When Less Is More: What Gentle Breathwork Taught Me
You’ve probably seen the breathwork videos — the ones where people are crying, screaming, shaking on the floor. Those moments are real, and I honor them. That kind of release can be powerful and necessary. But it’s not the only way.
For a long time, I thought I needed to feel more to heal — that if I wasn’t having some huge, emotional breakthrough, it didn’t “count.” I thought transformation had to be intense to be real. But over time, I discovered something very different. I found that the deepest healing doesn’t always come from the roar. It comes from the exhale. From the stillness. From the moments when my breath is soft and my body feels safe.
Some of the most profound experiences I’ve ever had happened in gentle breathwork sessions. I’ve relived my own birth. I’ve met my inner child by a quiet stream in a Montana valley and my father who passed visited me.
In the softness of one session, I felt the grief of never having been truly seen by my father. I never uncovered that truth in therapy because I had to feel it, not analyze it in my mind. And as I reflected on the experience, it struck me — that early wound still lives in me. It shows up in subtle ways: this push-pull between desperately wanting to be seen and simultaneously feeling exposed by it. I crave visibility, but it also terrifies me. I find myself shrinking sometimes, holding back, hesitating to share even when something in me deeply wants to be known. For a long time, I was unconsciously waiting for someone to notice me. To affirm me. To say: you matter. And when that never came, I learned to withhold parts of myself.
That wound shaped how I show up — in my work, in my voice, in my relationships, and in how I navigate being seen. But now that I’ve met that part of myself, in my body — not just in my mind — I carry a new awareness. I move through life with a softer lens. I see my triggers differently now. I don’t need to make them wrong or try to push them away. I know where they come from and that the person or situation that actually triggered me is not the issue at hand. I can now pause in those moments, be an observer, and ask: What does the little girl inside of me need right now? And I can actually give it.
I felt the consciousness I absorbed from my mother move through me during a very gentle breathwork session— not in chaos, but in quiet knowing. I saw my newborn-self being held by my parents and a wave of her subconscious consuming me - her deep sense of instability, her longing for safety, and her struggle to believe in herself — I took it all on without realizing it when I was only seconds old. These patterns shaped how I moved through the world. I inherited her uncertainty, her self-doubt, not because she wanted that for me, but because we share a consciousness. This awareness arrived to me during breathwork, in my body, not my mind. Breathwork has helped me meet those inherited patterns with compassion instead of judgment — to witness what was never truly mine and begin to let it go. That’s power.
This is what gentle breathwork has taught me. It doesn’t force transformation — it invites it. It doesn’t demand you crack open — it lets you softly open.
It creates a safe and spacious container for the subconscious to speak. When the body is calm and the breath is soft, the nervous system shifts out of survival mode — and that’s when deeper truths begin to rise. In this state, old beliefs, memories, and emotional imprints can surface in a way that feels manageable, not overwhelming. Patterns that were once hidden become easier to witness with compassion. Over time, this gentle approach allows us to rewire old narratives, release stored tension, and access the wisdom that’s been living beneath the surface all along.
Not every healing moment has to be big or loud.
Sometimes, the breath that barely makes a sound is the one that carries you home.
