I close my eyes and try to relax as Kane rubs my feet with what feels like cold, wet towels and then slathers them with oil. I feel terrified and excited at the same time. Terrified that Kane may be able to sense why I have my panic attacks, and excited that he may be able to do something to relieve them. Now this is what I imagined when Leanne first mooted the idea of a retreat in Nepal – holistic treatments, massages and relaxation – not early starts, peeling potatoes and strange, staring men.

“You’re a kind person.” I jump at the sound of Kane’s voice and open my eyes. He’s still down at the other end of the hut, on his knees, pushing his thumbs into the balls of my feet. “You care about others but you feel taken for granted, sometimes.”

I try to reply but he shakes his head.

“I don’t want you to talk. You carry a lot of pain around with you but you don’t talk to anyone about it,” he continues as he presses his fingers into the pads of my toes. “You feel like you deserve to hurt, but you’re wrong. You must forgive yourself for what you did, Emma.”

I want to tell him that he’s full of shit, that he’s got the wrong person, but I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to. I’m floored by what he’s just told me. I don’t know how he’s picked up so much about me, but it’s all I can do to keep breathing.

“Okay.” He waggles first my left foot, then my right foot, from side to side. “Now let’s see what’s physically wrong with you. Tell me if anything I do hurts. If it does, don’t worry, that just means there’s congestion that needs to be cleared.

“How about this?” A single tear winds its way down the side of my face as he presses into the ball of my right foot, but the pressure has nothing to do with the reason I’m crying.

I shake my head to indicate “no”.

“This?”

He slides his fingers to the side of my foot, but there’s no pain so I shake my head again.

“How about here?”

I feel him jab at my ankle. “No.”

“Here?”

“No.”

Kane inhales noisily through his nose and my first thought is that I’m doing something wrong. I’m not responding as I should. Why doesn’t anything hurt?

“Here?”

I yelp as he prods a tender spot under my ankle. I spoke too soon.

“Family history of diabetes?”

I nod my head, astonished.

“And here?” I twitch as he rolls my calf under his hand. “Problems with your lungs?”

I nod again. He must have picked up on the fact I feel like I can’t breathe when I have a panic attack.