The Exhale I Forgot to Finish: How Breathwork Revealed My Hiding Place.
🫁 I take in air like it’s prophecy.
Big inhale. Bold posture. The setup before the truth.
And then—nothing.
Hardly any exhale, and inhale again.
Just a smile. A nod. A reroute.
I hold the breath. Like I hold the comment. The tear. The no.
Heart beat. Faster.
My body learned it somewhere:
Letting go equals danger.
So I stay full. Of air. Of thoughts. Of psychic leftovers.
Like I’m storing every unsaid thing in my ribs.
Like my lungs are hoarding grief on layaway.
This is pattern. Literal, physical, ancient.
And it’s unraveling.
✨ THE BREATH UNFINISHED = THE WILL UNCLAIMED
To inhale is to summon. To exhale is to command.
The breath unfinished is the will unclaimed.
Every time I pause mid-breath, I’m casting half a spell.
Mid-boundary. Mid-feeling. Mid-life.
And the body keeps score.
In clenched jaws. In tight shoulders. In stomachs that don’t soften.
“An uncast spell curdles. Exhale before it rots.”
💨 WIM HOF IS OUT HERE SCREAMING INTO SNOW
Let’s be honest:
Wim Hof breathes like an avalanche having a breakthrough.
Boxers in the snow. Viking lungs. Divine exorcism.
Meanwhile, I’m over here rationing air like a Victorian ghost wife.
My lungs?
A polite panic.
A collection of paused sentences and swallowed feelings.
I want to be the crow.
But I keep breathing like I need permission to be alive.
🕊️ YOU CAN’T BANISH WHAT YOU REFUSE TO EXHALE
This is where it gets holy:
The exhale is the banishing.
Not just carbon dioxide—
But fear.
Obligation.
That voice in your head that says “hold it together.”
Every breath I hold is a truth undeclared.
Every tight chest is a lifetime of “I’m fine.”
My lungs are stuffed with shoulds.
Backed up like the Notes app at 3AM.
Every held breath is a little grief tomb.
Time to clean house.
🪶 LOUI CROW’S BREATH EXORCISM
The Last Puff (a ritual I fail my way through daily)
What to do:
Stand like you’re made of thunder.
Inhale like you’re stealing from the gods.
Hold it like you’ve got something important to say.
Then exhale like you're kicking shame out of your solar plexus.
Push the air out. All of it.
Let your belly cave in like a banshee bowing.
Repeat 7 times or until you get distracted (well, thats what happens to me.)
Bonus if you hiss like a haunted tea kettle, or groan like an old door.
What to say:
“I let it out. I let it go. This breath is my spell.”
Say it loud. Say it weird. Say it like your inner child just got custody of the body.
“Your lungs are a temple. Smoke the demons out.”
💭 I’M JUST LEARNING TO FINISH THINGS
This post isn’t proof I’ve mastered the breath.
It’s proof I noticed I’ve been half-alive.
Half-breathing. Half-trusting. Half-claiming.
I’m starting to believe healing isn’t always about learning something new.
Sometimes it’s about completing what you never let yourself finish.
Like a truth.
Like a tremble.
Like an exhale.
I’m practicing. Sloppy and alive.
One breath at a time.
I don't need new lungs. I need to finish my sentences.
LOUI NOTE:
People-pleasers. Emotional packrats. Over-functioners.
This post is for you.
Your tight chest isn’t failure—it’s a message.
You’re allowed to exhale.
You’re allowed to take up space with your breath, your truth, your rage, your joy.
📓 Journal Prompts for the Deep Divers:
Where in your life are you holding your breath?
Where in your body refuses to let go? Where is the pain or tension?
What would happen—right now—if you exhaled fully?
What are you holding onto in your mind?
Write it raw. Breathe while you write.
Let your lungs tell the story.
💔 What pain or struggle is this blog addressing?
Chronic tension. Emotional stuffing. The people-pleasing pause before you speak. The chest-tight, rib-cage-full feeling of living on half an exhale. This is for the over-functioners who never feel like they get to finish a sentence, let alone a truth.
🌬️ Soul win / transformation by the end:
Readers feel seen in their tension. They laugh at their own breath-holding habits. They feel the permission to exhale deeply, claim their truth out loud, and honor their breath as a spell of release. The win? Full-body truth, one puff at a time.
