I sat with Mrs. G in her final hours. Her hands, thin as birch bark, clutched mine. The room smelled of lavender and fading light. She whispered, "Just... breathe with me." Not "breathe through this," but simply breathe. In that moment, I realized I’d been waiting for the feeling to change before I could be present. But here was the truth: the breath itself was the gift.
Now, in my Vermont cabin with my two rescue dogs—Moose, who sighs like a contented bear, and Pip, who snorts when she dreams—I find myself pausing. Not to fix the ache of a hard day, but to feel the rise and fall of my own chest. It’s the simplest thing: inhale, exhale. When grief feels like a stone in my throat, or the world feels too heavy, I notice the cool air filling my lungs, the quiet rhythm beneath the noise.
This tiny, ordinary act changed me. I stopped chasing "good" moments and started seeing grace in the not good. The way Moose’s tail thumps against the floor when I sit quietly with him. The sound of rain on the roof while I’m tired. I learned that gratitude isn’t about denying pain—it’s about finding a foothold within it.
What I want you to know: When nothing feels good, don’t force yourself to feel better. Just breathe. Feel the weight of your own breath. That’s where the sacred lives—not in the absence of darkness, but in the quiet courage to be here, now, with it. Your breath is your anchor. Hold it.
— Kyle Smith, sitting with what's hard