October last year was rough.

It was the month the foster care placement was completely imploding as she looked for anyway she could find to break it down. There were lots of nights spent wondering where she was. There were aggressive messages, slammed doors, defiance and rejection when she was home and fear and worry when she wasn’t. There were multiple calls to caseworkers, carers, teachers, youth leaders, after-hours support and even police. My nerves were shot, my heart broken as I watched her work to tear down what we had spent three years building.

It was a scary and lonely time. There wasn’t a blueprint for how these things play out – I guess others didn’t know what to do either. So, I cried alone – a lot. I didn’t sleep enough. I muddled my way through decisions and the necessities of life and work but it all felt very tenuous. I was constantly waiting for the next thing – the next message, the next report, the next demand, the next sighting. Plans were tentative; hope was suspended. And ultimately the outcome was not what it could’ve been or anything like what we’d been working towards.

So, this October I held my breath.

I held my breath and braced myself for the memories and reminders to come. The anniversaries of milestones missed and events disrupted. The triggers of moments and places where decisions were made and more distance was created. The reminders of opportunities missed to recover or redirect. The school holiday dates highlighted in my calendar in hopes that those things would still matter to my household. The advancing of plans and decisions that have been recalibrated in light of her leaving. The waves and waves of grief and guilt, and concern for her. My shoulders were tensed, my eyes were stinging, my reflexes were on alert.

In the physical, holding your breath makes you very self-focussed. When you’re holding your breath you don’t think about much else except for the sensations that develop in your body. (Are you trying it now? Go on!) Your chest gets tight. Your face can pucker. Your lips get taut and your mouth gets dry. Pressure builds in your ears. Your eyes squint. Your stomach contracts. Every activity in your body feels magnified and whatever else you might be trying to do at the time gets harder or even impossible.

In the emotional realm, holding your breath has a similar effect. In the space of self-awareness, one’s sensitivity to other feelings is heightened. For me, so many other sadnesses crept in. I became more aware of the pain points in my life – the disappointments, the rejections, the longings, the things I was missing or missing out on. Everything felt just that little bit harder – decision making, life admin, personal disciplines, relationships, physical tasks. As the days of holding my breath accumulated fatigue set in and things just got harder still.

It took a while to diagnose. As social isolation increased and functioning decreased it became a new normal of sorts. Things shifted incrementally and almost undetected. Until, in a moment of desperation-fueled clarity, I raised a flag with my best-friends. “I’m really not doing too well. I need your help.”

The door opened then to start to give voice and light to what I was experiencing. To name the unfamiliar anxiety, overthinking and second-guessing. To acknowledge the fears, and the dysregulation. To articulate the social apprehension and fretfulness that led to withdrawing in ways that did not support the well-being of this extroverted, external processing, people-needing soul. To describe the physical manifestations and observe how the body has its own way of holding and responding to trauma. To apologise for my absences, unresponsiveness and self-protection.

I breathed out.

Trauma and grief are unpredictable and uncontrollable. They’ll pop up when they want to, whether it’s convenient or not. They’ll grip your heart and distort your thinking if you pay them mind, or you don’t. But breathing out is the only way you’re able to breathe in again. Breathing out is necessary to make room for the intake of the sweet fresh air of the care of friends. For the voices of reason and compassion and kindness and grace to get a seat at the table. There is beauty and healing in tears cried in safe company. A mercy in being pointed to Jesus and reminded of God’s presence and power. There is release in shining light on the hurts and heartaches that spiral in on themselves in the dark.

I held my breath through October. It turned me in on myself and took me to places I’d rather not go again. It’s a recalibration, almost a retraining, but I’m paying attention to my inhaling AND my exhaling and … breathing.