Imagine the breath as a gentle tide.
You draw it in slowly, a quiet four-count like the ocean reaching the shore, filling the chest and ribs with calm intention. Then you pause. Not to hold, not to brace, but to rest in the stillness, as if the water has reached its farthest point and is deciding where to go next.
In that pause, the body listens.
When the exhale begins, it moves long and unhurried, an eight-count release that carries tension back out to sea. The shoulders soften, the jaw loosens, and the nervous system hears the message it has been waiting for. You are safe enough to let go.
With each round, the tide grows steadier. The breath becomes a conversation between awareness and instinct, guiding the body out of vigilance and back into its natural rhythm of rest. This is why I call it a parasympathetic breath. It is not about controlling the body, but about reminding it how to come home.