Learning to "Breathe Walk" - Qigong

Learning to Breathe Again

When I came home from Mexico, a doctor here ran more than twenty blood tests on me, and one result stopped him cold: the speed at which oxygen was transferring between the cells in my body. In a healthy person, he said, that exchange takes about three-quarters of a second. In me, it was taking three to four seconds. That's why, he explained, simply walking across a room could leave me feeling like I had emphysema—my body was practically starving for air it couldn't absorb fast enough.

For a whole year after that, I couldn't run at all. The first time I tried—only a few months out of Mexico—I collapsed onto the ground and came within one phone-tap of calling 911. I could pull air in, but it felt like suffocating anyway, because the oxygen simply wasn't reaching where it needed to go. Picture a fish flopping on a dock. That was me. I made the split-second decision not to call for an ambulance, just to keep breathing, and slowly—slowly—my hammering heart settled enough that I could shuffle home, pausing every so often to steady myself.

I tried to run several more times over that year. Every attempt failed.

And then something unexpected happened in a parking lot in Florida.

The massage that turned into a lesson

I was teaching in Florida, and a last-minute change to my schedule opened up a window to see a practitioner of Chinese medicine who also ran a martial arts and massage school. I walked in expecting a nice massage. I walked out with something that would change my recovery entirely—and a deep sense that God had rearranged my whole week just to get me into that room.

He kept stopping the massage to talk to me, which, I'll be honest, was a little annoying at first. But I know enough about the body to read a lot in the texture and color of someone's skin, so I trusted that this man could too—and within the first few minutes, he named the exact source of stress in my life. He had my attention.

He taught me many things that day. But the gift I'm most grateful for is something he called "breathe-walking"—what I've since learned is a form of Qigong.

The parking-lot marching band of two

After the massage (which, as always, felt like it lasted twenty minutes instead of an hour), I got dressed and met him out in the parking lot. And there, this remarkable man who'd studied medicine in China walked me around and around the lot, coaching my breath, step by step. It was comical and exhilarating all at once.

The rule: breathe in and out through the nose only, matching each count to a single step.

We started gentle:

• In — 1, 2, 3
• Out — 1, 2, 3

Around the lot we went, over and over, and then he'd shorten the exhale:

• In — 1, 2, 3
• Out — 1, 2

And then shorter still:

• In — 1, 2, 3
• Out — 1

(By this point I felt like I might pass out, and was praying with everything in me that no snot would make a break for it down my shirt as I marched and gasped.)

Then he flipped it and stretched the inhale:

• In — 1, 2, 3, 4
• Out — 1

He showed me how to speed the whole thing up or slow it down to match my pace. Then he wrote out my homework: twenty minutes, twice a day, minimum—building up little by little until I could do a full hour, twice a day.

What he told me

As we walked, he told me the story behind the technique: that it came from a woman whose illness was considered hopeless, who prayed for an answer and felt she'd been given this breathing practice in reply. It became part of Chinese medicine from there. He also told me that Chinese soldiers would march all day using breathing patterns like these, and finish stronger than when they'd started.

He explained it with a simple image I loved. He held out his hand and asked what would happen if there were water on it and he blew across his palm. He blew, and of course the water would scatter away. That, he said, is how he thinks of the breath clearing the lungs—the moving air helping to carry out what's stuck. He told me that with enough of this practice, I'd notice my complexion shift from dull in the mornings to a healthier pink, as more oxygen moved through me.

Was I skeptical of any of it? Not enough to argue with a year of not being able to run. I committed on the spot.

This morning, I ran

For the past few weeks, I've done those breathing patterns everywhere—driving, walking, doing chores around the house. Faithfully. And here's why I'm writing this today, practically bouncing:

Yesterday, I ran/walked about a mile without much trouble.

And this morning, I sprinted for a minute, walked two or three, and repeated that for forty-five minutes, easing into a cool-down at the end. Forty-five minutes. A year ago I couldn't make it down the block without collapsing.

My body is healing. I feel stronger than I have in ages. And I cannot stop grinning about it.

If you want to try it

If your breath and your body could use some support, this kind of walking-breath practice is worth looking into (Qigong walking is a lovely place to start). One gentle word of caution from someone who nearly toppled over in a parking lot: go easy. Build up slowly, never push yourself to the point of dizziness, and if you have any health conditions, check with your doctor before you start. This is my own experience, not a prescription—your body will have its own pace, and that's exactly as it should be.

But oh, friend—don't underestimate what your body can do when you give it time, patience, and breath. Mine spent a year telling me never. And this morning, it ran.

With much love,

Steffi