Breathe.
Not to change yourself.
Not to become calm.
But to remember how water never forgets its way.
The breath moves like a tide.
Arriving.
Receding.
Without asking permission.
Water doesn't force its rhythm.
It listens.
It responds.
It shapes itself to what is true in each moment.
Somewhere along the way,
We learn to hold our breath as if bracing against a wave to tighten instead of float.
To forget that the body knows how to be carried.
The ocean does not try to be deep.
The river does not try to flow.
They simply follow gravity,
Trusting what pulls them home.
Each inhale is a rising tide.
Each exhale a soft release back into the vastness.
When you breathe like water,
The body remembers how to soften around pressure,
How to move without resistance,
How to stay in motion without losing itself.
Breath is not something you do.
It is something you allow.
Remembering that moves through you the way water moves through land.
Patient.
Shaping.
Alive.
You are not separate from the tide.
You are made of it.
And every breath is water finding its way.
Breathe as water breathes.
Slow.
Without needing to know where it's going.
Water doesn't grip the shore.
It meets it.
It listens.
It understands.
It stays long enough to learn its shape.
Somewhere we were taught to hold ourselves tight,
As if softness meant danger,
As if letting go meant being lost.
But water teaches a different memory.
That yielding is not weakness.
That movement can be gentle.
That persistence doesn't need force.
Each inhale is rain returning to the earth.
Each exhale a river making its way back to the sea.
When you breathe like water,
The nervous system softens its edges.
The body stops bracing.
The remembering begins.
You remember that you were never meant to be solid all the time.
That you are allowed to change shape.
That you are allowed to be held.
Breath moves through you.
The way water moves through stone.
Slowly.
Faithfully.
Reshaping what no longer needs to stay the same.
Nothing to master.
Just water.
Moving through water.
