Was this cry mine?
I’ve been working with the human body in a professional setting for 19 years now. Even saying that out loud feels surreal. From bodywork to emotional release, from intuitive acupressure to guided imagery, from qigong to coaching — before I ever heard the word somatics, I was immersed in it.
And as the saying goes, “the more you know, the less you know.” Not because you’re shrinking — but because you begin to see the depth that’s still in front of you. At times, the path ahead of me feels almost as new as it did 19 years ago.
Recently, I was in a ceremony — a series of rituals designed to check in with the body and listen more deeply to what’s alive internally. Sometimes I practice in community. This time, I was alone.
After a while, a heaviness began to rise. It wanted expression. It wanted release. Tears.
In many ways, I’ve been fortunate to feel connected to the feminine from an early age. But when it comes to emotions — especially crying — there’s still resistance. Childhood conditioning lingers.
After pushing through that resistance, I finally let go of control and allowed my body to emotionally and energetically breathe.
Five, maybe ten minutes later, I paused to check in.
Nope. The exhale wasn’t finished.
“At least I’m somewhat past the resistance phase,” I told myself — and I continued. For context, this experience felt like grief more than joy.
At one point I checked the time. That, too, was a form of control. Another childhood figure surfacing to measure my experience. So I stopped tracking.
Eventually, the exhale felt complete.
Music. Candles. Scent. Water. Tissues. Grounding support for integration.
What followed was rest — and my continued practice of non-self-judgment as I sparred with questions like “why the hell am I even doing this work.”
The next day, I felt amazing. Lighter. Brighter.
And it made me wonder — how many of us are suffocating emotionally and spiritually? Choking on a truth we avoid, that blocks us from exhaling. Distracted enough by the material realm that we forget to energetically inhale.
Everything breathes. From galaxies expanding and contracting, to the tides rising and falling, to the oxygen our lungs exchange each second. We easily grasp breathing oxygen because it’s visible in its effects and measurable in its absence. But we often gasp through the emotional and spiritual cycles of breath because they are less tangible — harder to quantify, harder to validate.
I’m grateful to say that I’ve never been on medication (except for the one random experience of amoxicillin for a tooth infection). When doctors ask if I’m allergic to any medication, I often reply, “I don’t know — I’ve never really had it before.” I say that half-jokingly, but also to acknowledge something real:
This work is my medicine.
Creating intentional space to process, deepen, explore, release, surrender, trust, expand — to breathe.
Reflection
That cry was unexpected, so I ran through a checklist.
Did something recent trigger this? No.
Was I grieving a past experience? Not that I could identify.
Was it connected to ancestral or generational work I’ve been exploring? Likely — though not yet clear.
Did I summon something sinister that’s fucking with me? I doubt it.
Is this a chronic pattern (emotionally stuck) of exhaling without inhaling? No.
Eventually, I rested in something simpler:
It is more important to feel than to immediately know.
Insight, I’ve learned, is like sediment in a glass of water. If you keep shaking it, it stays cloudy. If you let it settle, clarity arrives on its own time.
Revelation doesn’t respond well to interrogation.
IN CLOSING
This is still uncomfortable for me to share publicly. As I wrote this, my inner critic was typing too:
What’s the point?
Isn’t this private and TMI?
Will people think this is performative?
Do I really want to expose myself to judgment — especially when rejection is my oldest fear?
And yet… this feels like part of the work.
In my sessions with clients, I often encourage a private practice of emotional breathing. A space to check in with the body. To move. To feel. To notice and be with tension before the mind builds a narrative. To undo more than to force.
Sometimes the most courageous thing we can do is let the exhale finish.
Q TIME!
If your body could release without being measured or judged, what might it say?
Where in your life could you replace more doing with more undoing?
#slowdown
#lookinward
#balance
#naturalmedicine
#undoingisthework