This morning in class, my yoga mentor shared a beautiful poem that really stayed with me. The sea, in this poem, is not just water—it is life’s changes, losses, and uninvited transformations.
Breathing Underwater
I built my house by the sea.
Not on the sands, mind you;
not on the shifting sand.
And I built it of rock.
A strong house
by a strong sea.
And we got well acquainted, the sea and I.
Good neighbors.
Not that we spoke much.
We met in silences.
Respectful, keeping our distance,
but looking our thoughts across the fence of sand.
Always, the fence of sand our barrier,
always, the sand between.
And then one day,
– and I still don’t know how it happened –
the sea came.
Without warning.
Without welcome, even
Not sudden and swift, but a shifting across the sand like wine
less like the flow of water than the flow of blood.
Slow, but coming.
Slow, but flowing like an open wound.
And I thought of flight and I thought of drowning and I thought of death
And while I thought the sea crept higher, till it reached my door.
And I knew, then, there was neither flight, nor death, nor drowning.
That when the sea comes calling, you stop being neighbors,
Well acquainted, friendly-at-a-distance neighbors,
And you give your house for a coral castle,
And you learn to breathe underwater.
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Breathing Under Water by Carol Bialock, is about what happens when the sea—the metaphor for life’s unexpected changes—slowly, inevitably, makes its way to your door. Not as a dramatic wave or storm but a quiet, creeping tide. It is not something you can run from or resist.
And at the end, the lesson is this: “You give your house for a coral castle, and you learn to breathe underwater.” You surrender, and evolve. And maybe you even thrive, despite circumstances.
This imagery speaks to being on our yoga mat. The invitation to soften, and to stay present even when things are uncomfortable. Even when the pose is hard, or you can’t do it how you once could (this one’s been humbling for me lately…) Yoga teaches us how to inhabit our bodies and lives, even when things don’t go as planned. To stay with the tide, even when we want to run.
I think back to walks I used to take with my gramma along the shore of the St. Lawrence river. The tide would be out, and we’d search for treasures—shells, sea urchins, the occasional starfish. We never really noticed the tide coming back in. One moment we were dry, and the next our feet were in the water, then our ankles.
It didn’t rush. It seeped in.
That’s how life can feel sometimes. A slow shift you don’t realize is happening until you’re standing in it. And by then, it’s too late to hold back the sea. We start to feel overwhelmed.
So what do we do?
💧 We learn to breathe. We get present and feel our body.
💧 We surrender. Not as a victim, but with contemplative acceptance.
💧 We let go of how we thought things would be, and look at them as they are.
💧 We trade the house for a coral castle. We change and adapt.
💧 We find a new rhythm, a new strength, or a new softness.
💧 We breathe underwater.
If you’re going through a big change or things feel heavy, I invite you to take a few minutes today to pause. Close your eyes. Place one hand on your belly. One on your heart. Inhale slowly and deeply. Exhale fully and completely. Feel the rise and fall. You are not drowning. You are learning a new way to breathe.