A Breath Will Come

Sitting with overwhelm.

Grief and fear are pouring out of my fingertips. For the entirety of the night, they have stayed nameless and heavy, nestled uncomfortably in my throat. I notice myself wanting to pinpoint the why of the experience. I let myself wonder for a moment, but the desire to know takes me away from the feeling itself, so I find myself trying my hardest to just be with and honor what is alive in me.

When I do this, I feel the tears begin to swell behind my eyes. If only I could trace where they were coming from — maybe then I’d have some sense of control. The feeling in my throat grows and hardens even more, and it feels as though I am either going to spill out of myself completely or never utter a single word again.

I notice myself trying to catch myself — this desire to pull myself back before I get too lost in what easily could turn into a blind voyage, lost at sea. This is a moment, I tell myself — a moment in time — where the emotion in my body feels somewhat unbearable. But I know, deep down, that it is not.

You can do this.
Just one breath at a time.

Quickly, I am hit again with intensity. My throat and my heart are contracting. All of the muscles in my face tighten, as if they are trying to make certain that nothing else can make its way in.

Don’t let anything else in.

When I name my overwhelm, suddenly something happens. The smallest softening takes root behind my eyes. My throat is still quite closed, but a bit more space is coming in from somewhere. The light is trying to break through, in what feels like a momentary battle of the soul.

Overwhelm tells me that there is no way out of this ravenous storm.
Overwhelm tells me that what I am holding in my two hands will never be able to be let down.
Overwhelm tells me that this is it — my new normal — that no other feelings or thoughts or perspectives will ever again come into my body.
Overwhelm tells me that there must be something wrong with me — why is it all so hard? It shouldn’t be this hard.
Overwhelm closes up my heart and barricades my spirit, making it seem as though I have gotten myself lost forever.
Overwhelm tells me that I have lost the battle of keeping my power in a time of such upheaval — in a time where I greatly feel as though I need it.
Overwhelm tells me that I am alone in what feels like darkness.

And in the same breath, another thought trickles in:

Even moths sometimes stray away from the light.

Keeping it together in every moment right now is not feeling possible. And even when I write that, I wonder — what is it I am trying to keep, anyway? It is no wonder that I am feeling the urge to catch myself — so many things in this moment feel as though they are slipping out from my fingertips.

The ground is shaking.
The daffodils are feeling it.
The trees are feeling it.
The waters are feeling it.
We are all feeling it.

And maybe it isn’t about catching ourselves.
Maybe, instead, it is about saying: It makes so much sense. It is okay for things to feel hard. And it will not feel like this forever. A new breath will come, and you will return to the light. To know the light means that we must stray away from it at times.

I am reminded again and again that it is the returning that is the medicine.
And how can we return if we try to never, ever leave?

Earthworms move through the dark, weaving breath into soil, turning decay into nourishment, and stitching life back into the body of the earth.

Sometimes the transitions into new seasons are harsh.
Sometimes they are not easy and pleasant — sometimes they are messy and dirty.

Arrival to a new breath will always come, whether you feel like it will or not.
It does.

If you are feeling any bits of overwhelm right now,
I see you.
I am with you.
Hang in there.
Don’t stop loving yourself.