I manage a small nonprofit. We're always understaffed, always fundraising, always one grant rejection away from closing. I thought I was handling it fine. My body disagreed.

The ER doctor gave me a pamphlet about breathing exercises. I almost laughed. I'm drowning in work and you want me to... breathe? I already do that. Turns out I was doing it badly.

I took the pamphlet home and left it on my desk for two weeks. Then I had another episode—same racing heart, same chest pressure—and instead of going back to the ER, I sat down in the window seat of my bedroom and opened the pamphlet.

Breathe in for four counts. Hold for four. Out for six. Your body doesn't know the difference between stress and danger. You have to teach it the difference. —  From the ER pamphlet

It felt stupid at first. Childish. Like I was pretending to meditate while my actual life fell apart around me. But I sat there, watching the street outside my window, and counted. Four in. Hold. Six out. My heart rate slowed. The tightness eased. Not immediately. Not dramatically. But enough.

I started doing it every day. Not because I believed in it, but because I was desperate and the alternative was more panic attacks or medication I couldn't afford. Every afternoon at 3 PM—which is when my stress usually peaks—I sit in my window seat for ten minutes and just breathe.

Some days I make it the full ten minutes. Some days I check my phone after three. Some days my mind wanders through my entire to-do list while I'm supposed to be focusing on breath. But I keep showing up to that window seat.

The window itself has become part of the practice. I watch the light change. I see neighbors walking dogs. Bill from down the street heading to the hardware store. Kids getting off the school bus. The world keeps moving while I sit still and breathe, and somehow that's comforting.

I mentioned it to Emma at the market—she lives a few houses down. She said, "That's pranayama. You're doing yoga breathing." I told her I wasn't doing yoga, I was just following a hospital pamphlet. She smiled and said pranayama just means breath control. "You're teaching yourself," she said.

I've gotten better at it. I can feel when my breath gets shallow now, when stress is building. Sometimes I catch it early and take a few deep breaths before it becomes a whole thing. Sometimes I still spiral. But I have this tool now, this embarrassingly simple thing that actually works.

Last week I had a grant proposal rejected. Two years of work, gone. I felt that familiar chest tightness starting. I walked away from my desk, sat in my window seat, and breathed. Four in, hold, six out. For twenty minutes. When I stood up, the grant was still rejected. My problems hadn't changed. But I could think clearly enough to start working on Plan B.

I don't know if this counts as meditation or mindfulness or whatever people call it. I'm not trying to achieve enlightenment. I'm just trying to get through my afternoons without my nervous system treating every deadline like a life-or-death emergency.

The window seat breathing practice: it's not glamorous, it's not Instagram-worthy, it doesn't solve my problems. But it gives me ten minutes where I'm not solving problems, not managing crises, not being responsible for anything except counting to four, then six, then four again.

That's enough.

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