Tuning the Chakras: Less About Frequency, More About Feeling
- May 5
- 3 min read
Tuning the chakras is about as divisive as pineapple on pizza.
And while I am a firm no to pineapple on pizza, I have never felt the need to be quite so rigid when it comes to pitch, frequency, and the body. Because the longer I have worked in this space, the more I have realised this work is not about getting it right… it is instead all about what the body recognises as true.
There is a lot of noise around chakra frequencies. Charts, numbers, exact Hertz assigned to each energy centre as if the body were a machine waiting to be precisely calibrated. For some, that structure feels grounding. For others, it feels too fixed, too clinical for something as fluid and deeply personal as energy.
And somewhere in the middle of that conversation is where I’ve found my place.
Because whether or not we agree on exact frequencies, one thing remains undeniable: the body responds to sound. Not in a way that needs explanation or belief, but in a way that is felt. A shift in breath. A softening in the jaw. A subtle unwinding in places that have been holding for far too long.
At its core, the body is rhythm and vibration. The heart pulses. The breath rises and falls. The nervous system moves in waves, constantly adjusting, constantly responding to the world around us. So when sound enters that system steady, intentional, uninterrupted it does not need to force anything. It simply offers a new rhythm to attune to.
This is where tuning forks come in. There is something quietly powerful about them. No complexity, no overwhelm just a pure tone, consistent and unwavering. When placed on or around the body, that vibration travels. Through bone, through tissue, through spaces we often forget to feel. And rather than trying to “fix” anything, it creates a gentle invitation. A remembering.
In my work, I don’t use tuning forks to hit a perfect note for each chakra. I use them to listen. To feel where something is dense, where there’s resistance, where the body might be holding onto a story it hasn’t yet found the words for. The sound becomes a bridge between tension and release, between disconnection and awareness.
Each chakra holds a different layer of our human experience. Safety, expression, love, truth, intuition. And when one of those layers feels out of balance, it rarely shows up in isolation. It weaves its way through the body, the emotions, the way we move through the world. Sound has a way of meeting those places without needing to analyse them. It simply creates space.
I often reach for tuning forks in the moments where words fall short. When the body feels guarded. When there’s a sense that something wants to shift, but pushing would only create more resistance. They work beautifully alongside breath, alongside stillness, alongside the quiet permission to just be with what’s there.
And what unfolds is never forced.
Sometimes it’s a deep exhale that catches someone by surprise. Sometimes it’s a softening in the chest, or a release in the belly that didn’t feel possible moments before. Sometimes it’s emotion rising gently to the surface, and sometimes it’s simply a sense of calm that hasn’t been felt in a long time.
Not dramatic. Not performative. Just… real.
That’s the part I trust.
Because this isn’t about believing in chakras or memorising frequencies. It’s not about getting caught in the debate of what’s “correct.” It’s about experience. It’s about allowing the body to respond in its own way, in its own time, without needing to justify it.
For me, tuning forks have become less of a tool and more of a companion in that process. A way to meet the body where it is, without pressure, without expectation.
Not because they are perfect. But because they speak a language the body has always understood.
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