James’ Voice - Not Broken, Just Healing
Meet James Check.
Some stories aren’t told all at once, they’re lived in chapters, in setbacks, in the quiet rebuilding of a life that keeps falling apart. This is one of those stories. Behind the calm presence of a massage therapist who brings healing into others' homes is a man who’s had to fight—again and again—for his own. Through traumatic injuries, invisible illnesses, and a medical system that failed him more than once, he kept going. This is a story of perseverance, of unseen pain, of the love that held him up, and why he now shows up for others, one healing touch at a time.
James’ Story.
My Real Story of Pain, Perseverance, and Why I Bring Massage to You.
Most people meet me now as a massage therapist—the guy who shows up with a table, warmth, and calm energy in a moment when your body really needs it. What they don’t always see is the journey it took to get here: not a straight path, but one lined with pain, setbacks, and some of the loneliest moments of my life.
This is my healing story.
And it’s the reason I do what I do—the way I do it.
The First Hit: Sixteen and Silent Pain
I was 16 the day everything changed. I’d been invited to a new driver’s training program run by MPI and the Winnipeg Police. It felt like a dream—high-speed driving, obstacle courses, even police cruisers. It was, up until the very end, one of the most exciting days of my life.
Then, during one of the final maneuvers, I was in the backseat while my partner navigated a braking obstacle. The seatbelt failed—locking and releasing multiple times as we braked hard at 80 km/h. I didn’t feel anything then. Adrenaline’s funny like that. But the next day I woke up in a kind of pain I had never known.
Agony. No idea what happened. No words for it. Just pain.
My mother did her best—she took me to a chiropractor, and by the third visit, he said the words I didn’t understand but would come to live by: “severe whiplash.” That diagnosis started a chain reaction of migraines, missed school, sleepless nights in a dark room, and a deep isolation that still echoes in me sometimes.
Doctors said “an injury can’t cause migraines.” That it was “all in my head.”
And they were right—but not in the way they thought. I had a concussion. No one caught it. No one believed me. And I stayed in that dark, silent room for years.
Trying to Move On—with Pain No One Could See
Eventually, I clawed my way back. I was homeschooled, then did night school while working days to finish high school. The migraines stayed with me. I kept going.
The hardest part was that no one could see my pain. I wasn’t in a cast. I wasn’t limping. But I lived with the kind of pain that demanded every ounce of energy just to pretend I was okay.
Massage was one of the only things that helped.
So I enrolled in massage therapy school, hoping to turn that little bit of relief into a way to help others.
Becoming a Therapist—While Still Healing
Massage school wasn’t easy. Especially not after my second car accident—another case of whiplash and a dislocated shoulder just as I was beginning my second term. I had to slow down my program. Again, I wasn’t going to finish “the normal way.”
But something else was happening, too: I was learning what pain feels like from the inside out. I knew what it meant to live with doubt, shame, exhaustion, and disbelief from others. I knew what it felt like when your body becomes the barrier to your own goals.
And because of that, something clicked. I started to feel the tension in other people’s bodies more intuitively. I could sense what they were holding, because I’d held it too.
The Third Blow: A Slip, a Brain Injury, and a Return to Darkness
Years later, I found someone I deeply loved. We bought a house together—one of the happiest days of my life.
And then, on a totally ordinary day, I slipped. Socks on hardwood. Fell backwards. Hit the back of my head. I remember looking at the front door, and then—just the ceiling.
At first, I thought I’d just triggered a migraine. But hours later, I couldn’t speak. My brain wouldn’t connect to my mouth. I wanted to say “call an ambulance,” and nothing came out.
By the time we got to the hospital, I couldn’t walk. A paramedic had to help get me inside.
Thankfully, they took me seriously. I was sent for a CT scan, and to my relief, they didn’t find a brain bleed. They treated me for the pain, and slowly, once the medication kicked in, I was able to walk and talk again.
And then they handed me a pamphlet.
Rest, low lights, quiet room, fluids. You’ll feel better in two weeks.
But they never said what to do if you didn’t feel better after two weeks.
That’s when the real trouble began.
The darkness returned—migraines, brain fog, crushing depression, and emotional volatility that felt completely out of character. I became angry over the smallest things. I isolated myself not to protect me, but to protect others. I didn’t want to hurt anyone with the way my brain was now reacting.
The medical system failed me again. I saw specialist after specialist, sat on waitlists for months—only to be dismissed, ignored, or told it was “nothing serious.” One neurologist talked more about Trump and his lack of coffee than about my brain. I yelled that day—something I rarely do. And still, I walked out feeling broken and unseen.
But I wasn’t entirely alone.
I had Troy.
My partner stood by me. Every step. Every breakdown. Every loss of words. Every unbearable night. I honestly don’t think I’d be here if it weren’t for him. I didn’t always have the strength to keep going for me. But I could do it for him.
Building Something Beautiful—Again and Again and Again
Before that brain injury, I’d finally started to build something of my own: My Mobile Massage. A practice created not just to serve clients, but to support other therapists too. I wanted to change the way massage therapists were treated—offering autonomy, respect, and space to actually live a balanced life.
Then the injury hit. I had to step back.
But I came back. And slowly, I started to rebuild—offering workplace massage, building contracts, and seeing success for the first time in a long while.
Then came COVID.
In a business built on close contact and home visits, everything shut down overnight. So I adapted again—converted to working out of my house, sanitized constantly, and did what I could.
And then I injured my wrist.
A small surgery. But it took two years to get through the public system. That meant two years of being unable to practice the work I love—while still financially supporting my business behind the scenes, hoping I’d get to return.
Thankfully, I could. And I did.
And just when I was getting back on my feet—I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia.
So yeah. Healing? It’s an ongoing process.
What Healing Looks Like Now
Healing, for me, isn’t a destination. It’s not a goal to achieve.
It’s a way of being. A constant dance of listening, adjusting, accepting, and trying again.
Some days I feel strong and capable. Other days it’s a mental struggle to decide to cancel everything and rest or to push through. It’s always a delicate balancing act between friends, family, health, healing, business, finances, and my own peace.
If you’re in a place of pain—especially invisible pain—this is what I want you to know:
You’re not broken. You’re healing.
You’re not weak. You’re not dramatic. You’re not alone.
And if the people around you don’t understand, find new people.
Reach out. Try again. Someone will listen. I promise. I did. And I’m still here.
I now bring massage to people not just for their muscles, but for their whole being. Because I know what it’s like to hurt. I know what it’s like to be invisible. And I know how powerful it is when someone simply shows up for you.
- James
