A Practice of Taking Up Space: A Game That Changed Me

in-exhale
Jun 2
4 min read

A reflection on embodiment, breath, and unlearning the messages we were taught

The Woman Who Walked Tall

As a child, I saw a scene in a TV drama that etched itself into my memory. I don’t remember the show, but I remember her. A woman, walking down a busy street with her head held high, posture tall, gaze steady. She didn’t push people aside, but somehow, the path cleared around her. She didn’t falter. Her presence arrived before she did.

That image stayed with me. It showed me a way of being I didn’t know could exist.

Growing Up Between Messages

I grew up in a household shaped by many voices. My mother, who tried to give us freedom to explore who we were. My father and uncle, who took us to the park and left us to play without much distinction between what the girls or boys could do. And my grandmother, who ruled the house. What she said went. There was love, yes, but also expectations.

As girls, we were raised to behave. To clean, to cook, to serve. To be good.

My brothers were not expected to learn the same. They were allowed to be loud, wild, playful. And I remember how the injustice I felt around this was rarely spoken of. It was just how it was.

Until I decided it wouldn’t be. I began assigning the chores evenly between us siblings. I didn’t care what my grandmother thought. I wanted to create some kind of balance, even if I couldn’t name what I was doing at the time.

I often asked, “Why can’t girls do what boys do?”

The answer was always the same: “They just can’t.”

Looking back, I can see how confusing that environment was. A mix of quiet encouragement and deeply embedded cultural conditioning. I felt a longing for more. More space. More freedom. More equality.

Challenging Old Beliefs

As I grew older, I bumped up against those messages again. I remember wanting to get a tattoo and being told I’d have to wait until I was married. That I’d need to ask my husband for permission.

Years later, a few months into marriage, I got the tattoo. My husband understood that I have the right to make my own choices. Still, it’s wild to think how deeply those ideas had rooted in me.

A Practice Emerges

And yet, that scene from childhood would visit me again and again.

Especially in my twenties, when I felt small, awkward, unsure of myself.

I began playing with the memory of her walk.

It became a kind of practice.

Whenever I felt low, as though the world was swallowing me, I’d call it in.

I’d breathe deeply. Fix my posture. Set my gaze forward. And walk.

It was never about pushing others aside. It was never aggressive.

It was about allowing myself to arrive. To take up space.

To let my body, breath, and presence move through the world as if I belonged.

Because I do.

And so do you.

Trusting the Body and Breath

I used to walk with my head down, watching my feet, afraid of tripping.

And yet I would still stumble. I never trusted my body to land with grace.

Never trusted that the path beneath me could hold me.

This practice changed that.

It’s something I now bring into my breathwork.

Because the breath is always with us.

It grounds us. It clears the fog. It reminds us we are here.

And here is where our lives happen.

A Universal Invitation

Whether you were raised to be small or to perform a certain role. Whether you were encouraged to take risks or cautioned against them. Whether you were taught to lead or told to follow. The breath cuts through it all.

This blog isn’t just about me as a woman reclaiming her power.

It’s an invitation for all of us.

I’ve seen people of all genders shrink themselves to stay safe, to be liked, to avoid shame.

I’ve also seen what happens when someone lets their spine rise, their shoulders open, and their breath return to its natural rhythm.

I’ve witnessed what becomes possible when someone says, through presence alone:

“I’m here. And I am allowed to take up space.”

You don’t need to become someone else.

You don’t need to force anything.

You can begin with one step. One breath. One moment of noticing.

An Invitation to Practice

Next time you’re walking, try it.

Pause.