Why Safety in the Body Matters More Than We Realize

Yesterday, I was doing breathwork with a clear intention: to feel safe in my body, so I could embody everything I want to manifest in my life. This intention was especially close to my heart because my upcoming event focuses on creating safety in the body, and on noticing the survival responses—fight, flight, freeze, or fawn—that protect us but can also keep us small.

I wanted my nervous system to know safety, to be open to receiving, and to hold space for all that I want to call in.

Somewhere in the flow of breath, I heard: What is it that you want? What do you want?

And without hesitation, what came through was: I want Gepetto.

Gepetto was my dog, my beloved companion.

The Grief That Rose Unexpectedly

I was surprised. Gepetto passed away six years ago. I had not gone into the practice thinking about him. Yet the moment his name came through, I realized how much I still longed for him. And just like that, grief came flooding in.

In that space, I allowed myself to acknowledge what I hadn’t fully spoken: that I wanted him. That I missed him. That I wished I could hold him again.

And I had the chance to say: I’m sorry.

I apologized to him for not knowing how to be there for him during the last months of his life.

The Complexity of Loving Him

Gepetto’s happiness was everything to me. When he was eating, wagging his tail, or simply content, my heart overflowed. But when he wasn’t doing well, my world crumbled. His well-being became the measure of my own peace.

At the time, I even felt guilty about that—that my joy depended on him. And when his health declined, I was full of anxiety and fear. For eight months, I lived in a heightened state of stress, not knowing how to soothe myself, not knowing how to accept what was unfolding.

In his final days, I wanted nothing more than to hold him close and cover him with kisses. But Gepetto had developed a heart murmur, and every time I held him, all I could hear was the labored thump of his enlarged heart. It reminded me of a ticking time bomb. And as much as I wanted to wrap him in love, the sound brought fear and reminded me that his time was running out. Even closeness became complicated.

What Breathwork Opened for Me

During this breathwork, all of those memories, all of that love and fear and guilt, came back into my body. I cried. I grieved. And I allowed myself to feel it in a way I couldn’t before.

Breathwork bypasses the mind and opens the body to what’s been waiting to be felt. Sometimes what comes up surprises us. Sometimes it’s the very thing we thought we had already processed.

But grief isn’t linear. It doesn’t disappear just because years have passed. It lives in our bodies, waiting for moments of safety and openness to be felt and released. When it resurfaces, it’s not to hurt us — it’s to free us. What once stayed frozen in survival mode finally has space to move through, so it no longer weighs on us in the same way.

Compassion for the Me Who Lived Through It

As much as this session brought me face-to-face with my grief for Gepetto, it also opened my heart to something I hadn’t felt before: compassion for the version of me who lived through it all.

• The me who was so full of anxiety every time he stopped eating.

• The me who felt helpless listening to the sound of his heart.

• The me who tied her happiness so closely to his.

• The me who crumbled under the weight of not knowing how to be there.

For a long time, I carried guilt about those months. But now, I see her differently. She was someone navigating the most tender, overwhelming love she had ever known, without a map. She wasn’t failing him — she was loving him with everything she had.

Meeting that version of myself with love feels like another layer of sorrow softening. It’s no longer just about what I wish I had done for him. It’s about holding myself, too, with the same tenderness I longed to give him.

Understanding the Grief Response

Looking back, I see that what I went through with Gepetto was more than sadness. It was a mix of:

• Guilt: for not knowing how to show up in the “right” way.

• Dependence: because his joy felt like my lifeline.

• Fear: living in constant anticipation of loss.

• Love and longing: wanting nothing more than to hold him without fear.

  
  

And now, years later, breathwork gave me a doorway to meet those parts of myself again—with compassion this time.

What This Taught Me About Safety

It struck me how aligned this experience was with my original intention: to feel safe in my body. Because the truth is, when our nervous system is stuck in survival states, grief, fear, and guilt can stay frozen inside of us.

And that’s what I was experiencing. Those frozen parts of me—the fear, the guilt, the tenderness—finally had space to move.

Safety doesn’t mean we won’t feel pain—it means we can meet that pain without collapsing under it.

Breathwork showed me that to embody what I want in life, I also have to make space for the parts of me that are still grieving, still tender, still afraid. Because you see, embodiment isn’t about erasing those parts of us. It’s not about waiting until we’re perfectly healed before we step into what we desire. It’s about wholeness. It’s about allowing the tender parts of us to exist, to be acknowledged with compassion, while still moving toward what we want. When we make space for grief, fear, or tenderness instead of pushing them away, they soften. And in that softening, we expand.

A Ritual for Integration

If you’ve ever had grief surface unexpectedly, here’s a simple ritual you can try to meet it with love:

1. Create a quiet space. Light a candle or hold an object that connects you to the one you miss.

2. Speak what was left unsaid. Whether it’s “I’m sorry,” “I miss you,” or simply “I love you,” give those words voice.

3. Offer yourself compassion. Place your hand on your heart and remind yourself: I did the best I could with the tools I had.

4. Breathe into your body. Notice where the grief sits. Breathe gently, letting it soften.

5. Close with gratitude. Thank your loved one for the gift of love that continues beyond their physical presence.

What I'm Taking With Me

That moment in breathwork reminded me that grief is not a weakness, nor a sign of something left unfinished. It is love. It is devotion. It is the body remembering.

By allowing myself to grieve again, I gave myself more space to embody safety, compassion, and openness—the very things I want to guide others into.

And in a way, Gepetto was right there with me, showing me that even in grief, love is still alive.

If This Resonates

Breathwork has been one of the most powerful ways I continue to meet myself with safety and compassion — and it’s why I share this practice with others. If you feel ready to explore this work, I’d love to invite you to join me for an upcoming gathering or a 1:1 session.