Welcome Message: December

Trusting the Process

The transformation of a butterfly is one of nature's most magical events, and it begins with what could be seen as a moment of complete surrender. When it's time to change, the caterpillar doesn't simply sprout wings. Instead, it weaves itself into a cocoon—a sanctuary where it begins one of the most radical transformations in nature.

Inside this cocoon, the caterpillar doesn’t just rest; it completely deconstructs itself, turning into a sort of primordial soup. The caterpillar literally dissolves, its old form vanishing into a goo that holds the promise of new life. This goo is a potent mixture brimming with potential. Within it lie something called imaginal discs, cells that have been with the caterpillar since the beginning that hold the blueprint of the butterfly. These discs, like magic spells waiting to be spoken, begin the incredible process of crafting wings, eyes, legs, and antennae. This stage of re-creation—where everything the caterpillar was transforms into what it will become—is nothing short of miraculous.

Now, I don’t claim to know the inner workings of a caterpillar’s mind, but I can imagine the caterpillar doesn’t criticize itself for needing to retreat into the cocoon, nor does it rush this essential phase. Instead, it instinctively understands that this time of dissolution is crucial for its emergence as a butterfly. It embraces this phase fully, knowing that without it, there can be no transformation.

This gentle acceptance of its life cycle is a powerful lesson for me. It reminds me that there are seasons for everything. We can’t always be in a phase of visibility and brilliance, just as the caterpillar can't always be in the stage of flight. There are times when we need to be like the caterpillar, times to be in the cocoon, allowing ourselves to dissolve, transform. These periods aren’t about loss or lack—they are about preparing and paving the way for our next chapter of growth.

Just like the caterpillar, let’s embrace these quieter, introspective times. They are not just natural; they are necessary for us to evolve and emerge stronger, more beautiful, and more capable than before. Ben's words, "Keeping yourself small serves no one," resonate deeply here. It’s not about staying small—it's about the timing of our expansion, knowing when to draw inward and when to spread our wings. In honoring our own cycles of transformation, we prepare to soar, just as the butterfly does, with vibrant colors that were once hidden, now brilliantly on display to the world.

Finding the Rhythm

If you think of people who "have rhythm", I'm not who would be first on your mind. I'm the person who claps off-beat, whose footsteps always seem slightly out of sync with the world, and one day I'll tell you about my experiences with burlesque dancing lessons🫤 . But there's something undeniably compelling about it – the way a rhythm like a good beat in a song can pull me out of my head and into my body, into the present moment.

Lately, I've been finding rhythm where I least expect it. It's in the thrum of my own heart, the rise and fall of my breath, the intricate dance of neurons firing in my brain. Rhythm pulses in the swaying of trees under a summer breeze, the predictable tides, the cosmic dance of planets spinning in their orbits. We're all part of this grand rhythm, connected by something far greater than ourselves.

Sometimes, the rhythm of my days feels like a runaway train – chaotic, jarring, relentless. That's when I turn to my breath. It's the most basic rhythm of all, the one I've carried since the moment I was born. Focusing on those inhales and exhales, finding a steadiness within them, helps me reset. It's a reminder that within the chaos, there's always an underlying pulse, a rhythm waiting to be found.

Maybe that's what this exploration is all about. Not about mastering rhythm, but about noticing it all around me, within me... the harmonious patterns and the thrilling moments of syncopation. There's a freedom in that, a letting go. Life is messy and unpredictable, but there's a strange beauty in the way it all comes together, beat by imperfect beat.

Jennifer Nolan

Co-Founder of Breathing Space

Finding Surrender (and Why It's So Damn Hard)

Our life is a whirlwind of half finished work projects, endless snacks, toys strewn across the floor, and a constant supply of crumbs materializing from the ether to stick themselves on to my feet.

The two tiny humans who have chosen us to call home have humbled me more than anything else, and are my greatest teachers. But, the process of becoming a mother has been something I can only describe as a great unraveling of everything I've ever known about myself and I'm still in the process of stitching it all back together again.

As a co-founder of Breathing Space, I'm always feel like I'm supposed to be the embodiment of calm, a guide who helps others find their inner peace. But behind the scenes, I'm often juggling a thousand ideas at once, my mind racing, constantly flitting from one thought to the next. It's exhausting, exhilarating, and sometimes, utterly overwhelming. The more I talk about this with other people, the more I recognize I'm not unique in this experience.

A few days ago, we went strawberry picking. As I watched my little ones, sitting in the field with their chubby little fingers stained red, laughter echoing through the fields, time stood still. All the worries, the to-do lists, the mental clutter, faded away. It was just us, feet in the grass, the sun on our faces, the sweet taste of summer.

Later that night, as I lay in bed with my 3.5-year-old daughter, her tiny hand clutching mine, I was flooded with memories of the many, many sleepless nights spent rocking her through reflux. Both of us crying, neither able to sleep. It seemed like it would never end... but, then suddenly those hard days did end and I have become so accustomed to list ticking to try to survive those days that I often need to remind myself, and my nervous system, that we aren't there anymore... I can rest. I deserve rest. Something I have a hard time believing.

I've returned to my yin yoga practice to help with this surrender. Yin isn't about flowing through poses or building strength through yang practices. It's about surrendering into long-held postures, getting comfortable with being uncomfortable, each pose a quiet battle between my mind screaming, "MAKE IT STOP," and the deeper part of me that knows the discomfort is where the good stuff hides. Can I be still? Can I sit with these feelings? Am I still breathing?

For someone who thrives on productivity and forward motion, yin is a challenge. It's uncomfortable, both physically and mentally. It forces me to confront my restlessness, my impatience, my aversion to stillness. But in those moments of surrender, when I stop fighting and simply be, something magical happens.

The tight grip I have on life loosens. I am reminded that I don't always need to be in control, that discomfort can be an incredible catalyst for growth, and that sometimes, the most profound experiences come when we simply stop trying so hard.

Carving out time for yin yoga and breathwork for myself is an act of self-care, a radical act of rebellion against the (self imposed) cult of productivity. It's a reminder that I am not just a mom, a teacher, a wife. I am also someone who needs space to breathe, to be still, to simply exist.

And so, I make time for yin. I roll out my mat, light a candle, and settle into the discomfort. I breathe through the resistance, the boredom, the urge to fidget. And slowly, I begin to unravel.

This is the messy, glorious work of surrender. It's not always easy, in fact, it’s almost never easy, but it's always worth it. Because in those moments of stillness, I find myself again. And that, my friends, is the most profound magic of all.

Jennifer Nolan

Co-Founder of Breathing Space

I’m lying here at 3am listening to my family breathing next to me. It's the most human thing, isn't it? The inhale, the pause, the release. The soundtrack to our existence.

And yet, how often do we really listen to it? To the stories it tells, the emotions it carries?

In these dark hours that I’m awake while everyone else sleeps, I’ve spent hours scrolling through glossy, aesthetically pleasing Instagram feeds. The ones with the sun-drenched studio in faraway lands, the perfectly aligned bodies, the faces that seem perpetually blissed out.

And I'll admit, it's tempting. That vision of breathwork as a pristine, ethereal experience. That one where you finally find yourself, and fix all the problems. A cure for the messiness of life.

But then I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Rumpled hair, tired eyes, a smudge of yesterday's mascara. And I remember... that's not real life, and it’s not our story.

Anyone who knows Breathing Space knows that we are not about curated perfection and aesthetics. In fact, we once had a student quit our breathwork training because he didn’t think the recorded videos were aesthetically pleasing enough.

Breathing Space is all about accepting the raw, unvarnished truth of who we are. We are the tear-stained tissues crumpled in the corner after a session, the shared laughter that breaks through the tension, the quiet moments of simply being.

It's okay if your exhale catches in your throat, if the emotions rise like a tidal wave that you don’t think will ever stop, It's okay if you don't feel "blissed out" every single time… or even if you never feel it.

We're not here to erase the pain or smooth over the rough edges. We're here to hold space for it all. To witness your struggle, your joy, your everything.

Our website isn't the most polished, our videos aren’t professionally recorded, and often Ben has food on his shirt. But those imperfections are a testament to the real work that happens here.

The work of breathing through grief, anxiety, and heartache. The work of embracing our shadows and our light. The work of simply being human, in all its messy glory.

So, no, we might not be the trendiest breathwork school. And honestly, some days, that stings.

But when I see the transformation in your eyes, the softening of your shoulders, the way your breath finally finds its rhythm, the community we’ve created, and the lives we have helped transform... I accept that we're exactly where we need to be.

Because breathwork isn't about escaping the darkness. It's about learning to breathe through it, to find our way back to the light, one ragged inhale, one shaky exhale at a time.

Jennifer Nolan
Co-Founder of Breathing Space

I was in the library today reading a book to my daughter, "The Heart and the Bottle" by Oliver Jeffers. Do you know this book? It's about a little girl full of wonder and curiosity who loses a loved one. The experience is so hard for her that she decides that it's better to keep her heart safe by putting it in a bottle and wearing it around her neck. As she grows older, her heart stays safe in the bottle, but it gets heavier and heavier, and she loses her curiosity and spark for life.

There is often a misconception that when we are working with painful experiences and trauma that we should avoid...anything that may cause discomfort. It can be enticing to create a safe cocoon, shielding ourselves from anything that might trigger old wounds or reawaken past pain. Just like the little girl in the book, "The Heart and the Bottle", it keeps us safe from further hurt, but it can also stop us from feeling joy, wonder, and connection.

For so long, I've confused self-care with avoidance. I avoided anything that made me feel anxious, I have made a career from refusing to choose at forks in the road, I've steered clear of anything that might stir up difficult emotions, numbed out to quiet the voices. But there came a time when avoidance and staying "safe" caused more pain than facing it.

As I faced the issues, my biggest fear was that I would open a chasm that would never heal or I'd start crying and never be able to stop. It's part of the reason I avoided breathwork for so long. The intense experiences were too much for me. They left me feeling raw and didn't seem to help me solve anything. But then I heard an analogy that helped me reframe it so much.

Here is the analogy: Imagine your problem is a combination lock. Each number in the sequence represents a step toward healing and opening up and solving the issue. Sometimes, you'll meet someone or have an experience that magically unlocks the whole combination at once. It's like they intuitively know the code, and with their presence or words, the lock clicks open. Other times, you'll get one number right. It might be a conversation that helps you understand a piece of your past. Each number you get in the right order brings you closer to opening the lock, even if it's slow and gradual. There might be times when you feel stuck, and nothing seems to work. That's okay. It's part of the process. Sometimes, you need to step back, breathe, and try again later rather than trying to blast it open. Remember, the combination is unique to you, and what unlocks one person might not work for another. Patience is key, and healing takes time. Celebrate every small victory, because each number you get right is a step forward.

As I took this message walked forward through a very dark time I came to ask myself the following questions: What if the key to true integration lies in the gentle embrace of discomfort? Getting comfortable with being uncomfortable. What if, with mindful awareness and compassionate self-guidance, we can find slow growth in the spaces that once felt overwhelming? It doesn't have to be an all or nothing journey. It doesn't have to be catharsis or avoidance.

Perhaps true "healing" isn't about avoiding discomfort, but about learning to dance with it. It's about finding that delicate balance between honouring our past and stepping bravely into the present.

In the story, when the woman had forgotten how to get her heart out of the bottle, she found a little girl who knew exactly how to do it. Sometimes we need the help of others to guide us back to ourselves and remind us who we are. Breathwork can be our partner in this dance, each conscious inhale and exhale creating space for both comfort and challenge. Sharing this journey with others can remind us of the joy and wonder we may have forgotten, and help us gently nudge our hearts out of their bottles.

Let's not underestimate the power of small steps. It's not about forcing the lock open, but about patiently discovering the combination, one number at a time. Breathing together into the discomfort, with kindness and curiosity. Like the girl in the story, we have the power to reclaim our hearts. Sometimes, we just need a little helping hand along the way, and sometimes, we stumble upon the right combination ourselves.

With love, deep breaths, and a helping hand,

Jennifer Nolan
Co-Founder of Breathing Space

I've always had this uncanny ability to read people. To sense the energy in a room the moment I walk in. To feel the emotional undercurrents, the unspoken tensions, the subtle shifts in the atmosphere. It's like having a sixth sense, an emotional radar that's always on, always scanning, always interpreting.

For years, I saw this as a gift, a superpower even. I called myself an empath, someone deeply attuned to the feelings of others. I prided myself on my intuition, my ability to anticipate needs, to offer comfort, to navigate complex social situations with ease.

But, there came a point when my radar started malfunctioning and I was on eggshells all of the time. I was telling my therapist about it, and she said "You're not an empath. You're hypervigilant."

Ouch. You know that feeling when someone hits you with the truth and you can feel it in your bones?

It turns out my finely tuned radar was actually a survival mechanism. It was a way of keeping myself safe in a world that often felt chaotic and unpredictable. It was a way of knowing when to be extra helpful, when to be playful, when to be quiet, when to walk on eggshells.

I didn't want to believe that my superpower was rooted in fear, in a childhood need to protect myself from emotional harm. But I grew up in a household where emotions ran high. Where the atmosphere could change in an instant, and nothing was predictable. Where I learned to read the subtle cues, the unspoken signals, in order to stay safe. It was incredibly effective but also incredible exhausting.

So, what do you do when you realize your superpower is actually a defense mechanism? Do you try to shut it off? Do you deny its existence? Do you pretend it's not there?

For me, the answer was no.

Instead, I decided to embrace it. To acknowledge its origins, but also to recognize its value. To see it not as a weakness, but as a strength.

I'm reminded of the Japanese art of Kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with gold. The cracks are not hidden, but highlighted, transformed into something beautiful and unique.

That's what I'm doing with my hypervigilance. I'm turning it into gold.

It's not an easy process. It requires a lot of self-awareness, a lot of self-compassion, and a whole lot of breathwork.

I'm learning to set boundaries, to not take responsibility for other people's emotions. I'm learning to let my child struggle instead of trying to fix everything, to let my family members be flawed, to meet them as the 42 year old adult that I am adult, instead of as a little girl.

I'm learning to self-regulate, to not spiral into bad choices when things go wrong. I'm learning to breathe, to pause, to create space between the stimulus and my response.

It's a work in progress. But, there is gold in the cracks.

My hypervigilance makes me an incredibly intuitive parent, partner, and friend. It allows me to connect with people on a deep level, to understand their needs, to offer support and compassion, to make able to make safe, supportive and healing spaces.

It's not a perfect superpower. It comes with its challenges, its triggers, its moments of overwhelm. But it's mine.

Perhaps, like me, you've discovered a 'superpower' that's rooted in something less than ideal. Maybe it's a coping mechanism, a defense strategy, a way of navigating a world that hasn't always felt safe. It might not be something you're proud of, something you'd willingly choose. But it's there, a part of your story, woven into the fabric of who you are.

I invite you to take a moment and reflect. What are the cracks in your own story? What are the 'superpowers' that were born from struggle, from pain, from the need to protect yourself?

Don't shy away from them. Don't try to bury them or pretend they don't exist. Instead, look at them with curiosity, with compassion. Acknowledge their origins, but also recognize their potential.

Remember, even the most beautiful Kintsugi bowl was once broken pottery shards. It's the cracks, filled with gold, that make it unique, valuable, and that tell its incredible story.

With love and shining gold,

Jennifer Nolan
Founder of Breathing Space

Trigger Warning: This post discusses alcohol addiction and mental health struggles, including anxiety and depression. It also mentions ketamine therapy and the experience of being neurodivergent. If these topics are potentially triggering for you, please proceed with caution or skip this post.

"And once the storm is over, you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about." - Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore  

This quote, it gets me every time. Maybe because it speaks to something so deep, the thing I'm most ashamed of and simultaneously, one of the things I'm proudest of. I've been sober for just over a year now.

I've hinted at it before, but the truth is, my mental health hadn't been good for a while, and my relationship with alcohol was always complicated. It started as a social crutch, a way to smooth over the awkwardness of small talk. But after having children, it morphed into something else entirely.

Motherhood was...hard. And I could pretend, with the help of alcohol, that I was fine. It became a way to cope, to quiet the voices in my head, the ones telling me I wasn't good enough, that I was failing. It was a way to numb the feelings I didn't know how to handle.

But here's the thing about numbing: you can't just numb the bad stuff. You numb the good stuff too. The joy, the love, the connection. It's like turning down the volume on the whole experience.

I'll be honest, there were times I didn't know how it would end. I felt like a scared little girl lost in the woods. I finally reached a point where I had to surrender. The fear of the consequences finally outweighed the shame and isolation I felt. I knew I needed help, but I also knew I wanted a different kind of help. That's what led me to ketamine-assisted psychiatric treatment.

I know what you might be thinking – why didn't I just use breathwork? After all, I run a breathwork school! It's complicated, as is my relationship with the breath itself. In the thick of it all, I was so dysregulated that I needed outside intervention, something beyond what I could give myself in that moment. Breathwork is a powerful tool, I truly believe that. But sometimes, you need a life raft before you can learn to swim. I needed to stabilize, to find solid ground, before I could harness the power of my own breath. And more than anything, I was tired of white-knuckling life. I was ready to address the things holding me back. I wanted to thrive, not just survive. Ketamine therapy, along with other treatments such as r-TMS, gave me that chance.

It was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. During those ketamine sessions, I would listen to Ram Dass lectures set to music – something the "before" me would have rolled her eyes at. But the ketamine allowed me to truly hear his message, to absorb it in a way that only psychedelics can facilitate.

One of the biggest takeaways was the realization of duality – the capacity to hold seemingly opposing feelings at the same time. Something Ram Dass calls "and this too". The profound sadness for the person I was losing in the struggle of motherhood, and the overwhelming joy and love I felt for my children. The incredible sadness at the state of the world, and the simple, joy of crunching through fall leaves with someone I love. The fact that I needed to be my weakest and vulnerable in order to be my strongest and most powerful. All of it was real. All of it was me. It's all part of the same experience and we can hold it all.

This incredible journey forced me to confront some hard truths about myself. I had to let go of the illusion that I was this strong, independent woman who had it all figured out. It was painful, but it also led to some incredibly positive outcomes. I was diagnosed with ADHD, which suddenly made so many things in my life make sense. (Did you know that you're three times as likely to have a substance use disorder if you're neurodivergent?). It led to letting go of old patterns being able to be more present for my sweet little ones and getting used to asking for help.

Today, the storm is quiet. Is it over? I'm not sure. But, I am not the same person who walked in. I am stronger, more aware, and more capable of embracing the full spectrum of my human experience. I use breathwork every day now, not as a fix-all solution, but as a gentle reminder that I'm alive, that I'm here, that I'm still becoming. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

And, I do know is this: if you're reading this and feeling lost in your own storm, please hear me. You're not alone. The shame you're carrying? You can put it down. The help you need exists, and you deserve it, you are worthy of it, exactly as you are.