Loosen the Grip
S T O R YM E D I C I N E ::
Her hands had been clenched in her sleep again. She woke to aching fingers and the strange sensation of her body still bracing for a threat that wasn’t there. Her shoulders felt as though they were crawling toward her ears, her jaw tight as stone, and her breath shallow—hovering just below her collarbone, never daring to reach her belly.
The day had barely begun, but her nervous system was already running—on guard, tense, scanning. It was as though the world demanded her readiness for something catastrophic. She reached for her phone, almost instinctively, and scrolled through the endless stream of news, opinions, and warnings. Each headline landed like a blow, her chest tightening further with every swipe. Another tragedy. Another reason to feel unsafe.
It was subtle at first—this unraveling. The way her thoughts became quick and sharp, like static she couldn’t turn off. The way her body stayed contracted, her breath shallow, her palms perpetually closed. The overstimulation of it all was like an invisible hand, pressing down on her, keeping her small, tight, and afraid to let go.
That morning, she stopped mid-scroll, her thumb frozen over the screen. A small voice inside whispered, “Is this the life you want to live? Tight-fisted, breathless, and shrinking?”
Her hands, she noticed, were clenched. She opened them slowly, stretching her fingers wide. Her body resisted the movement at first, as if afraid of what softening might bring. But she persisted, rolling her shoulders back, letting her tailbone drop, taking one long, deliberate inhale. The air felt foreign in her belly, but it stayed.
She picked up her journal, an act she hadn’t done in weeks, and wrote at the top of the page: How can I soften the grip of these times?
The words poured out before she could stop them: “Light a candle. Rest your hand on your heart. Choose one passage, one prayer, one truth, and place it where you can see it every day. Turn off the noise. Stop feeding the ache. Protect your peace like your life depends on it, because it does.”
As she wrote, her breath deepened, her shoulders lowered, her jaw released. She felt the first hint of space return to her body—a lightness she hadn’t realized she was missing.
She closed her journal and whispered aloud, “Today, I will loosen the grip.” It wasn’t much, but it was enough. For now.
