When Feldenkrais took the wheel and saved my life

Last February, on this day, I was driving my daughter to Spokane to participate in a vocal event. High school students from across the state had auditioned, and about a hundred were selected to receive high level coaching, music making, and performance.

Eastern Washington gets pretty snowy around this time of year. We were part of a long cavalcade of vehicles, inching forward with caution. Years of winter driving and years of Feldenkrais practice had taught me the same lesson: on unstable ground, speed and force make things worse.

As we crossed the section of I-90 that is an elevated viaduct floating over the Keechelus Lake, the landscape opened up.
Frozen lake stretched out to the right.
Sheer mountain cliff rose on the left.

My daughter had drifted into sleep.

Then the Volvo began to drift.

Just enough for me to register that the front end was no longer going where I had asked it to go.

To the right was the metal barrier and beyond it, the frozen lake below. Had we continued in that direction, the car would have broken through the guardrail and dropped onto the ice from a terrifying height. A sudden turn to the left would have sent us into a skid and straight into the mountain.

So I did the only thing that made sense.
I turned the wheel very, very slowly a fraction of a millimeter to the left.

There was a delay. That long, elastic pause between intention and traction. In that delay, I experienced the longest three seconds I can remember.

Then the tires caught just enough. We steered away from the guardrail.
Now we were drifting left.
And my daughter was awake. Fully awake. Her eyes wide with panic, registering what was going on.

I realized that this wasn’t going to be one big corrective move. This was going to be a series of small, precisely timed turns left, then right, then left again; each one slightly reducing the sway, gradually bringing the car back into alignment.

I could have panicked.
I could have overcorrected.
I could have frozen or reacted impulsively.

Instead, I signaled to my daughter to be with me, quietly.

I stayed steady at the wheel. I felt the road. I tracked the car’s response. I adjusted, patiently and precisely, again and again and again and again, about a dozen times until finally we were driving straight.

We drove in silence a few miles, taking in the enormity of what had just happened and the relief at making it safely.
Then we pulled over. Got out of the car. Took a breath. Held each other with relief.

When we got back on the road, we realized something strange.

A car approached us from the front.
A truck came up behind us.

During that entire stretch - the most intense, focused moments of our lives, there had been no other vehicles around. It was as if we had passed through a narrow portal of experience, one that demanded everything we had, and then released us back into the world.

When I think back on that day, I feel immense gratitude. For the timing. For the stretch of road absolutely clear of any vehicles. For the clarity that showed up when it mattered most.

I also recognize what my Feldenkrais training made possible in that moment.
How quickly calm returned, how clearly I could sense and respond, how precise action emerged without force or panic.

These are not “driving skills.” They are nervous system skills.
And they are the same capacities people often develop, sometimes without realizing it, when they engage deeply in Feldenkrais work for chronic pain, stiffness, or discomfort.

People come because their knee hurts.
Or their shoulder won’t let them sleep.
Or their body feels unreliable.

What they often gain is much more:

• A steadier response to stress

• Faster recovery from injury and moments of overwhelm

• Clearer perception under pressure

• A felt sense of choice instead of bracing or collapsing

That weekend, my daughter stepped onto the stage and sang.

The performance itself felt surreal, not just because of the level of musicianship in the room, but because of the shared presence. Young people from all over Washington state, connected by a love of music, listening deeply to one another. Something about it felt unusually alive.

And then we drove home.

This time, accompanied by caring friends. We followed closely behind each other, took rest stops together. Stories were told. Laughs were had. The intense experience one way through the mountain pass gave way to ease, warmth, and connection on the way back. The contrast of how close intensity and joy can live right next to each other was striking to me.

A lineage of survival stories

As I look back on that moment on the bridge: the frozen lake, the mountain wall, the slow corrections that brought us back to center, I don’t think of it as a one-off miracle.
I think of it as part of a lineage.

During my four years of Feldenkrais training, I heard many survival stories like this. Stories that only make sense after you’ve felt how this work changes your nervous system.

My Italian-American trainer, Angel, was sitting behind someone on a motorcycle when she sensed danger and in a split second jumped off, instinctively did a carp roll and landed on her feet on the shoulder of the highway.

Another woman was camping with her baby when she woke up in the middle of the night from the floodlights of an SUV speeding towards their tent. She rolled herself, her baby AND THE TENT!! out of the way before thought could catch up.

These weren’t acts of brute strength or extraordinary courage.
They were expressions of orientation, timing, and choice: the ability to stay present, sense accurately, and act without freezing or panicking.

What I did on that icy bridge came from the same place.

Not from training for emergencies.
Not from rehearsing scenarios.
But from years of learning how to stay organized inside uncertainty, how to feel small differences, how to slow down instead of tense up, how to let information guide action.

Are you fit for this life-changing, life saving practice?

People often come to this work because they’re in physical pain, chronic discomfort, a sense that their body isn’t reliable anymore.
What they don’t always expect is how far the learning reaches.

This isn’t about lifting weights or pushing through.
It’s not about “three sets of ten.”

It’s slow, attentive exploration that gently stretches the limits of what your body can do. I guide you into movements that feel unfamiliar at first, sometimes even unthinkable. And through that process, your nervous system learns new possibilities.

We do most of the movement explorations lying on the floor. That learning doesn’t stay on the floor.

It shows up when you’re under pressure.
When something unexpected happens.
When life throws a real curveball.

If you’re reading this and something in you recognizes it, if you’re curious about cultivating this kind of resilience, clarity, and adaptability in your own life, I invite you to get in touch.

Reach out through the contact form here. Share your insights and ask me about the Sensory Movement Club and what it might open up for you.

This work isn’t just about surviving dramatic moments.
It’s about becoming someone who can meet life, whatever it brings, with presence, choice, and ease.