My First Breathwork Experience and What Followed

It was a Friday night in Glastonbury, and I wasn’t looking for anything transformative. I just needed something to take the edge off the week. I’d had a rough few days emotionally—the kind of week where you find yourself leaning on old habits like a meditation app you haven’t used in months, or pouring one too many glasses of wine in the evening: nothing dramatic, just a low hum of not-quite-right.

I stumbled across a breathwork workshop happening nearby, and having heard influencers mention things like holotropic breathing, I was curious. I booked it without much thought, not expecting anything profound. Just a way to pass a couple of hours.

The session was held in a yoga studio space. Soft lighting, mats on the floor, and a small circle of five people. The instructor, Ewa, guided us in with a gentle voice, and the music, changing tempos and moods throughout, pulled us deeper into the rhythm. About an hour in, I was breathing steadily, rhythmically, when Ewa came over and encouraged me to move my body. I had been quite still, almost frozen in my breath. She touched my back lightly between my shoulder blades, and suddenly everything changed.

My breath caught high in my chest. I felt a flash of panic. I couldn’t breathe as deeply as before. Then, out of nowhere, tears burst from my eyes. Not slow, graceful weeping—floods of uncontrollable tears. I had no thoughts behind them, no specific emotion or memory. Just a physical, overwhelming release. For more than five minutes, I was in it. I could hear others in the room also crying or making sounds, and there was something comforting in that shared unravelling.

Eventually, with Ewa’s encouragement and the grounding rhythm of the breath, I found my way back. We shifted into slower breathing, easing down together. When it was time to sit up and reconnect with the room, I was stunned by a wave of pure joy. Not a happy thought—just joy, unbidden and undeniable.

The days that followed were when the fundamental shift happened. I became curious about what had just occurred. I learned that Ewa was trained in biodynamic breathwork, and I started watching videos and reading up on it. I found guided sessions online and began practising at home.

Then, something unexpected: I stopped reaching for wine. After work, instead of opening a bottle, I’d do a breath session. One night, I poured a glass, sipped it, and... didn’t want it. It took a couple of days before I noticed—I’d gone two nights without a drink, something I hadn’t done in nearly a decade. Today, it’s been ten days. I don’t feel the urge. I haven’t made a declaration or claimed a new identity. I’m not calling myself sober. But I do feel different.

I know many people struggle with alcohol in ways that feel more acute, more consuming. My experience doesn’t come with battles or dramatic withdrawals. It just... shifted. Quietly. Breath by breath.

This isn’t a guide or a prescription. It’s just a moment I want to mark. A turning point I didn’t expect, but sincerely appreciate.