We Are Equal in Breath

In my breath education workshops, I always take a moment at the beginning to talk about the essential nature of breathing: the fact that we are all doing it all the time, regardless of age, nationality, or status. It is the first and last thing we do, and it is intricately linked to our sense of safety and survival.

And yet it was only recently — via a fairly circuitous route through counselling sessions, a holiday, my art practice, and some past experiences — that I realised how the breath course relates to me personally, and how deeply it connects to my concerns about inequality, agency, and change.

The path to this realisation began late last year, when I decided to book some time with a counsellor. I’d experienced several life-changing events in the previous 12–18 months and had been feeling overstretched, weary, and — somewhat inexplicably — anxious for quite some time. I couldn’t get a clear sense of my priorities or fully commit to anything, and I thought it might help to talk things through with a professional.

We had an introductory meeting at the beginning of November, but soon after that I travelled with my husband, Billy, to Fuerteventura for a month, so we scheduled our first proper session for early January.

When I’ve had counselling in the past, I’ve usually started from a very low point emotionally and mentally. This time was different, as I’d just returned from a long break. I began the session by talking about the holiday, how great it was staying in an all-inclusive hotel, freed from all domestic responsibilities and basically what a truly amazing, heart-opening experience it had been.

I talked about my love of the sea, how it inspires much of my art practice, and how, for an entire month the horizon had been my constant backdrop. I described how peaceful it felt to have full and uninterrupted access to the colours, light, smells, and sounds of the ocean and how much I enjoyed  experiencing the marking of time not by clocks or diaries, but by light and colour; by the passage of the sun, the phases of the moon, the continuity of the horizon, and the changing tides.

Playa de Jandia, Fuerteventura, November/December 2025, photographs by Laura van Tatenhove

From there, I went on to talk about how long it had taken Billy to convince me to take the break. While he was happily telling friends and preparing for it, I had been preoccupied with guilt about taking time off work, embarrassed about being away for so long, and ashamed of spending that amount of money — especially when we had already had our fair share of holidays that year.

I told my counsellor that it was only when I framed the trip as a “working” holiday — an art sabbatical, an opportunity to finish work, test a coastal site-specific painting, and develop new ideas — that I could justify going. Only then was I able to tell people about it and give myself permission to look forward to it.

When my counsellor gently questioned me about these feelings of guilt and shame, I talked about all the people I know — or hear about in the news — who would never be able to afford such a trip, and how unfair that feels. I spoke about my wider struggle with inequality, and how I seem to ride a vicious cycle of feeling grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given and deeply uncomfortable about them at the same time.

I described how difficult it is to hold both gratitude for what I have and envy for those with far greater wealth and long-term economic security. This is something I’ve struggled with for as long as I can remember, and I’m slowly realising how much it affects my ability to set goals, clarify my priorities, and commit — long term — to the things I need and want to do.

This conversation helped me realise that one of the most relaxing aspects of the sabbatical was staying in an all-inclusive hotel. I loved not having to deal with money for four weeks, and I found comfort in the way everyone was — in a very abstract, bubble-like sense — being provided for in the same way: the same food, drinks, rooms, and facilities.There was an unspoken camaraderie and sense of equality that I don’t often experience at home, and however artificial it was, I found it incredibly soothing.

As we explored this further, I recalled other situations in which I’d experienced this same feeling of “all being in the same boat.” There was the four months I spent on a vineyard in France, working alongside eight others in exchange for food, accommodation, and the experience of making (and drinking) wine. We didn’t spend anything, nor did we want for anything, and I found that simplicity deeply liberating. I’ve also felt something similar on yoga retreats, especially those held in monasteries, where everyone contributes to the daily running of the place — cooking, gardening, cleaning. And at home in Lancaster, my meditation group offers a comparable sense of equanimity: a circle of people held together by silence and a shared understanding that we are all equal and all connected.

As I was describing these experiences, my counsellor said, “And then, of course, there is the breath-work you teach.”

Her observation took me by surprise. I hadn’t thought about my workshops in that way before, but she helped me see that my interest in the breath may be rooted in this deeper longing for equality. As I mentioned at the beginning, breathing is something we all do. Regardless of economic circumstances (it is free), qualifications (everyone can and does breathe), geography (it happens everywhere) age, race, or gender, (breath makes no distinction) we all have access to it and a degree of agency over it. And unlike holidays, seasonal work, retreats, or classes — all of which eventually end and require a return to everyday life — our breath is always with us. It is continuously available, endlessly adaptable, and capable of supporting real positive changes to our health, attention, mood, relationships and much more.

Perhaps this is why working with the breath feels so meaningful to me: it offers a rare and radical space where equality is not an ideal, but an actuality that just needs realising.

Antony Gormley,  Field for The British Isles, around 40 000 individual  terracotta figures, each between 8- 26cm high. First exhibited at the Tate Liverpool  in 1993.

Gormley has said that one of the resonances of this work is that it is a reminder that there is only one humanity.

This understanding now quietly underpins my Better Breathing for Better Health workshops. In a world that so often measures our worth based on productivity, wealth, recognition and success, the breath offers a simple reminder of our shared humanity. Through this work, my hope is that people gain a clearer understanding of how breathing affects their health, learn practical tools they can use in everyday life, feel more confident in making positive changes, and support others to do the same, while also feeling a little more at home in themselves and in the world.

If you want more information on the Better Breathing for Better Health workshop or want to book a place click on the following link.

https://bowencollege.org.uk/further-learning/better-breathing-for-better-health/