1 min read
No one taught me
how to love myself.
But my breath did.
Before language,
before logic,
before identity —
there was inhale.
There was exhale.
Unconditional arrival.
Unconditional release.
Conscious breathing
is the quietest apology
I offer my own body.
For the nights
I ignored exhaustion.
For the days
I chased validation.
For the moments
I abandoned myself
to belong elsewhere.
Each slow inhale
says —
“I am here now.”
Each gentle exhale
says —
“I let go.”
Self-love
is not always loud.
It doesn’t always look like
confidence
or celebration.
Sometimes
it looks like
closing my eyes
for ten seconds
between chaos.
And remembering
I exist
beyond my obligations.
My breath
doesn’t ask
what I achieved today.
It doesn’t measure
my productivity.
It doesn’t judge
my mistakes.
It just continues —
loyally.
Even when
I forget it.
Even when
I rush past it.
Even when
I hold it hostage
inside anxiety.
Conscious breathing
is returning home
without moving.
It’s touching
my own presence
without needing
anyone else’s permission.
Inhale —
I accept myself.
Exhale —
I forgive myself.
Inhale —
I exist.
Exhale —
I am enough.
No performance.
No comparison.
No expectation.
Just oxygen
meeting awareness.
This is how
I practice
loving myself
without saying
a single word.
This is how
I stay alive
with intention.
One breath
at a time.
