When the World Said “Stop,” I Learned to Breathe

When the world said stop,

it did not whisper—

it pressed its weight against my chest,

told my dreams to sit down,

told my hope to be quiet.

Doors closed without apology.

Time moved forward

while I stood still,

holding questions heavier than answers.

I forgot how easy breathing once was.

Each inhale felt borrowed,

each exhale carried fear—

of failing,

of becoming invisible,

of never rising again.

But in the silence,

when applause disappeared

and even faith felt tired,

I noticed something small.

I was still breathing.

Not loudly.

Not bravely.

Just enough

to remind my heart

that it had not given up on me.

So I breathed through the doubt.

I breathed through the nights

that felt longer than my strength.

I breathed when moving forward

felt impossible.

And slowly—

without permission from the world—

my lungs remembered courage.

My pulse remembered purpose.

Now, when the world says *stop,*

I pause…

inhale…

and choose to continue.

Because breathing

is not weakness—

it is the first quiet act

of survival,

and sometimes,

the beginning of rising.