Softening by 2%
On wanting to feel okay, the biological tax of tension, and a 3-minute breath practice
Welcome. I'm glad you're here. The Deeper Call is a twice-monthly offering of letters and practices for coming back to yourself — from a breathwork teacher who traded wellness influencing for donkey brays and dirt under her nails.
New here? Start with these:
Consumption Culture Burned Me Out
The Generosity of Grief
What's Actually Helping
Dear friends,
Lately I’ve been noticing how quickly I override myself, even in small moments.
Just sitting down to write, I did a brain dump — a part of my writing practice where I empty out all of the ideas in my head that might want to turn into a letter. As I typed, my heart rate sped up, my jaw tightened, my back tensed.
I started typing faster. When my list was exhaustive, I scanned for the major themes. That familiar part of me trying to tease out: what’s the most interesting piece I could share right now? What’s relevant? What’s supportive? What’s engaging? What’s deep but not too heavy? What’s personal but not self-indulgent?
Within a few moments my shoulders locked onto my back. My mind bounced around from one idea to the next.
I looked at the time. 11:51 am. Nic and the kids will be home by 1:30 pm. Between now and then I need to get this essay draft completed, fold the laundry, vacuum, eat lunch, email back two clients, and clean the kitchen. Oh, and take some kind of time for myself before I jump into care taking mode.
Of course I feel stuck. Of course I feel pressure. I want to optimize this time so badly. I want to draft a meaningful letter in half an hour.
I’m trying so hard to write something good, I can’t even locate what’s calling to be written.
I want to nail it so much, I can’t even land on one thread and carry it through.
As I type, I find myself still scanning for the best possible thing to share.
I push my chair away from my desk and take in a long breath.
I gaze out the sliding glass doors.
I sit quietly for a few moments until my back starts to soften.
Then I chuckle thinking about what’s the “best”. Nic has a great story about this elderly woman that used to come into the café when he worked at Borders Bookstore many moons ago in Los Angeles.
This woman would walk up to the counter, and Nic would ask, “May I take your order?”
Her response was always the same. Spoken in a thick New York accent she replied, “what’s the best? I want whatever is the best.” Period.
Me too, me too.
I want whatever is the best.
But not because I want to eat the best soup or the best sandwiches or have the best coffee at the café.
I want to be read with admiration. I want to be read with head nods, and yeah, same here’s. I want to feel useful in the world.
Because when I’m admired, I feel like I’m okay.
Because when readers nod along, I feel like I’m not alone.
Because when I’m useful, I feel like I have a place in the room.
I’ve spent most of my life excelling. School and art as a kid. Sobriety in my twenties. A breathwork practice that grew quickly. A book that did well. Graduate study layered on top of foster parenting. Again and again, I found I could push through. I could endure. If there was pressure, my body met it automatically. The discomfort was invisible because pressure was my baseline.
It felt like being good.
It felt like being responsible.
It felt like being strong.
It felt like mattering.
And, it came at a cost.
It’s biologically expensive to push myself to be the best — to carry tension in my back, clenching in my jaw, the urgency to hurry up and do a great job already. Over time, that kind of pressure doesn’t just live in my body. It pulls me away from myself. I get detached from what I really want. I lose the ability to hear myself.
And I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with wanting to do a good job or do things well — or even have some semblance of excellence in my life. The thing I’m unpacking these days is the drive to be the best because it has a way of keeping me stuck. I overthink. I loop. I second-guess. I scan for the best move instead of making one.
My body is capable of pushing through and enduring a great deal of stress. In this season of my life, I’m most invested in expanding my capacity to sit with the discomfort of not getting it right, of not being the best, of just letting myself be okay.
I’m humbled every day raising three tiny humans who teach me, over and over, how not the best I am.
The way I rush them out the door when we’re late.
The way I tighten when their feelings fill the house.
The way I raise my voice when I forgot to set the boundary much earlier.
About how many mistakes I make. About how many limitations I have. About how unreasonable my expectations are — of myself, and honestly, of them a lot of the time. About the relentless pressure I put on myself to do better and be better as their mother.
When I’m able to take a step back and widen my view — to see the mountains behind the trees, or my kid’s anxiety under their challenging behavior, or feel my horse’s concern before it escalates to their push into me — my shoulders drop just a bit.
There’s a 2% decrease in tension, a one second extension of an exhale. When I can stay there and join that micro moment of ease, I gain the ability to see where my past is showing up in the present. I’ve got a little more access to meeting the difficulty of the moment with a touch more compassion.
And in that sliver of space, I practice moving from surviving the moment to participating in it.
Below, I’m sharing exactly what’s helping me ease that tension by 2%, a 3-minute breathwork practice for accessing safety, and the music I turn on when I’m tightening. If you’re craving a little more space and choice in your own body, I invite you to join us. Just click the link below for bi-monthly practices and offerings to support your softening.