Gargoyle
Last week, I lost myself to the currents of a guided somatic breathwork session. While I'm no stranger to the practice, maintaining my own routine ritual, there's a difference when you entrust your journey to a skilled guide. The experience was a stark reminder of the power that lies in relinquishing control and allowing yourself to be carried by collective energy. Before diving into my experience, I feel compelled to pause and offer a moment of deep gratitude: to my guide, whose presence anchored us through the tempest of emotions; to the sacred space that held our intimate group, providing a cocoon for our vulnerability; and to my own body—that wise, often underestimated vessel—for its courage in expressing and releasing that which no longer served the truest version of myself. What unfolded in that room was nothing short of a homecoming, both harrowing and healing, in which I would like to share with you.
To set the stage; somatic breathwork is a powerful therapeutic technique that recognizes the connection between our bodies and our emotional experiences. It's based on the understanding that while only about 20% of our experiences are processed and stored in our conscious minds, a whopping 80% resides in our bodies. This stored information can manifest as tension, pain, or unexplained emotional responses.
The practice of somatic breathwork aims to access and release these stored emotions and experiences through intentional breathing patterns. By engaging in specific breathing techniques, practitioners can help participants move stagnant energy and emotions through and out of the body, facilitating a deep release and subsequent transformation.
During a somatic breathwork session, participants often lie down in a comfortable position. The experience is typically accompanied by loud, trance-like music that helps to create an immersive atmosphere and supports the journey inward. This auditory backdrop serves to both stimulate and soothe, depending on the phase of the session.
The session is usually divided into two distinct parts. The first half is more intense, frantic, and deep breathing. Participants are encouraged to take deep inhales and exhales through the mouth at as quick a pace as they can comfortably maintain. This rapid breathing pattern helps to activate the body's energy systems and can bring suppressed emotions to the surface.
As the session progresses to its second half, the focus shifts to release and tranquility. The breathing becomes slower and more gentle, allowing space for integration of the experiences and emotions that have surfaced. This phase also opens up opportunities for manifesting desires and clearing the mental and emotional blockages.
One of the most valuable aspects of somatic breathwork is its ability to help individuals self-actualize. Through this practice, people often become aware of not only what is stored in their bodies and psyches but also of patterns that may be showing up in their day-to-day lives. This increased awareness can lead to meaningful insights and personal growth.
It's important to note that somatic breathwork can be an intense experience, often bringing up strong emotions or physical sensations. As such, it's typically recommended to practice under the guidance of a trained facilitator, especially for beginners or those dealing with significant trauma.
By engaging in somatic breathwork, individuals can tap into the wisdom of their bodies, release long-held tensions and emotions, and move towards a state of greater balance and well-being. It offers a unique pathway to self-discovery and healing that goes beyond traditional talk therapy, accessing the deep, embodied experiences that shape our lives.
Post breathwork session, I find myself wrestling with the echoes of an unexpected revelation. I had entered the space buzzing with the energy of a transitory state, my mind a hive of activity, feeling primed for whatever the experience might bring. But the body, oh the body, it holds secrets we aren't always ready to hear.
As the session deepened, my flesh betrayed me. Or perhaps, in its infinite wisdom, it finally decided to speak its truth. My limbs locked, a gradual petrification spreading from fingertips to toes, until I lay there, a living statue, my own personal Pompeii. The visions came unbidden: thick, gray slabs of stone, a barricade around my heart, an impenetrable armor I had unwittingly constructed.
In that moment, I was a gargoyle perched atop my own cathedral of pain. These stone sentinels, with their grotesque visages and snarling mouths, were once believed to ward off evil spirits. But what spirits was I trying to keep at bay? Love? Support? The very things I so freely give to others?
The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I am, a self-proclaimed vessel for others' pain and inflections, a conduit for healing and love, yet I've been blind to the barriers I've built around my own heart. Receiving? That's a language my body has forgotten how to speak.
Since that session, I've been seeing the world through new eyes. The patterns emerge like constellations I've always known but never truly seen. The way I shoulder the weight of work and projects, my reluctance to accept help, even when I've paid for it, as if doing so might crack the very foundation of who I am.
The mantra that echoed through my mind during the session still reverberates: "Harbored pain is blocking me from the life I want to live and the love and support I wish to feel, not just give." It's a truth that sits heavy, like the stone slabs I envisioned, but it's also the key to dismantling this self-imposed isolation.
Perhaps it's time to retire the gargoyle, to thank it for its service and gently remove it from its perch. After all, cathedrals were never meant to be fortresses, but sanctuaries—places of communion, of giving and receiving in equal measure.
As I explore this new awareness, I'm learning that vulnerability isn't the same thing as honesty. It is not weakness, but a different kind of strength. It's the courage to stand not as a solitary stone sentinel, but as a flesh-and-blood human, open to the ebb and flow of love and support. It's a scary prospect, this razing of armor, but I'm beginning to see that on the other side of that fear lies the life I truly want to live—one where I'm not just a giver of love, but a gracious receiver as well.
