Imagine being in the sea: it’s a beautiful day, the water is crystal clear, and the sun is hitting just right. You’re coasting close to the beach, but far enough so there are no people around.
What happens when you hold your breath?
Your lungs inflate, causing you to float more easily. You become virtually unsinkable for a few moments, but you cannot hold your breath forever. You exhale and start breathing normally, slowly waving your hands and feet to stay afloat.
This doesn’t take much energy—you don’t even consciously think about it. Yet, you’re breathing normally, relaxed and calm. Your energy can be focused on observing the things around you and enjoying the day.
But what happens if you exhale all of your breath?
You exhale, and exhale, and exhale some more. You keep blowing air out of your mouth and nose until there’s none left. You know this isn’t good or healthy, yet you keep giving away more and more of your breath. What happens?
You start to sink.
Your head drops below the surface. Your body continues being lowered into the abyss, until the light from the sun begins to disappear and you become enclosed by darkness.
You keep dropping more, lower and deeper, until your vision becomes blurred and you cannot think straight. Eventually, if you’re lucky, your feet will touch upon cold, hard sediment at the bottom. You cannot go any deeper.
You have reached, quite literally, a rock bottom.
What happens when you give too much of yourself away? More than you’re willing to or capable of? You start sinking and lose yourself in a blurry abyss, unable to help yourself or others.
Imagine someone close to you is on the surface and needs your help. You can’t help them.
You’re down in the darkness. You cannot see or comprehend other people or their problems. You cannot even think straight or have a clear sense of what’s right in front of you. When you give too much, you lose the ability to act like the person you want to be.
But you can always swim up.
You can push yourself off the bottom, swing your arms, and climb toward the surface. Eventually, the light will start shining through. The pressure will gradually reduce. Before you know it, you will burst from the water and gasp for air you so desperately need.
You will take big breaths, bigger than you need to. That’s okay. It will take a while for the water to wash from your eyes and for you to see the beach, other people, and the sun. When you do, you will realize that the blurry darkness you became trapped in was not a realistic representation of the world. The surface isn’t as scary or as dangerous as you feared it was.
You’ve made it to the other side. You feel changed because of the experience. You’ve learned what happens when you give too much and don’t take care of yourself first. But the darkness is still there, lurking beneath the surface. You can hear the sirens’ voices bubbling in the deep, inviting you back: just dive for a moment, give just a bit more than you’re capable off.
The allure will always be there. We don’t like to admit it, but we are drawn to the darkness. We give bit by bit, ignoring our needs, until we’re already sinking. By the time you realize it, the sun is gone, your mind is scrambled, and you have no idea what’s going on.
Don’t forget to breathe. It might save your life.