6Sense

Author: Yilin Li

  • When Your Body Says No

    When Your Body Says No

    Yilin Li investigates what it’s like living with everyday allergies

    It can be difficult when your body overreacts to everyday things that most people barely notice. For millions of people in the United Kingdom, allergic reactions are a part of daily life, triggered by anything from grass and pollen to shellfish and animal hairs. While many symptoms are mild and manageable, others can escalate rapidly, becoming serious or even life-threatening. From subtle irritation to severe physical reactions, allergies exist along a spectrum that is often misunderstood. Yet behind each reaction lies a complex relationship between the body, the environment and the way we learn to live with both.

    “Allergies and sensitivities are extremely common and irritating and uncomfortable, but not life-threatening,” Hammett explained. “However, an acute allergic reaction, anaphylaxis, can be serious and could prove fatal.”

    Emma Hammett, CEO of the UK training organisation – First Aid for Life, says it is crucial to distinguish between everyday allergies and acute reactions. While the mild allergic symptoms are often managed with antihistamines and avoidance of triggers. But severe reactions require immediate action.

    Infographic of the symptoms of anaphylaxis. Image: Emma Hammett, First Aid for Life

    “Adrenaline should be administered as soon as you notice the signs of a severe systemic allergic reaction,” she says. “Always phone an ambulance after giving the adrenaline auto-injector.”

    Hammett notes that food allergies are becoming increasingly common, which is why public awareness and first-aid training are expanding. From September, UK schools are legally required to ensure staff are trained to recognise anaphylaxis and administer adrenaline auto-injectors.

    Allergies are often imagined as dramatic emergencies: swelling throats, hospital visits, urgent injections. But for many people, allergic reactions are quieter and far more ordinary. They appear in itchy skin after touching grass, a throat that tingles after certain foods, or sudden redness that spreads across the face without warning.

    These reactions can arrive in the middle of daily life, during a meal, on a walk in the park, or late at night when the body should be resting. Yet they often feel strangely unpredictable, as if the body has mistaken something harmless for danger.

    Why does the body sometimes react as if the world itself were a threat?

    Natalia’s face during a sudden allergic reaction. Image: Dora

    Dora Ni, a 21-year-old student, says the answer often appears without warning. She has lived with allergies since childhood, and her body can react suddenly to stress, lack of sleep, or even moments of anxiety in public. 

    “When I feel nervous, my face flushes intensely and becomes itchy and purple,” she says.

    For Dora, tactile sensations became a visible source of shame. Because her reactions developed so rapidly, strangers in public can readily perceive her distress, like sudden facial swelling, arms flushed and itching over large patches. Yet Dora says the difficulty lies not only in the symptoms themselves but in how others perceive them. “Because not all reactions are life-threatening, people don’t always see it as serious.” Over time, she has begun to recognise patterns in her body’s responses. Sleep, stress levels, and emotional stability all seem to influence how severe the reactions become. ‘‘When I’m well-rested and emotionally stable, my reactions are noticeably less severe.’’ For her, stress does not cause the allergy itself, but it can make the symptoms worse.

    Unlike Dora, Lia’s allergies developed slowly. As a child, Lia, a 21-year-old student living in London, loved animals and spent time around horses without any problems. But over the years, her body began to react.

    Torch animals allergic reaction. Image: Adobe Stock

    “I wasn’t allergic as a child, but the more time I spent around animals, the worse it became,” she says.

    Consequently, contact with animals now causes her eyes to itch, rashes to appear on her body, and even breathing difficulties. But it’s not just animals that she is allergic to; touching kiwifruit makes her throat tingle and grass triggers allergic reactions on her arms, particularly after exercise. ‘‘If I sit on grass, I get rashes all over my legs,” she says.

    Lia manages her symptoms by carrying antihistamines, avoiding certain foods, and washing her hands carefully after touching animals. But the allergies have affected her in other ways: “I would love to have a farm when I’m older… but I can’t,” she says. For Lia, the allergy does more than irritate her skin. It quietly redraws the boundaries of the life she once imagined.

    Joanna’s allergic reaction occurred after her hand touched raw shrimp. Image: Joanna

    Joanna Chan, 23, a student, has a more pronounced allergic condition. Around the age of 15, despite having consumed seafood without issue since childhood, she suddenly developed an allergic reaction to raw and undercooked prawns.

    Handling raw prawns without gloves causes her hands to swell and itch. Eating undercooked prawns triggers a more serious response. “My airways constrict, and my lips become very swollen and itchy,” she says.

    Yet her attitude towards the allergy is surprisingly calm. “If something happens, I just take medication.” Because the trigger is specific and easy to avoid, she doesn’t feel the condition has dramatically altered her life. “It feels very normal to me.”

    While these experiences differ, they also raise an important question: when does an allergy become dangerous?

    For mild allergies, symptoms are often managed with antihistamines and avoidance of triggers, as Hammett explains. But severe reactions, though less common, require immediate recognition and response.

    But most allergies people live with every day fall somewhere between irritation and danger – uncomfortable, unpredictable, but rarely life-threatening.

    These three stories reveal how differently the body can respond to the same world. Allergic reactions are not signs of failure but forms of protection, sometimes imperfect, sometimes excessive. Living with allergies is akin to negotiating with the world. For Dora Ni, this means always carrying antihistamines. For Lia, it means relinquishing her dream of owning a farm. For Joanna Chan, it means understanding precisely where her body’s limits lie.  Learning to live with allergies means learning where those boundaries lie and how to live alongside them.

  • Sound Baths in London: How Listening with the Body Helps a City Slow Down

    Sound Baths in London: How Listening with the Body Helps a City Slow Down

    How Listening with the Body Helps a City Slow Down

    When I step into the Re:Mind Sound Bath Studio near Victoria Station, the street outside is still roaring with traffic and overlapping voices. But the moment the door closes behind me, the noise dissolves. The interior features a rustic, wooden aesthetic, with a cosy yet compact waiting area adorned with rugs. Entering the sound bath room, several crystal bowls in pale blue, milky white, and amber tones are arranged in a quiet semicircle beneath the lamplight, their smooth glass surfaces catching the light, while a large bronze gong leans silently against the wall. A faint woody scent hung in the air, and the warm glow softened everyone’s features. 

    Sound healer Christine Vogler sat quietly at the front of the room. We get talking, and she explains how she once lives by metrics and targets.

    “For a long time, I was still working in traditional, high-paying corporate roles,” she says.

    Years of high-pressure work took their toll, and in order to escape, she starts to spend her evenings in yoga studios and sound healing workshops. At first, these practices are simply a way to restore balance between meetings and emails. “The more I learn, the more my worldview shifts,” says Christine, and it began as a refuge that slowly became direction. Three and a half years ago, Christine left the corporate world and committed herself fully to the healing work she had once pursued only on the margins of her life.

    An image of sound healer – Christine Vogler. Image: Yilin Li 

    For Christine, sound is far more than something the ears receive. ‘‘In a sound bath, you experience sound through the body,’’ she explains. ‘‘Unlike recordings trapped inside headphones, live sound moves freely. It fills the room, brushes against skin, and settles into breath and muscle.’’ She describes this process as a resonance. ‘‘There’s an entrainment occurring between the frequencies of the instruments and the frequencies within your body,’’ she says. ‘‘When singing bowls are played, their vibrations interact with the body’s own rhythms, gently guiding it into a slower, calmer state.’’ This communication extends to the cellular level. ‘‘Every cell begins to communicate with the sound,’’ Christine explains, ‘‘In that moment, the body stops listening and starts responding, long before the mind has time to catch up.’’

    Christine exercises particular caution with what she calls “sensory labels”, words like “relaxing,” “heavy,” “floating,” or “healing” that people often use to categorise sound. “We always want to classify things,” she says. But sound resists neat categories. Even for experienced practitioners, it remains deeply personal. “For me, the gong feels heavier and more spacey,’’ she explains. “The gong’s vibrations seem to expand outward, filling the room, while crystal bowls feel lighter and more fluid to me.” Still, she is quick to qualify her descriptions. “Someone else might experience it completely differently,” she says.

    “What feels soothing to one person may feel overwhelming to another. The same sound settles into each body in its own way，” she says.

    The bar counter in the rest area. Image: Yilin Li 

    During a sound bath, a wide range of reactions unfold, none of them needing correction. For Christine, especially in a city like London, the goal is surprisingly simple. “Relaxation is the key objective, especially in a city like London,” she says. “In a place driven by deadlines and constant movement, slowing down the nervous system is already a small act of resistance.”

    When tension loosens, she notices shifts in the room. “Some people see colours or memories,” she adds. “It can bring up things they are not consciously thinking about.” Not everyone relaxes easily.

    “For those new to this, the mind can be overpowering,” Christine adds. “People start analysing, wondering if they’re doing it right.” But she doesn’t see that as failure. “Distraction and doubt are part of the process. ” That’s just how we learn to listen.

    When I lie on the mat, I drift into the space between wakefulness and sleep. My eyelids grow heavy, my breath stretches out, and my body finally releases its weight. Christine isn’t surprised. “Falling asleep is very common,” she says, especially in a city where exhaustion is often ignore. Crucially, sleep does not mean disengagement. You’re still receiving the benefits, she explains, as sound gradually lowers brainwaves into a meditative state. “The mind may fade for a moment, but the body continues to listen,” Christine says. “Even in unconsciousness, it remains in quiet conversation with vibration.”

    Christine sees sound baths as a form of meditation. For first-time participants, the experience often stays on the surface, marks by novelty, drowsiness, or distraction. With repetition, something shifts.

    “The more you do it, the deeper you can go,” she says. As your body becomes familiar with vibration, resistance fades. “Your system knows what’s happening,” she explains. “Over time, sound is no longer something that comes from outside,” Christine says.

    “It becomes something you feel from within.” However, for Christine, no sound bath is ever “one-size-fits-all,” and when I lie on the mat, I drift into the space between wakefulness and sleep. My eyelids grow heavy, my breath stretches out, and my body finally releases its weight. While instruments may look similar, she explains, each facilitator’s training and philosophy shapes the experience. She prefers restraint over excess. “Too many instruments can feel disruptive,” she says. For Christine, healing lies not in constant stimulation, but in continuity, allowing sound to settle, and people to meet themselves in stillness.

    Comfortable sofa and blanket in the rest area. Image: Yilin Li

    As the final note on the gong fades, a stillness settles over the room. No one in the class rushes to speak, as if words might disturb the softness that has been slowly settling over the room. Outside, London is still roaring: buses surge past, phones vibrate, voices overlap. Nothing has change. Except me. Commuters hurry past, phones in hand. I slow my pace, take deeper breaths, and resist the familiar urge to rush onward. Perhaps this is the quiet power of sound bathing in modern life: not a promise of improvement, productivity, or self-optimisation, but permission to pause, to feel, to exist without performing. In a city that never truly rests, listening becomes an act of care. And, slowly, the body remembers how.

  • Dining Without Sight

    Dining Without Sight

    Yilin Li investigates how sound, touch, and trust take over in the dark

    The moment I step into DANS LE NOIR?, warm light fills the waiting area. Glasses clink softly against the bar counter, citrus peel lingers faintly in the air, and a waiter asks if I would like something to drink. Before entering the dining room, the staff asks me to remove all electronic devices and leave them behind. This is to ensure my vision is completely obscured throughout the meal. In that instant, excitement and unease arrive together. I realise how quietly, yet completely, my sense of control has depended on the ability to see.

    Image: Yilin Li

    In the dining area, a visually impaired waiter named Ghow comes over to me. He informs me he will serve as my guide, escorting me safely into the dining area and serving the meals that follow. With my curiosity piqued, I follow Ghow into the dining space, and, after passing through several layers of heavy curtains, the world before my eyes is plunged into complete darkness.

    This darkness isn’t merely dim light, but a complete void. I can no longer sense the size of the room, my position within it, or the presence of others nearby. Despite Ghow’s calm guidance, my body slows instinctively; my hands hover uncertainly in the air, wary of table edges, chair legs, or misplaced cutlery. In this environment, I can only navigate and sit down by following Ghow’s voice.

    The visually impaired waiter-Ghow. Image: Dans Le Noir?

    For Ghow and his fellow visually impaired colleagues, darkness is familiar territory, as sound replaces sight as a form of navigation. He calmly and confidently guides me, preventing me from falling, telling me when to turn left or right, when I am approaching the door, or when to walk slowly near the steps. He would signal to me to sit down, even telling me that the water cup was just a few centimetres away, and which direction the tableware is placed in my hand. 

    As we talk, he says my hesitation is unsurprising: ‘‘Most people slow down at first,” he tells me.

    Unlike regular waitstaff, they don’t judge whether a customer has finished by seeing an empty plate. Instead, they listen. The cessation of cutlery clatter, the gentle clink of a cup being set down, or a customer initiating conversation all reveal the information that most waiting staff would ordinarily observe. The slightest sound becomes strikingly distinct. Because of this, the power dynamic shifts in the dark. Sound serves as a map for the visually impaired waitstaff, while for the customer, it offers reassurance by reducing uncertainty and helping them understand what is happening around them; when food has arrived, when staff is nearby, and when it is safe to move in the dark.

    The Starter. Image: Yilin Li

    Once the dishes arrive, I realise how crucial touch became at that moment. I begin to rediscover the meal with my hands, tracing the rim of the plate to gauge its size, then cautiously searching for the cutlery. My fingers feel their way across the plate, identifying the food by touch, distinguishing between vegetables and meat based on texture and temperature. Every movement is slow. 

    When I take a bite, deprived of sight, I can’t even tell what I am eating. In my mouth, the food is reduced to temperature, crispness or softness, dryness or moisture, and the layered sensations of sour, sweet, salty, bitter, and umami. 

    My friend and I tried to work out what kind of meat it is and what ingredients may have been used, but since the meal is served as a surprise with no prior menu, we soon abandon the effort. When you cannot see the food’s appearance and do not know its name, it becomes purely a taste sensation in your mouth. 

    This approach to eating requires patience. It made me chew more slowly and pay closer attention to each bite. While this deepens my awareness of the textures and flavours, such as the softness of the main dish, it sometimes reduces the simple pleasure of eating, as the effort to concentrate replaces the ease of enjoyment.

    The main course. Image: Yilin Li

    After the meal, Ghow led us back into the light of the waiting area. The menu is finally “decoded”. Our starter is trout gravlax, accompanied by sweet potato mash and fennel pickles. The main course is slow-cooked lamb rump tagine, served with celeriac mash, parsnip crisps, and cinnamon-candied plums. Many of my guesses have been wrong. I mistook the sweet potato mash for pumpkin purée and treated the lamb as stew beef.

    While the revelations are amusing, once the darkness gave way to lamplight, I realised that sight had instantly reclaimed dominance; my heightened sensitivity of taste, touch, and hearing quietly receded, returning to the background. 

    Upon leaving, I feel certain that this should be on any foodie’s “to-visit” list, not because any single dish is particularly stunning, but because it offers a fleeting glimpse into another way of life. In unfamiliar, pitch-black surroundings, you must swiftly place trust in the waiting staff, in both sound and guidance; this cultivates greater patience and reliance on others. Beyond the dining experience, it offers a genuine glimpse into the lives of visually impaired individuals, with the restaurant itself providing employment opportunities for the visually impaired community.

    When sight vanishes, eating ceases to depend on recognition and instead draws heavily upon our other senses. In darkness, our bodies listen, touch, hesitate, and relearn.

  • The Sensory Science of Baking

    The Sensory Science of Baking

    Yilin Li immerses her senses of smell for a baking session at the London-based bakery, Bread Ahead

    Near the Bread Ahead stand on a weekend afternoon, a faint aroma of butter hangs in the market air. It draws passers-by towards the stall, where trays of baked goods and pastries quickly gather a crowd. As the crowd thins and you reach Bread Ahead, it becomes clear the smell rises from the open kitchen behind the counter, where bakers and students work side-by-side. The scent acts as a quiet invitation, encouraging people to step closer and peer into the baking room beyond.

    Doughnuts of different flavours on the stall. Image: Yilin Li

    In contrast to the noisy and lively atmosphere of the outside stalls, Bread Ahead’s baking class offers a slower, warmer, and more intimate experience of the bakery. Inside the large open baking room, the focus is not only on learning how to handle dough and master pastry techniques, but also on experiencing baking as a sensory journey where smell becomes the most direct link, connecting space, process and perception.

    The Pastry Workshop fills the baking classroom with various flavours, different types of bread courses such as the Sourdough Bread Beginner’s Guide, the Doughnut, Croissant Workshop, Brioche & Buns Workshop. Walking into the baking room, five students, including myself, sit around a stainless-steel table. The teacher, Sophia, grabs a handful of flour and scatters it across the surface. 

    The flour lingers in the warm air for a moment, releasing a dry wheat aroma, before quietly settling onto the metal table. Sophia begins to knead the already fermented dough. As she works, the dough gives off a faint yeast aroma – a subtle, slightly sweet scent that blends into the warmth of the room. Her movements are steady and rhythmic, and the repeated motion of her hands seems to draw everyone into a meditative state. She kneads and smiles at the same time. Only when the dough reaches a shape she is satisfied with does she look up and say, “Welcome, everyone, to our baking class. Are you ready to make fragrant small breads?”

    As Sophia guides the class through the first steps of kneading, a pleasant aroma begins to spread through the room, even before any technique is fully applied. It rises quietly from the dough in the mixing bowl and from the table lined with various seasonings, blending with the warmth of the oven and creating an atmosphere that feels comforting and almost therapeutic.

    Among the ingredients is a small bowl of lemon juice, added in modest amounts to the egg mixture. When Sophia squeezes the lemon by hand, its skin splits open, and a strong, fresh fragrance immediately wafts into the air, carrying a brightness that feels like a summer morning. As I brush the egg mixture onto the pastry, the citrus scent rises at once sharper and brighter than anything that has filled the room before. People pause, breathing a little deeper, their shoulders easing almost instinctively, as if the fragrance itself gently settles the space.

    Sophia notices it too. Later, she explains: ‘‘Not only lemon but also mint has a similar effect. If used in the baking process, their scents all have a soothing effect.’’ If someone breaks a mint leaf and gently rubs it, that refreshing grassy aroma will spread throughout the entire baking kitchen, making the atmosphere clear and gentle without people even realising it. Sophia explains that some students even seem to wake up suddenly when the scent appears. ‘‘Not because they’ve suddenly mastered the technique,’’ she says, ‘‘but because the freshness of mint makes them feel more alert.’’

    For Sophia, aroma is often misunderstood as something that appears only once a pastry is baked. It is a part of the baking process, an intangible companion. Different scents emerge in the early stages of baking, when dough and fillings are still being prepared. These smells, she believes, influence a baker’s mood, focus, and even confidence in subtle ways. As aromas move through the space, they can ease tension and encourage students to settle into the rhythm of the work, making it easier for beginners to find their footing.

    Sophia believes that the relationship between smell and emotion is so close that it has become part of teaching. ‘‘It’s therapeutic,’’ she says, ‘‘the smell helps people settle in.’’

    Aroma is not simply a result of baking, but an active part of the process. It does not appear only when a finished pastry or bread emerges from the oven. Instead, it unfolds at every stage, during kneading, fermentation, and the quiet waiting that follows. From the natural scent of fresh ingredients to the warm steam released by freshly baked bread, smell runs through the class like an invisible thread. It gently guides students from the initial nervousness of stepping into the kitchen towards a deeper state of focus and ease, allowing both body and mind to settle into the rhythm of making. As Sophia says, the aroma of the bread is calming, a reason to stop, take a deep breath and regain one’s rhythm.

    Natural perfumer and aromachologist Nicky Jones. Image: Nicky Jones

    Natural perfumer and aromachologist – Nicky Jones offers a scientific explanation for this effect. She explains that the olfactory system has a direct pathway to the brain’s emotional centre. “When we inhale an aroma, the molecules travel through the olfactory system and directly enter the frontal lobes, where emotions and memories are processed,” she says.

    Certain chemical compounds, such as linalool, commonly found in natural essential oils, have been shown to reduce anxiety and stress. But beyond chemistry, Jones highlights the importance of memory.

    “Our brain creates scent associations,” she explains. “If a scent is linked to a particular emotion, time, place or person, when that aroma appears again, it immediately recalls the memory and emotion associated with it.”

    In the baking classroom, this neurological shortcut helps explain why the scent of warm dough can instantly shift the mood of the room. Aroma does not merely decorate the space; it shapes how the body settles into it. Changes in temperature can also affect the release of aroma, which is closely related to baking. Sophia explains that temperature not only affects the activity of the yeast but also determines when and how the aroma will spread. As the oven gradually heats up, the lemon juice in the egg-washed pastry crust and the sugar added to the dough begin to evaporate more quickly. The air takes on a fragrance that is fresh but never cloying, warm without becoming heavy. When the oven door is gently pulled open, a warm and sweet steam instantly gushes out, making the entire classroom seem to be filled with light in an instant. At that moment, no one speaks: the attention of the entire group is held by the smell alone.

    However, this calming effect does not stay confined to the classroom. Just outside Bread Ahead, in the crowded lanes of Borough Market, the same sensory influence continues.

    Among all the visitors in that afternoon, Robbie, who has travelled down from London with his partner shares “We have seen videos of the bakery online and plan to stop for lunch”. Yet it is not the online popularity that make them stay. “We know we are in the right place because you can smell the fresh bread,” Robbie adds.

    Freshly baked pastries at the end of the session. Image: Yilin Li

    For locals, the relationship with the bakery feels different. Haley, who lives nearby, has brought her partner Kane, visiting her for the day to try it. While Robbie describes smell as a way of confirming they have arrived at the right place, Haley and Kane experience it as something more immediate. “Everything,” Haley says when asked what she can smell, before narrowing it down: “the garlic and the bread is very, very strong over here.”

    Finally, what lingers is not just the taste of the bread, but the quiet way aroma shapes how people feel, remember and connect to a place.