the pose. My brain’s like a blender—I mash things together until something makes sense. Apparently, that also applies to massage sequences.

Despite the improvisation, I’m catching on. I’ve memorized the thigh and calf routines, memorized the single-leg transitions, and even gave feedback to my French friend —only because I made the same mistakes the day before. Support the knee with a cushion during the “chicken wing” pose. Follow the four energy lines down the leg—not just two. And go press with my palm, then my thumb, then my palm again to warm the muscle, get tension out with depth, and cool down.

And still, I pause and think: Am I really paying to put these clammy squid hands on strangers? Voluntarily?

But to understand why this moment matters, you’d have to start from the beginning—back in middle school at age eleven.

Avoiding Touch Like the Plague

In sixth grade, my mom signed me up for dance court—a rite of passage held at a country club. Under chandeliers, we learned which bread plate was ours and how to be sure we politely drink from the correct water glass. But the part I dreaded? The dancing.

I had to hold hands with every boy in class—crushes included. My palms would start sweating before I even stepped into the ballroom at the mere thought of touching someone I was attracted to. I wiped my sweaty squids on my pink pixie dress, my nude nylon tights on my knees, anything. As the waltz or the swing would start, my nightmare would begin. I imagined every boy recoiling in disgust, secretly ranking me “most disgusting dance partner.”

Hyperhidrosis and High School

Freshman year, a diagnosis gave me a name for it: hyperhidrosis. Excessive, uncontrollable sweating. Dr. Bali, my dermatologist, confirmed what I already knew.

That same year, my world expanded from a private class of 25 students to a public school grade of 500. Social anxiety skyrocketed along with my sweat stains. I tried every deodorant under the sun—clinical strength, prescription, natural, DIY. Nothing worked. I loved light-colored clothes, but pastels became the enemy. As heather gray moved to the back of my drawer, black moved to the top. Darker solid clothes became armor.

Touch became a minefield. No one in my family liked holding my hand. My dad was the exception—he’d sometimes link his pinky. My family members would awkwardly hold my wrist instead of my palm during the Our Father at Mass. I didn’t blame them. I was just as self-conscious and wouldn’t want to hold my unpleasant cold wet hand either.

And then came the dreaded “peace be with you” handshake at church. I was convinced every stranger could feel the sweat and would only ever remember me by that one moist, miserable moment.

First Boyfriend, First Dodge

When I had my first boyfriend, I avoided handholding like it was contagious. If he reached out, I’d steer him toward my shoulder, or quickly grab something—my gum, a snack, an excuse. I acted a bit like Edward Cullen keeping his distance from Bella Swan—not out of danger, but fear of being exposed.

Because if he actually touched my hand, he’d know how gross I was. I’d be exposed.

Later, when Tinder became popular and I joined the college swiping crowd, I automatically skipped anyone who listed physical touch as their love language. Not that I ever actually met anyone from the app—but still.

Zoom, and a Temporary Reprieve

In 2018, I landed a job through a panel interview on Zoom for the first time. A total blessing. No handshakes. The year before, I’d had a different role that required “Super Day”—a full day of in-person interviews. Nothing super about it. Six or seven handshakes in an itchy blazer with blisters from heels? Pure dread.

Zoom spared me. No sweaty palms. Less awkward introductions. Less of an inner panic spiral.

Then COVID hit, and physical touch disappeared from society entirely. Finally, I felt normal. My avoidance felt justified. I got used to the coldness. It was easier than the shame.

The Blood Stops

Back in high school, I danced with the idea of quitting sports—not because I didn’t love lacrosse or swimming, but because every season required a physical. Which meant getting my blood pressure taken.

The nurse would velcro the cuff around my arm. I’d hold my breath, my chest tighten, my limbs go cold. My anxiety spiked the numbers every time. The cuff made me feel trapped. Not in pain—just panic. They’d re-test again and again, but it was never accurate.

Now, in massage school, I’m the one performing what we call “blood stops.” It’s a technique where we press down on an artery—three fingers below the groin or armpit—to pause blood flow temporarily. We count to fifteen, then release. And the blood floods back in—a rush of heat, a reawakening.

Every time, I flinch a little. Not just from awe, but from old fears. I still think about sixth-grade biology when I fainted learning about white blood cells and while cutting open Freddy the frog for dissection. Or the fetal pig in AP Bio. Blood still makes me queasy. I can’t help but cringe while I type the word “blood”.

And yet here I am, working with the body’s quiet rhythms. Pressing pause on blood. Releasing the blood. Learning that even stopping something essential—something that makes me squeamish—can be part of healing.

Sweating in Paradise

Then I moved to Hawaii.

Everyone was sweaty. All the time. And still—they hugged. The handshake greetings of the continental US were replaced wihh the hugs. At minimum a hug while first meeting and a hug goodbye. No flinching. No judgment. The humidity didn’t discriminate. For once, I wasn’t the outlier. I was just human.

Somewhere between the sweat and the saltwater, my fear of the body began to loosen. I stopped treating natural things—like blood, sweat, and tears—as things to be ashamed of.

At one point, my sweaty squid hands even took me to the blood bank, where I tried to donate and was politely rejected for low iron. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

My roommate and I had a saying before going out to exercise: “Time to get sweaty, then wetty.” We’d walk a mile with surfboards, hike, run—whatever—and then jump in the ocean, like dolphins jumping home.

After that, moving to Thailand—the Land of Smiles—felt surprisingly cold. Hugs were replaced with bows. I missed that warmth. Until Pai.

Over winter break, I ran ten miles around the mountains of Pai in Thailand. At the end of my long run, a new friend, Henry, joined me in a giant, sweat-soaked hug. No hesitation. No comment. Just connection.

It was the first time in months that someone embraced me like that. That hug melted something inside me that I realized I missed dearly. I’d never missed physical touch lie this before.

Touching with Intention

Today, I massaged four strangers for six hours. I was drenched in sweat—and so were they. I touched their arms, legs, feet, backs, stomachs. I pressed, leaned, stretched, thumbed, breathed.

I didn’t apologize once.

There was no hesitating. No second-guessing. No voice whispering, “You’re too sweaty”. Just presence. Intention. Flow.

There was a bit of giggling as I refilled my 40L water flask for the third time, and Khru Tiwa taught me to say “I drink a lot of water” in Thai: kin-nam yo-yo. It’s become my phrase of the week.

I’m learning manta things.

I’m learning to accept this sweaty, sensitive, sensory body I live in. Not just accept it—respect it.
What I used to hide, I now offer.
My sweaty squid hands can heal.
My sweaty squid hands can connect.

It still amazes me. That I once fainted while learning about the word blood, and now I gently pause it with my palm. That I once avoided handshakes, hugs, and holding hands—and now I touch strangers with care and presence. That I used to think bodily fluids like sweat were something to be ashamed of. Now, I see them as part of being gloriously, actively alive.

Letting Sweat Be Human

It’s wild how my old insecurities—about sweat, about touch, about blood—begin to soften when I stop feeding them. When I stop hiding. When I just live.

I used to let my sweat dictate everything—who I touched, what I wore, what I avoided, how I connected. Now, I see it for what it is: proof that I’m alive. That I’m engaged. That I’m here as a human.

From sixth-grade dance court dread,
to high school hyperhidrosis and skipped handshakes,
to dolphin dives in Hawaii and hugs in Pai,
to laying my palms on pulse points in a hot Thai massage classroom—
me and my sweaty squid hands have come a long way.

~~~

Sawadee ka fellow learn-it-all 👋 Greetings from Chiang Mai, Thailand. I’m dove straight into letter 256 above. Here are the rest of the nuggets. Enjoy!

❓Question to think about

What parts of myself do I accept now that my younger self would feel shameful of?

🎧Listening

Build by Sleeping at Last

Out there, blink and you’ll miss it
Is the promised land or at least somewhere different
Pressed up to the glass to see it
But I get distracted by my reflection
Like a live wire, hope flickers
Against the pitch black in rich contrast
Hypnotized by the horizon
I hold out my hand

[Pre-Chorus]
I just want to build some kind of bridge
To where the source material lives
I want to build, brick by brick
Until I’m changed

[Chorus]
For a minute I’ll be endless
For a minute I’m be brave
For a minute I’ll make sense of
All of my mistakes

🌟Quote to inspire

“Every act of conscious learning requires the willingness to suffer an injury to one's self-esteem. That is why young children, before they are aware of their own self-importance, learn so easily; and why older persons, especially if vain or important, cannot learn at all.” — Psychiatrist Thomas Szasz

📸 Photo of the Week

After I made it through day 1 of massage school, I felt so accomplished. I had a fear I’d faint in class. Or break my wrist. Or dislocate my patella.

🙏Shoutouts

• Khru Tiwa, I adore you and am so grateful to learn from you and that your grandmother passed down this healing art form to you.

I appreciate you reading this!

If ideas resonated, I’d love you to press the heart button, leave a comment, reply to this email, or reach me at vermetjl@gmail.com.

Keep on learning 😁

K̄ha bhuṇ ka 🌺 🌺

Jen

PS - if you enjoyed reading this, you’d also like when I wrote about my fear of airplane bathrooms and uncertainty:

🔍 Finding Certainty in Uncertainty

Aloha fellow learn-it-all 👋

Letters from a learn-it-allJen Vermet

PPS- if you’d like to read my favorite letters, the best way to encourage my work is to buy my book on Amazon here.