When the World Feels Too Heavy to Hold

Some days, the heaviness doesn’t arrive slowly.

It drops in all at once.

A headline.

A video.

A name that could’ve been your cousin’s.

A face that looks like someone you grew up with.

A story that feels one generation removed from your own family’s survival.

And suddenly, your chest is tight.

Not in a dramatic way.

In the quiet way that happens when the body tries to protect the heart.

It’s the kind of heaviness that makes breathing feel shallow, without you even realizing it.

Like your lungs forgot how to open all the way.

Like your nervous system is bracing for something it can’t name, but knows is real.

And if you’ve been feeling this too, I want to say it plainly:

You are not overly sensitive.

You are not imagining it.

You are not “too much.”

You are witnessing something that hurts.

And your body is responding the way bodies do when something feels personal.

When it’s not just sad… it’s close

There’s a particular kind of ache that comes from seeing people who look like you being targeted violently.

It hits different when you carry an immigrant lineage.

When your family story has already included survival, displacement, or learning how to stay quiet in certain spaces just to make it through.

As a first-generation daughter of immigrant parents, I know what it feels like to look at a headline and feel my body whisper:

that could’ve been us.

It’s not just grief.

It’s proximity.

It’s remembering how thin the line can feel between safety and danger.

Between belonging and being seen as a threat.

Between a normal day… and a life changed forever.

And then we’re expected to keep going.

Answer the emails.

Cook the food.

Show up for work.

Be present for our children.

Move through the world like nothing is happening.

But the body always knows when it isn’t.

And the heart keeps score.

The breath as a return

When my heart gets flooded, I don’t always have the capacity for a long practice.

I don’t need a perfect ritual.

I don’t need to “fix my mindset.”

I don’t need to spiritually bypass what’s true.

I need something simple.

I need a way back.

So I return to the breath—not because it erases what’s happening, but because it helps me stay inside my own body while I’m witnessing it.

Breath becomes a small, sacred moment of choice.

A soft anchor.

A way to say:

I can feel this… and still stay here.

I can grieve… without abandoning myself.

I can be tender… and still be steady.

Saucha: clarity as medicine

In yoga, there is a concept called Saucha.

It’s often translated as purity, but I don’t receive it as perfection.

Not as “be clean.”

Not as “be good.”

For me, Saucha is a clearing.

It’s clarity.

It’s the gentle practice of noticing what has accumulated in the mind and heart, and making space for what’s true—without drowning in it.

Because when the world is heavy, the mind can get crowded fast.

We carry images we didn’t ask to see.

We hold stories that don’t leave our bodies when we close the app.

We absorb the energy of fear and rage and despair until we can’t tell what belongs to us anymore.

Saucha asks:

What are you letting in?

What are you carrying that isn’t yours to hold alone?

What is clouding your inner sky?

And then, with compassion, it invites a clearing.

Not to disconnect from reality—

but to stay connected to yourself inside of it.

A small clearing you can do right now

If your heart feels heavy today, try this with me:

Place one hand on your chest.

Not as a fix.

As a witness.

Inhale through your nose… slowly.

Feel your ribs expand like they still know how.

Exhale through the mouth with a soft sigh.

Like you’re releasing steam from the body.

Like you’re letting the heart loosen its grip.

Again.

Inhale: I am here.

Exhale: I don’t have to carry this alone.

Again.

Inhale: I can feel this.

Exhale: and still stay connected.

And if you want to take it one step further, whisper this quietly:

May what is not mine to carry be released.

May what is mine to feel be held with tenderness.

May my breath clear the fog, one moment at a time.

Sound as a clearing, too

And sometimes - for me - breath is the doorway…

…but sound is the sweep.

When the heaviness gets stuck in the corners of my body, when the grief settles into my chest like sediment, I reach for vibration.

Because sound doesn’t ask you to explain yourself.

It doesn’t demand you make sense of the world.

It simply moves.

It travels through the places where words can’t reach.

It softens what has tightened.

It clears what has been held too long.

There are days when I don’t need more information.

I need resonance.

I need something that reminds my body it is safe enough to exhale.

Boundaries are part of the practice

Saucha also asks for honesty.

Not just about what’s happening out there…

…but about what you allow into your mind when you’re already full.

You can care deeply and still protect your nervous system.

You can stay informed without being consumed.

You are allowed to pause.

You are allowed to stop watching the video.

You are allowed to step away from the comment section.

You are allowed to choose softer input.

That is not avoidance.

That is clarity.

That is care.

That is practice.

A vow for the heavy days

When the world is loud, it’s easy to lose your center.

To feel like your spirit has been pulled into everything that is breaking.

But breath has a way of bringing you home.

Not to a fantasy.

To your body.

To your pulse.

To the truth that your heart was never meant to hold this alone.

So here is the vow I’m returning to lately:

I will keep my heart open without letting it shatter.

I will clear what I can, release what I cannot control, and stay rooted in love.

I will keep returning to my breath.

I will keep choosing tenderness.

Even if today all you do is exhale.

Even if the only practice you have is one steady breath and a hand on your heart.

That still counts.

That still matters.

Because the world may be heavy…

…but your breath is a doorway.

And you can walk through it again and again.

A soft closing ritual

If you’re reading this at the end of a long day, here’s your invitation:

Light a candle.

Turn the lights down low.

Put one hand over your heart.

Take three slow breaths.

And let that be enough for tonight.

You don’t have to hold the whole world to prove you care.

You are allowed to clear.

You are allowed to soften.

You are allowed to rest.

One breath at a time.