This blog is authored by Kathy Stover, a passionate facilitator of breathwork
How Breathwork Helps in Healing Past Wounds
That question kept nudging me when I began a 14-day breath challenge at the tail end of my 400-hour facilitator training at Breathing Space. The guidelines were simple yet profound: spend half an hour every day breathing conscious, connected breaths into the heart space—no music, no distractions—with the intention of feeling into the spirit of the breath. From the start, I wondered what it might be like to breathe with the spirit of my father.
My dad passed away fifty years ago, when I was too young to have anything but fleeting memories. I can still recall riding on his back as he whisked me off to bed, snuggling into his chair after he returned from work, the comforting smell of Old Spice lingering in the air after pretend shaving sessions. I was a toddler then, but those sensations became precious links to a man I barely got to know.
When he died, my family did what many do: “pull up our bootstraps” and carry on. In watching my mother’s devastating grief, I remember wanting only one thing: for her to be okay. That meant pasting on a brave face of my own and soldiering forward. But as we know, the body keeps the score. My loss morphed into a deep need to please people—maybe a way of fending off more abandonment—and an undercurrent of fear that surfaced repeatedly in my relationships.
Yet here I was, half a century later, asking: Is it possible to forge a new relationship with my dad now? Many indigenous cultures remain close to their ancestors, honoring them and sometimes asking for their guidance. And in breathwork circles, people have visions of angels, guides, or loved ones who have passed on. A part of me wondered: Could I experience something similar?
I embraced a new ritual: at the start of each daily session, I would consecrate the practice and call on my dad’s presence to support and guide me. At first, it felt odd—maybe a little “woo-woo”—but I continued. I kept a journal, noting any reflections that arose.
On the very first day, I invoked him and visualized my heart space as I breathed. But to my surprise, just moments into my conscious, connected breathing, I realized I had drifted away from thoughts of my father entirely! How could I nurture a relationship with someone I instantly forgot? Lesson #1 crystalized in my mind: That which you focus on grows; what you don’t focus on fades away.
I began pondering Thich Nhat Hanh’s teaching about signlessness. In his view, what we call “death” is simply transformation. He reminds us that a cloud might disappear from the sky, but it isn’t gone—it has changed form, becoming water or mist. We miss that continuity because we get fixated on the signs, or outward appearances, forgetting that the deeper reality remains. Lesson #2: Learn to see through the lens of signlessness.
Still, in my next sessions, I felt mostly my father’s absence. One day, I tried a longer practice, adding breath holds that often produce kaleidoscopic images. During a breath hold, I silently called out, “Dad?” Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, he appeared like a Buddha, then transformed into something else, then something else again. Was this truly him? I wasn’t sure. But as Thich Nhat Hanh says, he’s never truly gone—just appearing and reappearing in different manifestations.
I confessed my struggles to my yoga nidra teacher: I can’t feel his presence. I don’t even know what having a relationship with him might look like. She responded with a gentle analogy: “Your daughter doesn’t live on the same continent as you. On days you don’t talk to her, don’t you still feel you’re in relationship?”
I realized that I remain connected to my daughter regardless of physical distance. And though my mother is alive, she suffers from Alzheimer’s, so our communication has changed shape too. Yet a real relationship persists. Why not the same with my dad?
As the days went on, I deliberately tried to sense my father’s presence in my own character: the habits and personality traits I may have inherited. I even phoned my older sister for more stories about who he was. She described him as intelligent, logical, driven, restless, competitive, selfish, impulsive, and rebellious. Hearing that list felt a little unsettling. The wise, serene Buddha I imagined was nowhere to be found! But I remembered my mission: to connect and heal.
Sitting with these descriptors, I found that if I shifted my perspective, I could see these “negative” traits in a new way. Impulsiveness can also be spontaneity—one of my superpowers. Rebelliousness can be courage: the force that led me to become an exchange student in Brazil, or say “yes” to moving to Africa and marrying a South African. My restless drive to explore has fueled my inner and outer quests. Suddenly, my life’s story seemed colored with the perfume of my father’s essence.
By the time the two weeks were up, I felt a quiet wave of gratitude and compassion—for both of us. If he is part of me, then I can continue maturing and transforming those thorny qualities, healing not only my own wounds, but in some mysterious sense, his as well.
It struck me that as a child, he used to carry me on his back. Now, in spirit, I can say: “I’ve got you, Dad. My turn to give you a ride.”
Final Thoughts
Using conscious connected breaths, I found a way to reconnect with my father beyond physical limits. Through openness, curiosity, and mindful attention, I discovered aspects of him in my personality and realized that relationships can exist even when “signs” are no longer visible. It’s a powerful reminder to all of us: love and connection do not end with death, and it’s never too late to say hello again—even if only through a deep, mindful breath.
