Cora Beels

If I focus enough I can write the steps down. And if I write them down I can read them. Maybe if I can read them, I can do it.

Do you know that feeling when your heart drops? Like when the tide pulls back, and you know that means a tsunami is forming. Deep in the calm ocean, when the levels drop, and you feel your heart quicken, knowing you cannot outrun the peaceful predator. Or when a dam, thick concrete buckling under the weight, springs a small leak that you know it can’t handle. Even as the first trickles of water trickle out, you know you’re screwed. The ravaging pressure building up underneath the tranquil waters’ surface will only build until the hole splits and the whole river floods until you’re covered to your head in rapids you cannot outswim. 

When placed in the moment—the calm before the storm, the few seconds you have to pull in when last breath—I can’t move. I can’t decide which is worse, the flood or the moment of acceptance. 

I’ve been building a tower out of little Jenga Blocks. It’s a game, it’s fun. I’ve been playing for so long, pulling all my focus to not lose, I forgot I’m playing. I’ve been building a river, swimming in its graceful blue, unaware that the more I add, the weaker my dam becomes. 

I breathe in.

It’s worth it; the river, the game, the stretches of empty beach when the tide pulls in. I’ve built friends on empty beaches and built towers out of blocks for them to win. The work is all worth it because the beach is scattered with smiles, and the river is full of smiling people.  

I breathe out.

In the blink of an eye, I’m neck deep. The final gasp of air before plunging into the ice-cold water is full and deep. It expands in my lungs before slowly releasing. Even in the cascading falls, the oceans are empty. The beach is gone, consumed by the soaring waves that scrape the sky before plummeting back to earth with an eager anger. The pressure shakes the ground, and the Jenga blocks fall. 

And when all your lungs are empty, all you do is breathe back in.

How do you remember how to breathe? I forgot. The whole world is full of air, it’s just too thick to fit down my lungs. It gets stuck in my throat, I’m hacking it up, trying not to choke and suffocate at the same time. If I focus hard enough, I can remember; in, out, in, out. 

I breathe in.

With each inhale, I hesitate, letting the dense air fill my lungs—causing them to expand past their normal threshold. If I let it linger just a moment longer, then I’m ready. If the dam breaks, I’ll have more time. More time to remember how to take and swallow a breath. And once I choke down that final breath, I push it out, practically throwing up onto the beach. Because once I empty my lungs, I can fill them back up again. I like them full. I like the way my ribs wince under the heavy oxygen, and my heart quickens in anticipation to spit it back out. If I fill them back again and again, then when the dam breaks, I’ll have one more second. 

I breathe out.

After the water covers my head and my lungs nearly burst, I’m damp on the beach. In those moments, I relearn how to breathe. The river is drained, and the Jenga game is over. I have time to relearn how to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.