I was sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor at 2 AM, laptop balanced on my knees, watching a YouTube video of a woman tapping on her face while saying things like “Even though I feel overwhelmed, I deeply and completely accept myself.”
My first thought was: This has to be a joke.
My second thought was: But what if it isn’t?
I’d stumbled down the EFT rabbit hole after months of feeling like I was carrying around a backpack full of rocks that I couldn’t put down. Anxiety that felt like static electricity under my skin. That persistent heaviness that made even good days feel like I was swimming through honey.
I’d tried meditation apps that made me more anxious. Breathing exercises that left me hyperventilating. Journaling that just made me relive everything I was trying to process. And here was this woman on my screen, literally tapping on her face like she was playing patty-cake with herself, claiming it could help with trauma and stress and basically everything I was struggling with.
It looked ridiculous. Completely, utterly ridiculous.
But at 2 AM, when you’re desperate enough to try anything, ridiculous starts to sound reasonable.
The Skeptic’s Guide to Face-Tapping
I closed the laptop and sat there in the dark for a moment, already feeling foolish for what I was about to do. The house was quiet except for the sound of my neighbor’s sprinkler system cycling through the yard next door. Even the universe seemed to be holding its breath, waiting to see if I’d actually go through with this.
I started with what the video had taught me – tapping on the side of my hand while saying the setup statement. “Even though I feel like I’m drowning in my own thoughts, I deeply and completely accept myself.”
The words felt foreign in my mouth. Like trying on clothes that belonged to someone more put-together, more self-aware, more willing to say things like “I deeply and completely accept myself” without cringing.
But I kept going. Tapped on the crown of my head, the side of my eyebrow, the corner of my eye. Moved through the sequence the woman had demonstrated, feeling like I was following a dance I didn’t know the steps to.
“I feel scattered,” I said to my empty bedroom, tapping under my nose. “I feel like I can’t catch my breath.” Tap, tap, tap under my chin. “I feel like I’m failing at everything.”
And then something weird happened.
Not magic. Not some dramatic shift or spiritual awakening. Just… space. Like someone had opened a window in a stuffy room I hadn’t realized I was suffocating in.
When the Tears Came
It was during my third round of tapping – maybe a week later – that it really hit me. I was sitting in the same spot on my bedroom floor, but this time it was late afternoon. Golden light was streaming through my window, and I was tapping for something that felt both huge and silly: the way I’d been beating myself up for eating a second piece of cake at my friend’s birthday party.
I know. I know how that sounds. But that’s the thing about anxiety – it doesn’t discriminate between real problems and imaginary ones. Everything gets the same treatment, the same spiral of self-criticism and shame.
So there I was, tapping on my collarbone, saying, “Even though I ate that cake and felt terrible about it, I choose to be kind to myself.”
And suddenly, without warning, I started crying.
Not the dramatic, movie-scene kind of crying. Just this quiet, surprised release that started in my chest and worked its way up to my eyes. Like my body had been waiting for permission to let go of something I didn’t even know I was holding onto.
“I’m so tired of being mean to myself,” I whispered to my empty room, still tapping. “I’m so tired of making everything wrong.”
The tears weren’t sad, exactly. They felt more like… relief. Like finally exhaling after holding your breath for months without realizing it.
I sat there on my floor, tapping through the points and crying softly, and for the first time in forever, it didn’t feel like I was drowning. It felt like I was floating to the surface.
Finding My Own Way
After that breakthrough, I started tapping regularly. Not obsessively – I’m not great at routines – but whenever that familiar feeling of being too much for myself crept back in.
The more I practiced, the more I realized that the generic scripts I found online weren’t quite right for me. They were either too clinical (“Rate your distress on a scale of 1 to 10”) or too aggressive (“I release this limiting belief NOW!”) or too focused on manifesting and attracting abundance and all that hustle-culture healing stuff that made my skin crawl.
So I started writing my own scripts. Gentler ones. More honest ones. Scripts that sounded like how I actually talk to myself when I’m being kind instead of critical.
Instead of “I release this fear,” I’d say, “It’s okay that I’m scared right now.” Instead of “I am worthy of love,” I’d tap with, “I’m learning to be gentler with myself.” Instead of demanding transformation, I started asking for acceptance.
The difference was profound. It felt like the difference between forcing yourself to feel better and giving yourself permission to feel whatever you were feeling, without needing to fix it immediately.
I started creating scripts for the weird, specific things nobody talks about in healing circles. For the shame of canceling plans at the last minute. For the anxiety of not knowing what you want to do with your life. For the guilt of being happy when other people are struggling.
Real stuff. Human stuff. The messy, unglamorous feelings that don’t fit neatly into manifestation journals or vision boards.
The Science I Don’t Understand
Here’s what I still can’t wrap my head around: how does tapping on specific points on your face and body actually help? I’ve read about meridians and energy and the amygdala, but honestly, most of it goes over my head.
What I do know is what it feels like in my body. How my shoulders drop when I tap on that tender spot under my arm. How my breathing deepens when I work through the points on my face. How something that looks absolutely ridiculous from the outside can create this sense of coming home to yourself from the inside.
I’ve tried to explain it to friends, and I always end up sounding like I’m trying to convert them to some weird face-tapping cult. “No, really, you just tap on your face and talk to yourself and somehow you feel better. I swear I’m not losing it.”
Some of them have tried it. Some of them think I’ve lost my mind. Most of them fall somewhere in between – curious but skeptical, the same way I was that first night at 2 AM.
And I get it. I really do. If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be writing blog posts about the healing power of tapping on your face, I would have politely changed the subject and made a mental note to worry about their mental health.
The Quiet Revolution
But here’s the thing: it works for me. Not in a miracle-cure, life-completely-transformed kind of way. More in a gentle, ongoing, coming-back-to-myself kind of way.
When I tap now, I’m not trying to fix anything or manifest anything or release anything. I’m just having a conversation with myself – with my hands on my face and my voice speaking truths I’m usually too scared to acknowledge.
“I’m overwhelmed and that’s okay.” Tap, tap, tap. “I don’t know what I’m doing and that’s human.” Tap, tap, tap. “I’m doing my best and my best is enough.” Tap, tap, tap.
It’s like the physical act of tapping gives me permission to say things I’d never say to myself otherwise. To admit fears without immediately trying to rationalize them away. To acknowledge pain without having to solve it in the same breath.
Sometimes I tap for five minutes and feel dramatically better. Sometimes I tap for twenty minutes and feel exactly the same, but somehow more okay with feeling the same. Sometimes I tap and cry and laugh and feel completely ridiculous and completely held, all at the same time.
The consistency isn’t in the results – it’s in the kindness. In showing up for myself in this weird, gentle way that still makes me shake my head in disbelief sometimes.
Coming Home to Yourself
I was tapping yesterday morning – sitting in that same spot on my bedroom floor where it all started – working through some anxiety about a work project. As I moved through the points, saying things like “Even though I’m scared I’ll mess this up, I choose to trust myself,” I had this moment of recognition.
Not about the tapping itself, but about what it had taught me: how to have a different kind of conversation with myself. How to meet my anxiety with curiosity instead of resistance. How to hold space for all the messy, contradictory feelings without needing to fix them or optimize them or turn them into content for my personal growth journey.
The tapping was just the vehicle. The real shift was learning to treat myself like someone I actually care about.
I still don’t fully understand how it works. I can’t explain the science or the energy meridians or why touching specific points on your body while speaking with intention creates change. I can’t convince anyone who thinks it’s ridiculous, because honestly, it is kind of ridiculous.
But I know this: every time I tap, I come home to myself a little more. Not to some idealized, healed version of myself, but to the actual person I am right now – anxious and hopeful and human and enough, just as I am.
And in a world that’s constantly telling us we need to be more and do more and heal faster and optimize better, that feels pretty revolutionary.
Even if it does involve tapping on your face.
