Deep breath in. Don’t forget to let it out. Repeat. Repeat. Keep breathing.
I feel the warmth of my toes inside my boots, and the slight discomfort of the seam of my sock on my right foot as it presses into my pinky toe. You are safe, feet. Don’t run.
Breathe.
In the same way, the seams of my jeans gently hug the insides and outsides of my legs, jeans worn into comfort and softness. Stand strong, legs.
Breathe.
My belly rests comfortably after a full meal of salad with chicken, lettuce, kale, tomatoes, avocado, raisins, and almonds, drenched in olive oil and apple cider vinegar. I’m feeding you well, stomach. Stay calm.
Breathe.
My spine aches a little from the pressure and stress of my work life, the tension rolling all the way up to my shoulders, which I have to remind to ease back down from their usual resting place near my ears. I sit up straighter, roll my shoulders and neck, and take more deep breaths. We are strong, but we cannot carry the weight of the world. Set it down. Relax, back and shoulders.
Breathe.
I adjust the sleeves on my shirt as they insist on digging into my armpits and bunching up around my elbows. I have random bruises from leaning so hard on my desk to catch every word said and from tiny bouts of vertigo that tip me into door jambs. I wrap my arms around me and hug myself. We are lovable and worthy, my arms say, and I say back to my arms. They have held babies and loved ones and people in pain. They are good arms. Don’t shake with fear, I say. You are amazingly good at all you carry.
Breathe.
I test my senses. Through my still stuffy nose, I can smell the peppermint diffusing. I hear the white noise of the space heater warming my office. I taste the pomegranate kombucha still on my tongue from finishing off the last of it. I see a sweet, elderly dog in the office across the hall; she smiles back at me. And I place my hand over my racing heart and feel it slowing, slowing, slowing.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
The top of my head tingles — a sure sign that my brain is getting some well-deserved oxygen, versus the shallow breathing I tend to do when extra stressed or super, super triggered, or overwhelmingly heartbroken.
I focus my thoughts.
I am safe. I am loved. I am safe.
I am safe. I am loved. I am safe.
I am safe. I am loved. I am safe.
I concentrate on what I need in this moment, and what I will need later. Right now, grounding and oxygen. Later, time alone, time with loved ones, time to write, time to create, time to be me without being on a journey with someone else…love. Always love.
What did I need in the past? And how can I give it to myself now?
Those are the questions that I come to each time, when my heart is racing and my thoughts are many and the voices in my ears whisper lies.
What can you possibly do to help this woman?
Who do you think you are?
How equipped can you be to give this man real help?
I can answer the lying questions with thoughtful love. I know who I am. I know that I can. I know what I have to give. It’s not everything, but it’s enough.
I give as much as I think I would need, and then wonder who else can become part of that support and love and help.
And I return to what I need in this moment, so that I can continue to pour out. I just need love — the love from others, yes, but most importantly, the love of me, from me.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I breathe.
It’s a strange and beautiful thing to be in a professional position where I am the one with many of the answers survivors of trauma seek. I am the one able to talk about safety, about self-care and love, and about how much grace each survivor will need for self to navigate the long journey ahead.
Glancing at the clock, I see only a few minutes have passed. I stand, stretch, shake my body to loosen it, and then I head out to meet with the next survivor.
And we’re breathing…
