Letters to the Ones Who Breathed

Vol. 1 – The Ones Who Left with Lighter Hearts

Dear You,

There’s a quiet that settles in after a session ends. Not silence exactly—more like something exhaled. You leave, and I sit for a while, watching the desert light gather itself across the floor. Something lingers. A trace of your presence. A color that wasn’t there before.

I’m not a healer. I don’t fix or rescue. But I witness. I listen. And I hold space while you do the work your body has been longing to do.

Sometimes, when you breathe—intentionally, vulnerably—something ancient stirs. The rhythm opens. And colors begin to appear.

Not metaphorical ones. Actual colors.

Swirls of indigo rising from your chest. A flicker of gold where there was once tightness. Murky green curled around your ribs. A film of gray softening near your throat like a word unsaid. And when the breath flows—two inhales, one exhale, again and again—the colors start to move.

Shift. Soften. Open.

And then—somewhere in that invisible place between inhale and exhale—something begins to let go.

You cry.

You tremble.

You laugh at nothing in particular.

And then you exhale like your ribs have been waiting years to do so.

Afterward, when you open your eyes, you often look surprised. A sadness has loosened its grip. A memory has melted at the edges. Sometimes, you laugh—like your body suddenly remembered how.

You say things like: “I didn’t expect to cry like that.”“Something left my body, but I don’t know what.”“I feel empty—but in a good way.”

And then you go. You walk back into your life.

Some don’t come back. Others do—weeks, months later. And when they do, they say, “That session opened something.”And I know exactly what they mean.

It’s not about money. It’s not about a full calendar. It’s the knowing. The holy quiet knowing—that some part of your suffering was released through the breath, and I was lucky enough to be there when it happened.

When I send these notes—blogs, letters, whatever they are—they’re not marketing. They’re a gentle message from my heart. “I still remember you. I wonder how your heart is. I hope you’re still breathing.”

Because when someone breathes with me, I hold them like they are my own child for a moment—tender, radiant, brave.

And sometimes, if I sit quietly enough, I still see your colors dancing in the air.

With love,

Yuna