Cracked open
The blessing of losing control
This substack is about my time and experience at East Fork Farm, just outside of Asheville, North Carolina. I was gutted to see the damage and tragedy that Hurricane Helene left in its wake. If you have the desire and resources to help, Beloved Asheville is accepting donations for supplies and basic needs.
The Blue Ridge Mountains gather around the barn, neatly tucked in the crevice of the valley.
It’s the fall equinox, but the hills of the farm are June green. The pond’s cool depths ripple against a puff of wind. Cows graze lazily in the pasture and the farm dogs trot at my heels. The farm awakens with a yawn.
On the edge of fall, I spent six days at East Fork Farm learning to facilitate active breathwork. First, I learn the pattern of the breath — an inhale down into the belly, up into the chest, and out through the mouth. Then, I learn that I’m terrified.
Breathwork is a practice of surrender. And surrender, I soon realize, does not always come peacefully.
Draped across the floor, working with the activation of breath, fear trickles through the cracks in my consciousness. It spirals in, up, and out, dragging me from the experience.
I do not want to let go. I will not let go. I cannot let go.
The physical discomfort of the breath crescendos. My relentless grip on life manifests on the top floor of this barn. Every part of me wants to flee. I didn’t leave my worries at the door. If anything, they swarm around me, swelling with each breath. My unrequited longing for undying control reaches a fever pitch.
The tightness of my fist keeps me on the wrong side of fear. My inability to open renders me closed. Without unfurling my grip, there is no vacancy. No space for possibility.
How you do anything is how you do everything.
Some science — active breathwork limits oxygen flow by rinsing the body of CO2. Consequently, our brain temporarily gets 40% less blood flow. With limited resources, our prefrontal cortex hops offline, giving us space from our inner critic, our cyclical narrations, our rational protective minds, and our ego.
But it’s something more, too. It guides us to other parts of ourselves — parts we’ve long buried. It opens up the void. It takes us home, unraveling our connection to Self with each In, Up, Out.
There’s a collective softening as the days stretch on. As we detach from the reality outside of this one. As the morning dew turns into a heavy warmth. As the pond’s cool embrace reminds us that we are here.
When fear stands strong, threatening dissociation, fifteen sets of lungs tug me gently back to the floor. A voice rings through the room: What would it be like to let go? What would it be like to trust Self? What might happen if you surrender?
In those moments, terror rushes In, Up, and then Out. Fear bursts at the seams, flipping past me without resistance. There’s nothing to be done. Nothing to be fixed. Nothing but to be, but to move, but to breathe.
In the expanse, the quality of my breath shifts — molasses, then honey, then smooth butter. Something new happens. I don’t want to hold on. I won’t hold on. I can’t hold on. Cradled by my teachers and my cohort, I release my grip.
There on a farm in North Carolina, I crack open.
On day six, someone spots a fox. He runs circles around my house. It can’t mean nothing.
Detaching from this reality seems unimaginable. In six days, I’ve rearranged my definition of kinship. This communal way of living just feels right, somewhere in my cells. Society isn’t designed for this type of connection, but maybe it should be.
These sixteen faces have become my little world—a safe haven to see and be seen. I take in the room one last time, wondering how I can cling to the love. As grief tugs at my sleeve, I remember that the release is the opening. Gripping only stifles what comes next.
I feel the loss all the way through and then, I let go.
In my breath, I find something I’d lost — a boundless sense of self-trust. An innate knowing that I am and will be Okay. A tender inner voice that whispers, You were never alone. I have always been here. Self-trust seeps, gooey and warm, into the parts of me that need it most.
When I get home, big decisions are waiting. I move decisively and unapologetically. By unfurling my fists. By setting firm boundaries. By allowing myself to be supported. By breathing.
When contraction inevitably draws me back, I’ll call on the memory. I’ll meditate on the connection. I’ll soften into the void.
I’ll remember the other side of fear.
And trust fall into that.
until next time,
Amy
p.s If you’re interested in breathwork, I’ll be launching 1:1 sessions soon — stay tuned xx
resources for breath — in — up — out
The Breath Vault with George Ramsey
Ally’s Substack — will have more breath practices, soon!
Ally & George’s training — next year’s dates coming soon
So inspiring. I have done breathwork before and each time something profound had shifted. For a long time I have let it be, not wanting to do it. Being afraid of I guess just that - letting go. In, up, out - just like life’s own cycle.
Thanks for sharing your experience and inspiring me to take a little step closer to breathwork again ✨
I felt like I was there with you. Your words are so anchoring Amy 🤎