Holding My Breath Finding Air

Sometimes, it feels like you’re holding your breath underwater, and everyone around you is perfectly comfortable. That’s the sensation that’s visited me lately, a sense of being adrift while the world continues its steady, predictable pace. It's not a new feeling, this disconnect, but the recent weeks have amplified it, a constant undercurrent of worry and exhaustion. My father’s health scare, as they say, has been a reminder of how fragile things can be.

It’s easy to try and push those feelings down, to tell yourself that everything is fine and to get back to ‘normal.’ That's what I did for a while. Driving to Norwood three times a week, working full hours, fielding calls about a child's challenges at school, managing the needs of patients... a flurry of activity intended to keep the discomfort at bay. But the energy required for that kind of deflection is immense, and the cost is always paid, usually in sleep, in quiet moments, in a simple sense of wellbeing.

There's a particular quality of stillness that I’ve come to value, one that’s often bypassed in the rush to *do*. It’s not about avoidance, but about observation. About noticing the quickening of your pulse, the tension in your shoulders, the subtle shift in your breath – and simply acknowledging it. My work as a pediatrician has taught me that children are astonishingly adept at sensing unspoken anxiety. They mirror back the feelings we try to hide. It’s a powerful lesson, really, in the futility of denial.

When my father had his stroke, I found myself noticing all the small things: the way his hand trembled slightly when he reached for a cup, the shadow of concern in my mother's eyes. I didn’t try to fix it. I just *saw* it. And in that seeing, a strange kind of clarity emerged. It didn't erase the fear, not at all. But it created a space around it, a perspective that allowed me to breathe a little easier.

There’s a curious science to this, I’ve read. The idea that emotions, even intense ones, are often fleeting, that they have a natural lifespan of roughly ninety seconds unless we actively prolong them by clinging to them, by analyzing them, by judging them. That’s not a promise of instant relief, obviously. It’s an observation about the natural ebb and flow of human experience. It doesn't mean ignoring or invalidating feelings; it means recognizing their impermanence.

One of the hardest things is learning to trust yourself through those moments of discomfort. It sounds almost trite, but it’s incredibly profound. Especially when the pressures of life—work, family—demand a constant outward display of strength and competence. There’s a certain bravery in admitting, even to yourself, that you're struggling. In acknowledging that you're not always going to be okay.

Finding that trust requires a kind of gentle self-compassion. It’s not about indulgence; it’s about recognizing your own inherent worth, even when you’re feeling overwhelmed or inadequate. It's about speaking to yourself the way you would speak to a dear friend in a similar situation—with kindness, understanding, and a willingness to offer support. The phone calls about my child’s social struggles at school felt easier to navigate when I approached them not with frustration, but with a deep breath and a reminder that everyone faces challenges.

The path forward isn’t about eliminating difficult emotions. It's about learning to navigate them with greater awareness, with greater self-compassion, and with a deeper trust in your own resilience. It's about recognizing that even in the midst of the underwater feeling, you can find a small pocket of air, a moment of stillness, a renewed sense of perspective. And that’s enough to keep you moving forward.