Like language, architecture, or music, massage is something we invented. We shaped it with our minds, our hands, and our cultural imagination. It's a practice that lives in time, structure, rhythm, and choice. The fact that it’s designed is what makes it teachable, repeatable, and — when done well — transformative.

This line of thought led me to build my own theory of massage. Not a vague philosophy or an airy-fairy belief system, but a grounded framework that respects massage as an intentional craft — not a mystical gift.

I began to see each massage session not as a series of improvisations, but as a constructed space — like a well-designed building. It has an entrance, a flow of movement, a sense of rhythm and balance. There are transitions, contrasts, quiet zones and focal points. There is form, and there is function. Good massage follows principles of design, whether the practitioner is aware of them or not.

I started identifying those principles — the things that make a session coherent instead of chaotic. Unity. Rhythm. Contrast. Repetition. Alignment. These weren’t just design-school buzzwords; they were the bones and muscles of a good massage. They gave the session a body. A logic. A pulse.

From that, the Karleetus Massage Protocol was born — a system that treats massage as a designed experience, not a series of intuitive strokes. It respects anatomy, but it also respects flow. It creates a space where structure meets sensation. Where technique and timing aren’t competing — they’re collaborating.

This approach pushes back against a lot of the fluff that’s been built up around massage over the years — the sacredness, the mystical language, the fetish for “intuition.” Intuition has its place, sure, but it’s not a substitute for skill. It’s a supplement. Great massage isn’t magic. It’s built. You lay down each moment like you’d lay bricks — carefully, with awareness of weight and balance and purpose.

And that’s the core of my theory: that massage is not a natural act, but a human one. It’s something we invented to regulate, to soothe, to connect — and when done well, it has more in common with architecture or choreography than with animal grooming.

It’s structure that makes touch powerful. It’s structure that gives it repeatable effect. Massage, at its best, is not just felt — it’s remembered. It imprints. It shifts. It stays.

This theory isn’t about turning massage into a cold technical routine. It’s about giving it bones strong enough to carry depth, variation, and artistry. You don’t make jazz by playing random notes. You build skill, then you bend it.

The Karleetus approach does just that. It builds.

Because good touch isn’t born — it’s made.