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   First tattoo 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. Breathe. Notice your feet on the ground. Trust that they will find your path. Set an intention for presence. Let your eyes soften and widen as you take in the world in front of you. And walk.   Not to dominate, not to escape, but to arrive. To say: I’m here.   There is enough space for all of us. Let’s practice taking it.   Want to explore this more deeply?   You are invited to work with me through breath.   1:1 Breathwork Session – £130 1:1 Breathwork Art Session – £110 Breath Awareness Zoom – £105 Breathing Circles – £25     To book: 📞 Call: 07779101861 📧 Email: In-Exhale@outlook.com 🌐 Website: www.in-exhalebreathe.com

I was always a shy, quiet, and timid girl, growing up in a vibrant and busy household. Our home was never just ours; it was a gathering place. My grandmother, a wise elder with a huge personality, lived with us. She was the pillar of our family, the one people turned to for advice, guidance, and support. Our front door was always open, sometimes quite literally, as relatives and friends flowed in and out.   When home belongs to everyone, where do you go to find space? From a young age, we were unconsciously enrolled in hosting. We prepared food, made endless cups of tea, and ensured the space was clean and welcoming. As children, we could run around and play freely, but we also had to be mindful when visitors arrived. There were pros and cons to having a home that felt like a revolving door. On one hand, it fostered connection, generosity, and a strong sense of community. On the other, as children, we were never asked if this constant openness felt good, if we wanted it, or if we needed space. It was simply how things were.   A Memory That Stuck With Me   When I reflect on my childhood, one particular memory always surfaces.   Hiding in plain sight, craving a moment of home just for ourselves. It was a summer’s day. For once, it was just us, the people who lived in the house, enjoying the garden. My older sister and I ran inside, laughing, when suddenly, the doorbell rang. Instead of answering, we sat under the letterbox, suppressing our giggles as my grandmother’s brother peered through, calling out to us.   We didn’t want to share our home that day. We wanted it to be ours, just for a little while. The next day, my parents asked why we hadn’t told them someone was at the door. We never gave them an answer, but deep down, I knew. I just wanted space.   Becoming a Carbon Copy   Years later, when I moved into my own home with my husband, something strange happened. Without realising it, I became a carbon copy of my caregivers. My home quickly turned into a revolving door. Family would turn up unannounced, stay the weekend, and when they left, I would feel drained. I loved them, but I felt exhausted from hosting.   I had inherited the same pattern: giving endlessly, prioritising guests over my own well-being, and struggling to say no.   The belief that "visitors are treated like royalty" runs deep in many cultures. It’s a beautiful tradition, one rooted in generosity, care, and love. But what happens when the host is depleted? When giving becomes an obligation rather than a joy?   I watched my mother and grandmother pour themselves into their guests, cooking, cleaning, offering guidance, without hesitation. My grandfather would share fresh produce from his garden. This was their service, their love language. But I began to wonder: is there a healthier balance?   Breaking the Pattern   It took time, but I worked hard to break the cycle. I had difficult conversations with my family, explaining that while I loved having them over, I needed boundaries. At first, it wasn’t easy. Change rarely is. But over time, we adjusted. Now, my parents and siblings always call before visiting. We cook together and share responsibilities, so hosting is no longer a burden on one person. It’s a communal experience, one that feels joyful rather than exhausting. Made with love, shared with joy, this is what true hospitality feels like. I still love having my family round. I love creating spaces for deep conversations, laughter, and connection. But now, I give from a full cup, not from a place of depletion.   Because hospitality is beautiful, but so is honouring yourself.   Let's Connect   If this resonates with you and you’d like to explore breathwork for healthy boundaries, balance and self-care, get in touch:   Website: www.in-exhalebreathe.com Phone: 07779101861 Email: Inexhalebreathwork@gmail.com

There’s a belief I’ve carried for as long as I can remember, nothing I do is good enough. Sometimes it hums in the background, quietly shaping my decisions. Other times, it roars to the surface, fuelling overthinking, overdoing, and the constant, exhausting need to get it right . Lost in the weight of self-doubt - breathe, soften and rewrite the story. It shows up in small ways, rewriting a message three times before sending it. And in bigger ways, fear of making the "wrong" choice, anxiety around disappointing someone, bracing myself for judgment before it even comes. At the heart of it is an old, familiar dread: What if they tell me I got it wrong? What if I let them down? I’ve done enough shadow work and conscious breathwork to trace this fear back to its roots. Back to the scene of the crime . It’s a childhood memory, seemingly small but deeply formative. My grandmother, in the kitchen, cooking dinner. One of us kids would be sent to the pantry to fetch four or five potatoes. A simple task, yet we all dreaded it. Because no matter how carefully we chose, examining each one, trying to predict what she wanted, we’d get it wrong. But it wasn’t just a sigh of disappointment we feared. It was the sharp edge of her frustration, the suppressed anger simmering beneath her words. More than just potatoes - When childhood lessons shape the way we see ourselves. "Are you stupid? An idiot? You can’t even pick up potatoes properly." Some days, the worst of it, if she was already in a bad mood, we knew what was coming. A slap, a shove, a punishment for wasting her time. And then, the final sting: “I’ll do it myself. You’re useless.” I learned something in those moments. Not just about potatoes, but about myself. I learned that no matter how much I tried to get it right, I would  get it wrong. That trying my best wasn’t enough. That making a mistake didn’t just bring correction, it brought shame, anger, sometimes pain. This is how wounds form. The scene of the crime  is that first moment of emotional impact, the one that embeds itself in your body, shaping the way you move through the world. As children, we don’t yet have the reasoning to separate someone else’s pain from our own worth. We don’t see their  wounds. We only feel the impact of them. So, we make it mean something about us. For me, I made it mean: I am not good enough. No matter how hard I try, I will disappoint someone. And when you believe that deeply enough, life finds ways to reinforce it. This belief followed me. Into school, into work, into relationships. It made me second-guess myself, work twice as hard to prove my worth, anticipate rejection before it even happened. And every time something went slightly  wrong, that old voice would whisper: See? I told you so. You failed again. At the edge, between letting go and moving forward. But here’s the thing, beliefs are not truths. They are stories we’ve told ourselves for so long that they feel real. But they are not who we are. I know this now. I know my grandmother was also shaped by her own pain, by her own wounds, by the way she  was raised. She had to grow up fast, and therefore, so did we. I loved her. And it took a shit ton of therapy  to work through both the trauma and the love. But healing isn’t about excusing what happened. It’s about understanding how it shaped us, so we can choose something different. I refuse to live my life believing I am not good enough. So, I meet these thoughts head-on. When the fear creeps in, when I feel myself bracing for criticism, I pause. I breathe. And I ask myself: ✨ What actually happened?  ✨ What am I feeling in my body?  ✨ What did I want  to feel in this moment?  ✨ How is fear shaping my response right now? Instead of reacting from an old wound, I take a breath. I anchor into truth. It’s not an instant fix. It’s a skill. And like all skills, it takes practice, patience, and a willingness to stumble. Because I do  stumble. There are moments when fear has the upper hand, when I miscommunicate, judge too quickly, or forget to breathe. And that’s okay. This is  the work, to witness ourselves in these moments, to see how we respond to discomfort, to bring awareness instead of autopilot reactions. A limiting belief only has as much power as we give it. Its lifespan shortens the moment we choose to face it, to question it, to breathe through it. And so, I choose to rewrite the story. I am not here to be perfect.  I am here to be whole.  And that, in itself, is enough.    If this story resonates with you, take a moment to pause, breathe, and notice where the ‘not good enough’ wound shows up in your life. Awareness is the first step to breaking the cycle. If you’re ready to explore this deeper through conscious breathwork and self-inquiry, I invite you to work with me. Let’s unravel the old stories and create space for something new. ✨ Book a session: www.in-exhalebreathe.com (https://www.in-exhalebreathe.com/) ✨ Connect with me: In-Exhalebreathwork@gmail.com