We know how to breathe. But most of us don't do it the way it's natural to do.
Over the years, I've noticed that most of us actually hold our breath when we inhale. The chest tightens, the shoulders tense, the diaphragm locks. And this becomes so commonplace that we think, "This is just how I am." But this isn't your body. It's a defense mechanism your body has learned.
The nervous system is very clever. When it senses a threat, it springs into action to protect you — your heart races, your breathing becomes labored, your muscles tense. Fight or flight. This mechanism is designed for survival.
But in modern life, threats never end. A business meeting, a message, a past wound, uncertainty about the future… The body registers these as threats as well. And the nervous system can never receive the "danger has passed" signal. Thus, the body becomes accustomed to a state of chronic alertness.
Muscles, breathing, immune system, sleep — all are affected by this state. And the most striking thing is this: while the body is in this state, the heart cannot fully open. Compassion, connection, peace — these are the children of a sense of security. If there is no security, the door remains ajar.
This is where breathing comes into play. When the diaphragm is used to its full capacity, when you take a deep, rhythmic, and connected breath, something changes in the body. This isn't a metaphor, it's physiology. The movement of the diaphragm activates the vagus nerve — that long nerve that carries the “safe” signal to the brain. The body hears: The danger has passed. Now we can rest. And at that moment, something that was frozen begins to thaw.
A blockage carried for years. A weight you haven't been able to name for a long time. Sometimes it comes out as tears, sometimes as a deep breath, sometimes just as shoulders droop. The body begins to let go when it feels safe.
The most common sentence I hear after breathwork sessions is: "It feels like a burden I've been carrying for years has been lifted; I feel lighter."
People don't say this based on analysis. The body feels it and speaks. Because what happens is this: when the nervous system shifts from a "threat perception" to a "safe zone," the emotional records stored in the body's memory surface. And breath, in a way, carries these records—in this sense, you can think of "breathing" here not as a technique, but as an invitation to the body's own healing capacity.
If the body is safe, the heart naturally opens.
Compassion is not a feeling that can be forced. Being kind to oneself, remaining empathetic, approaching others with an open heart—these are possible not through desire, but through security. When the nervous system is on high alert, compassion becomes an effort. An exhausting, unsustainable, and eventually draining effort.
Compassion arises when the nervous system feels safe. Effortless, without striving.
The journey always begins here — with a breath. And that first breath can open up far more than you imagine.
Now, gently lower your shoulders. Shift your breath from your chest to your abdomen.
Take a breath in — don't force it, just let it go. Take a breath out — and release it.
What is the body telling us?
Maybe nothing. Maybe something small. Both are information.
This brief moment is like opening the body's safety gate. And once that gate is opened, the rest begins to unfold naturally.
With Love and Peace
Sibel Kavunoğlu
