I Wish I Could Breathe
I'm in a season.
If you've been following me for a while, you'll know it's been a long one.
I choose to share parts of my journey because I know what it feels like to believe you're the only one. If my words help someone feel seen, help them understand what their body is experiencing, or introduce them to tools I never knew existed for much of my life, then
the vulnerability is worth it.
I wrote the poem (see image below), while sitting across from my son. He had no idea that I was sitting in what feels like the hardest season of my life.
That is often how suffering looks.
We become incredibly good at carrying what no one else can see.
The Season No One Prepares You For
Post-menopause has surprised me.
People often speak about the physical changes, but very few talk about what happens emotionally, spiritually and relationally.
There is a quiet strength that begins to emerge.
The strength to say no.
The strength to recognise that your own oxygen mask has to come first.
The strength to choose safety over self-sacrifice.
Yet we live in a world that constantly pulls at our nervous systems. Social media thrives on outrage. News cycles profit from fear. Governments and corporations understand that attention is currency, and fear keeps people watching.
For women, I believe this season was never meant to be another season of striving.
It was meant to be reflective.
A time of nurturing.
A time of coming home to ourselves after years of giving so much to everyone else.
A season to spread our wings.
So why do so many of us still feel pinned to someone else's wall?
As I write this, I walk to the counter to get my second cup of coffee. The barista casually begins sharing her own story.
Without warning, my body slips into muscle memory remembering experiences I hadn't consciously connected until now.
It reminds me that healing isn't linear.
Our bodies remember what our minds often cannot.
I am a therapist, I am a facilitator and I teach nervous system regulation, embodiment and healing.
But please don't ever believe that means I have it all together.
If you're looking for a therapist who never struggles, you'll find a fraud before you'll find a human.
Healing is not a destination.
It isn't something we achieve once and then never revisit.
Healing is lived.
Moment by moment.
Day by day.
Season by season.
The beautiful thing about the body is that it was never designed to remain stuck.
It wasn't created to stay injured.
It wasn't designed to remain disregulated forever.
Our bodies are continually adapting, repairing and restoring balance a process called homeostasis.
Every second our heart beats, carrying oxygen and nutrients to around 37 trillion cells.
Every second DNA damage is being repaired.
Every second damaged cells are being removed and replaced.
Our immune system is constantly scanning for threats.
Our brain is regulating our breathing, blood pressure, body temperature and countless other processes without us even thinking about it.
Every breath changes the chemistry inside us.
Every hour our brain is rewiring itself through neuroplasticity.
Every day our skin heals.
Our gut lining renews and our microbiome changes according to what we eat, how we sleep, how we move and how much stress we carry. Each night, while we sleep, our brain clears waste through the glymphatic system, consolidates memories, releases growth hormone and strengthens immune function.
Week after week.
Month after month.
Year after year.
The body quietly whispers,
"I'm still trying to heal you."
And I stop.
Right there, in the middle of my despair.
And I am completely in awe.
"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."
Psalm 139:14
In that moment something shifts.
The smile comes.
The tightness softens.
The water that moments before felt like it was drowning me suddenly feels different.
Not because my circumstances changed.
But because my perspective did.
Instead of the water flooding in, it begins washing over me.
Refreshing me Reminding me. He has got this.
Ironically, the very quote that gives me strength and my body remembers, in one translation reads:
"A Psalm of David himself. To you Lord, I will cry out. My God, do not be silent toward me. For if you remain silent toward me, I will become like those who descent into the pit."
Psalm 27:1 (CPDV)
And honestly, this is where my body had been.
This was the place I recognised.
The feeling of slipping towards the pit.
The exhaustion.
The overwhelm.
The cry of asking:
"God, please don't be silent."
Then the verse in another translation reads how I now feel within the core of my body:
"The Lord is my light and my salvation; Whom should I fear? The Lord is the defence of my life; Whom should I dread?"
Psalm 27:1 (NASB2020)
I can see now that both were part of the same journey.
The cry and the confidence.
The fear and the faith.
The place where my body felt overwhelmed by the waters.
And the place where my body remembered it was held.
I can see myself now climbing out of the pit of despair with renewed hope.
Hope that I couldn't offer to myself in that moment, but somehow was already living within me.
My body knows it.
