Inhale

That moment of breathlessness that seems to sit in your chest. It's almost as if you were underwater, intentionally anticipating to keep your precious air inside of you, trying to hold on to it for as long as you possibly can. Pressure is held with your nose, your lips, until you let slip fine little streams of bubbles as if to remind your lungs that they were important; to indicate that their job wasn't for naught. The tightness in your chest starts to burn, the niggling sensation that starts the fear that you won't get enough air and you'll suffocate on the heaviness of the shimmering water around you. You try to gasp but your lungs know you better than that... they know you're not ready to give in without a fight.

While some would try to preserve energy and stay small and still, you kick your legs ferociously; you focus above you, goading yourself forward until you're out of the inky darkness that threatens to pull at your ankles and toes. You always loved forward motion, now this motion just needs to bring you up and out, past the deep of the water.

Your eyes fix on the sunny ball floating above, pushing yourself further and further while what little air you have left in your chest sucks at your heart like a vacuum. Your panic sets, more so than before, thinking of nothing but breathing, the most basic of instincts. You heart rate speeds. Your chest quivers for lack of air. What if  you don't make it?  But you dot stop, you can't stop. Not until your head--

... And coolness. You gasp.

Your mouth and nose open to usher in that one substance you crave more than anything else. Your lungs feel sticky but the cold air that pours down your windpipe is soothing, like a cool cloth to a fevered brow. You could move to leave the water, but for one instant, you reward the exhaustion from moving to just float. Your panic ebbs as you close your eyes, trying to slow the bird stuck in your chest, it slowly fluttering back to the steady rhythm of your heart; you're left with such a feeling of fatigue for the anxious sprint. Your breathing slows, no longer panting nor starved for another breath. The water laps at your face as you let the water carry you along but embrace the peacefulness of coming out the other side. In the soft current, your foot bumps cement and you realize you've come to the edge; you put your feet down and stand, the chlorinated fluid just reaching your waist.

--

Subjectively, things always seems to be deeper, more dreadful, and panic inducing then we realize compared to if we were to view them objectively. That moment of breathlessness that threatens to overwhelm us, to suck us deeper and further away from where we know we need to be going. The point is progress; to step forward to newer, better, even more bright things. That being said, there's always the flip side, where that breathlessness doesn't give us reason to call out for air but rather allows us to sit frozen in a shocked, potentially pleased stupor.

Everyone has had those moments; where you daren't believe that something could be real. Your breath seems stuck in your chest and your stomach flips over, your toes curl. Those moments are that which encourage us to fly headfirst into these breath-taking situations; to put ourselves into a position where we are either going to be rewarded or sent into gut-crushing spirals. Either way, those moments are a blessing.

We can wrap community into them, we can wrap prayer into them; we can draw closer to those who love us, support us, and desire to make all things work for our good. We can either view them as reasons to panic, to take in the fear of the moment, or we can choose to relish the breathlessness that comes along with the frenzied dash. We move forwards regardless of we want to.

In those moments, you've just got to remember to inhale.