The Exhale I Forgot to Finish: How Breathwork Revealed My Hidden Tension Pattern
I just realized I’ve been breathing like I’m scared of the exhale.
I inhale—big, dramatic, like I’m about to say something life-changing—and then… I just kind of… hold it. Pause. Smile. Move on. Shrug.
Turns out, I do this with everything.
I hold in the comment. The boundary. The tear. The no. The anger. The craving. The weird idea. The impulse to leave the gathering. The truth that would ruin the vibe.
It’s like somewhere deep down, I decided that letting go = danger.
So I just keep inhaling. Filling up with thoughts, feelings, tension, and psychic debris. Like a backup tank for everything I’m not ready to admit.
And no, this is not a metaphor. I mean it literally. I’m a shallow breather who hoards air. And it’s finally catching up.
🫁 THE BREATH UNFINISHED = THE WILL UNCLAIMED
I wrote this down last week and it hit me like a crow feather to the soul:
To inhale is to summon. To exhale is to command.
The breath unfinished is the will unclaimed.
Because holding your breath? That’s spiritual procrastination.
You’re mid-spell, mid-thought, mid-feeling—and then you just… hold. Like if you fully exhaled, you might accidentally change your life. Or worse: someone else’s opinion of you.
It’s not just breathwork. It’s soulwork.
💨 WIM HOF WOULD NEVER
Let’s be real: Wim Hof is out here in his icy boxer shorts, yelling “LET IT GOOOO” while exhaling with the force of a Viking exorcism.
Meanwhile I’m over here hoarding air like it’s a secret I’m not ready to tell.
Wim’s lungs are doing primal scream therapy with the elements. Mine are like a half-read apology text.
I want to be the snow witch commanding storms. But I’m still breathing like I owe someone an explanation for existing.
🕊️ YOU CAN’T BANISH WHAT YOU REFUSE TO EXHALE
This is the part where I remind myself: The exhale is the banishing.
Not just of air—but of stories that don’t belong, shame that’s overstayed, and psychic gunk that’s squatting rent-free in my diaphragm.
Every exhale I hold is a spell half-cast. A boundary half-drawn. A truth half-owned.
No wonder my lungs feel like overstuffed journals. I’ve been keeping receipts for every time I didn’t speak up. And now my breath is backed up like my Notes app.
🪶 LOUI CROW'S BREATH EXORCISM
“The Last Puff”
A ritual I am currently failing my way through.
What to do:
Stand up. Inhale like you’re stealing oxygen straight from the divine. Hold it like you’re about to give a TED Talk on repressed emotions.
Then exhale like you’re banishing every lover, bill collector, and inner child tantrum that overstayed their welcome.
Push it until your stomach caves in like a drama queen.
Repeat 7 times. Bonus points if the last exhale sounds like a haunted flute solo.
What to say:
"I let it out. I let it go. This breath is my magick."
Say it like you mean it—or I’ll show up in your dreams, wearing Crocs and judgment.
💭 I DON’T HAVE THIS MASTERED. I’M JUST NOTICING.
I’m not writing this because I figured it out.
I’m writing this because I just noticed I’ve been half-living. Half-breathing. Half-claiming my space. Half-trusting my will.
And I’m starting to believe that healing might be less about doing something new, and more about finally finishing the things I never let myself complete—like a breath. Like a feeling. Like a truth that needs to move through me, not rot inside.
So I’m practicing. Slowly. Badly. Sacredly.
One exhale at a time.
💔 What pain or struggle is this blog addressing?
The chronic tension of people-pleasing, over-functioning, and emotional hoarding. For those who don’t know why they’re so tired, tight, or scared to speak up. This post meets them in the holding pattern.
By the end, the reader may feel cracked open, seen, and invited to breathe themselves back into presence. The soul win? Permission to let go—physically, spiritually, and magically.
