Brie Nicole Inked

Inhale. Too sharp. Stops halfway. Catches on something unseen. Exhale. Shaky, incomplete. Again. Again. Survival is repetition. Survival is forcing air into a body that resists it. I forgot how to breathe without thinking. Forgot that it could be quiet, automatic, gentle. Every breath felt earned, dragged out of me like confession.

But slowly. Small shifts. A deeper inhale that doesn’t sting as much. An exhale that lingers a second longer. Space. Just a sliver, but enough to notice. I am relearning this. How to exist without fighting for oxygen every moment. How to let breath reach the places fear built walls around.

Sometimes I still forget. Sometimes my lungs lock like they remember something I haven’t said out loud yet. But I catch it now. I pause instead of panic. I try again. Slower, softer. one inhale. One exhale. Building something fragile and real out of something I once took for granted. There are moments now. Small, quiet. Where breathing feels like living instead of surviving.