Breathing.
It’s not so hard, right?
Inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth.
Inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth.
Inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth.
Simple.
Except when it’s not.
Except when the weight of the world has left your shoulders bruised and sore.
Except when you find yourself taking a deep breath, only to realize it’s because you’ve been holding your breath. For a very long time.
Or if you’re lucky, only breathing shallowly.
Because it’s all been so much, for so long.
And you suddenly realize it’s been years that you’ve been holding your breath. For three years, five years, ten years, and even longer.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Waiting to release your white-knuckled grip.
Not trying to control life. Just trying to let go while wading through heartbreak, cancer, heartbreak, depression, heartbreak, rebuilding. Oh, and did I mention heartbreak?
Friends resuscitating you over and over again. Breathing you back to life, as they themselves struggle with their own hard stuff of life. Through it all, they don’t let your hand go. They don’t let your head slip under the water.
Thank God they didn’t let you go.
Because now you’re here. In the middle of the journey.
(Fucking journeys.)
You’re here in the middle of the journey, having taken countless tiny baby steps just to get where you are.
A million miles from last year.
And all at the same time, you’re not as far as you thought you might be…but you’re much further than you ever could have ever expected.
Still trying to loosen your grip.
Release control.
Let go.
Breathe.
Trying to come from a place of love instead of a place of fear. When fear is all you’ve known for the past several years.
Fear of losing something much greater than a marriage — or even your soul.
Fear of losing the one thing that is more precious to you than life itself.
And all that fear has taken over your life. And your faith. And your confidence in God and the Universe.
But now you’re here.
In the middle of that fucking journey.
And you’ve seen a glimmer of light.
The most brilliant, hopeful light. That came into your world like a supernova.
Or like a cannonball right into the deep end of the pool — without any warning, and soaking you so thoroughly, your entire soul is see-through.
And suddenly you’re relearning things about yourself.
And remembering who you were.
Who you are.
Without the knot in your stomach.
Without the shallow breathing.
Without the fear.
Who you were before you stopped knowing what fun was for you.
And what it felt like to be light and happy and joyful and giggly and peaceful and safe and protected and flirty and open and unfiltered and adored and appreciated and valued and seen and heard and understood.
So completely seen and heard and understood.
And you feel yourself exhale. Like you’ve been longing to do for so long.
Because this time, it feels so different. And in many ways, it feels so familiar.
Another catalyst for growth and change.
Another point in life which is measured in before and after.
And that thought stops you in your tracks.
Please not again, God. You pray. Please don’t let this be another way of teaching me that same lesson. Please let this be different.
It feels good to exhale.
It feels good to be seen and heard and understood.
And you don’t want it to stop.
You’ve waited to exhale for so long.
So you naturally wonder, is it safe?
Is it safe?
Is it safe?
You loosen your white-knuckled grip.
You release the burdens that are not yours to carry — and never were.
Then you let go.
And exhale.