Doing conscious connected breathwork is not just about having a big catharsis. Just to make sure we’re on the same page, catharsis is the emotional release of strong, repressed emotions leading to feelings of relief and renewal. This does happen, and for some people it happens in their very first breathwork experience, which shows them how powerful it can be in a very tangible way. But that’s not the whole picture.

At some point during my breathwork facilitator training, I was struggling with something called post-exertional malaise (PEM), where I would feel extremely fatigued, foggy, and unmotivated after minor physical or mental effort. This was part of a set of chronic health problems I had been dealing with for years that were progressively getting worse. The diagnosis we landed on was chronic Lyme disease, but I would later come to understand that my symptoms were deeply connected to stored trauma, core beliefs, and long-held thought patterns. PEM could last anywhere from half a day to several days, and it would reliably show up after my weekly long breathwork sessions. My health issues were already taking over my life, and I didn’t want breathwork to become another casualty. I decided to try nasal breathing, as opposed to the full expression (wide open mouth) of conscious connected breathwork, to see if it would help me continue my practice without feeling drained. 

Even before deciding this, I thought it would be beneficial to try nasal breathing so I could be informed when working with breathers who had contraindications. However, I found myself avoiding the experience because I knew from training that it was supposed to be less intense and I wanted to get the most out of my sessions. I assumed breathing through the nose would mean I wouldn’t get much out of it, maybe just feeling relaxed afterwards. 

But this ended up teaching me something important.

Not only did nasal breathing prevent the PEM, it also showed me that less intensity doesn’t mean less impact. Over five or six consecutive sessions, I began to experience something different. Something that wasn’t dramatic, but deeply meaningful.

In between sessions, I noticed subtle but significant shifts. I worried less about failing. I stopped interrupting myself with thoughts like You can’t do that. My thinking felt more organized, and I could see disorganization more clearly in things like emails for my job, which made it easier to communicate effectively.

And this wasn’t the only way breathwork showed up for me.

My experiences have taken many forms. Sometimes I cry like I’ve never cried before. Sometimes I don’t cry at all. Sometimes I kick, punch, and breathe hard like I’m running. In some early sessions, I don’t remember what happened – it felt like I blacked out. I used to experience tetany in my hands regularly, and while it rarely happens now, when it does, it’s usually around my mouth. I also used to feel apprehensive about sessions because the tetany and dissociation were uncomfortable, not physically but mentally. 

There were times I felt my system naturally titrating the experience by shifting into slower, soothing breaths, humming, or gently regulating itself without me consciously trying to control it. Other times, my body would shake or tremor, either fully or in isolated areas. I’ve felt nauseous right before a wave of emotion. I’ve tensed into contorted positions, repeating I am safe, I am safe, I am safe. I’ve silently screamed and cried internally. Sometimes nothing seemed to happen until the very end of the session.

And sometimes, what came up felt irrelevant – just thoughts I had been having earlier that day. But over time, I came to see that those were often the exact things that needed attention, helping me process decisions or internal conflicts I had been wrestling with.

For a long time, I was trying to make meaning of everything. Analyzing, judging, questioning whether I was doing it “right.” And while that sometimes got in the way of simply experiencing what was happening, I can also see now that this, too, was part of my process. Another pattern throughout my life, asking to be seen.

What I would call my “deepest” breathwork experience didn’t happen until I was at least 20 full-length sessions in. Over time, I came to understand that the sessions were building on each other. Each one was working on a different layer. Clearing a little more space, unwinding something subtle, preparing my system for what it wasn’t ready to access yet. It wasn’t random. It was cumulative.

That’s not to say I didn’t have cathartic experiences along the way, but looking back, I can see that I was expecting catharsis from every session, even if I wasn’t fully aware of it. If I hadn’t been in training, I’m not sure I would have continued long enough to discover what was on the other side of that expectation. I likely would have assumed I was doing something wrong, or that breathwork just wasn’t as effective for me as it was for others.

Over the past year, I’ve been learning – again and again – that many things require patience, persistence, and consistency. Or sometimes, simply more time than I initially feel willing to give. Training as a breathwork facilitator has been a major part of that lesson. It’s yet another thing that I understood intellectually, but hadn’t yet embodied.

Breathwork has helped me embody it.

It has been clearing out internal clutter, creating space for my system to reorganize in a healthier and more efficient way.

As that space has opened, alongside other inner work, so many things have shifted. I have struggled with procrastination since I was 12 years old and have tried literally everything I could to improve it, and that has now resolved. I second-guess myself far less than I used to. I feel creative again, and more confident in all areas of my life. I feel less threatened by others, which has deepened my ability to genuinely connect and be present with people. I’m discovering my own authority and what it feels like to live from that place. I don’t abandon myself in the ways I used to. There is less internal pressure, conflict, and shame. I’m learning to work with my nervous system instead of against it, which has improved many areas of my life, especially my ability to access organic motivation and experience more consistent energy. Even my chronic health symptoms are gradually improving. 

In general, I feel more present. More at ease. More connected to the flow of life.

So no, breathwork isn’t just about catharsis. It’s not about chasing the biggest release or having the most intense experience. It’s about creating space, again and again, for your system to process what it’s ready to process, in the way that it’s ready to.

Sometimes that looks like tears. Sometimes it looks like stillness. And sometimes it looks like subtle shifts that you only recognize when you realize your life feels different.

All of it counts.