Healing Isn’t Polite

I woke up this morning with a sore throat. It came as no surprise, considering I spent the night prior screaming and shouting, in between deep breathing, in a plant nursery somewhere in Miami.

Eyes covered, hands open at my sides, I laid on a yoga mat and followed the breathwork facilitator’s cues. 

It was an active breathing class meant to take us on a journey to our subconscious and release what no longer served us. 

Less than a minute into the experience, my lungs felt like they were on fire. As a chronically shallow breather all my life, my lung capacity was nil. Almost as though I didn’t believe I deserved the very oxygen I begrudging inhaled into my lungs. I didn’t know how to receive what is certainly a birthright. It’s crazy to say it out loud but I honestly don’t think I felt worthy of breathing out loud. 

In the past when I did remember to breathe, I would hold the breath in my lungs, not in a luxurious way, but in the sense that I was so nervous, I’d forget to exhale and take a new breath. I’m not entirely sure why. A part of me thinks that maybe it was so that others wouldn’t hear me exhale, so that I could stay in my shell and tip toe quietly through life. 

Maybe I didn’t believe I was worthy of taking up space or making noise, and maybe the sound of my exhale would remind them that I was there. Maybe I didn’t want to be there, maybe I was somewhere else entirely.

But last night I breathed differently. I decided to immerse myself in the experience. If others deserved to receive this healing event in exchange for money, why not me?

Time moved differently as we breathed, so I’m not sure how long into it it was before my hands involuntarily clasped together tightly like lobster claws. The instructor had warned us before that this could happen, and if she hadn’t, I would have been terrified out of my mind. 

I kid you not, as hard as I tried, I could not unclasp my thumb from the rest of my fingers. And I tried, because the sensation was so incredibly painful. At first, I resisted the pain, desperately trying to open them.

“Let go,” I heard her say softly. 

I had a feeling she was talking to me, because I’ve heard it many times before. I knew letting go was both the most difficult and the most important thing I would ever have to do, but I just couldn’t figure out how to do it.

I lugged my past around with me wherever I went, releasing some of it slowly over the years, but still feeling a resistance to letting go completely. It had become part of my identity, so to release it would have felt like shedding limbs. It felt impossible to let go of such a huge part of me.

But I knew I had to. Because I didn’t want to be in pain. I got the feeling then that I was being called to release the idea that my past and self imposed limitations are my identity. I felt I was being asked to release my defenses, my safety barriers, the deadbolts and locks around my heart. I was being asked to smash my shell open and come out, even if only for tonight, even if I later crafted a softer shell, perhaps with more windows and doors. 

I knew that my hands locked shut in such a painful pose was a physical and metaphorical message to let go of all that I’m holding onto. 

It was so painful to hold on and so painful to let go, but it became clear that the only way out of the pain was through it. To surrender to it. 

So I did. 

I had to. 

And when I did, the tension slowly melted away. My hands opened. I let go.

And in letting go, my hands were once again open to receive.

And so I did.

I received.

I drew the air, the oxygen, the life force, into my lungs and intentionally held it there for a a while, luxuriating in the feeling of fullness, allowing my lungs to expand deeper than I ever have. 

It felt difficult but full of promise. 

And when I felt like my lungs might explode and I couldn’t hold it any longer, I held that breath for a few more moments, gently letting my lungs know that I was teaching them to receive, and that I can handle more than I give myself credit for.

And I kept breathing. Two breaths through my mouth, one into my stomach and one into chest; expelled with sound and vibration.

She urged us to use our voices as we exhaled. However loud we needed to be. 

And so I did. 

At first it came out as low hums, vibrations. 

Quiet. Respectful. Polite. 

But there was a voice clawing inside me, impolite and wild, begging for release. The only way to release it would have been to scream, to shout. I’m not a shouter by nature, I rarely scream, but I decided to give myself permission to do it anyway.

So I did. 

I screamed from the bottom of my gut. It wasn’t pretty, it was guttural at some points and shrill at others. I gave voice to sounds that were imprisoned inside for what could have been decades. Sounds that sounded like, “I deserve to make noise, I deserve to use my voice, I deserve to exist, to be here and not stuck within. I deserve to have time to myself. I deserve to take up space.” 

All the things I once told myself I was not worthy of came out in those screams. All the times I felt like screaming and never did. 

At first I thought “Oh no, I must sound crazy. I must be disturbing the others. I must be stepping on their toes.” All the apologies I’ve ever given played in my head. But then I quickly replaced it with the message that tonight wasn’t about apologies, it was about  healing authenticity, however it wanted to happen. 

Healing isn’t polite. 

At the end she asked us to think about what we were grateful for. Many people and things came to mind, but the first one was… me. 

I had never felt gratitude for myself, I always found other people to be grateful for. But tonight I finally felt grateful for the one who has been there for me all these years, the one who has taken me on this journey of healing. 

So often I searched for healing in others. In supplements, regimens, therapists, coaches, mind and body practitioners, medicines and the people who prescribed them, but it wasn’t until tonight, when I learned how my breath alone can take me to deeper states and healing places, that I realized the medicine is me. 

I left with many messages but perhaps most importantly I left with this: God breathed a soul into each of us, our breath is a sacred and constant reminder of how important we truly are. We are all equally deserving and worthy and when you really stop to think about it, it’s ludicrous that we keep forgetting this. 

We are deeply worthy of all the goodness in the world. 

We are deserving. 

We are deserving.

We are deserving.