The Breathwork Trap

You sit down for that 4-7-8 breath, genuinely trying to calm yourself down.

Inhale for four.
“Good.”
Hold for seven.
“Fine, I can do this”
Exhale for… seven seconds.

Shit. It’s meant to be eight.

So you start again. Your jaw tightens. Your chest feels pinned. You’re counting louder than you’re breathing, and instead of calm, your mind starts spinning.

Why isn’t this working?
Why does everyone else seem to relax from this?
What is wrong with me?

If this sounds familiar, you’re not bad at breathing.

For a lot of high-functioning, overthinking, emotionally intelligent people, breathwork quietly turns into another performance review.

You’re already good at monitoring yourself. Adjusting. Managing reactions. Keeping things contained. So when a breathing technique comes with counts, rules, and a “right way” to do it, your body doesn’t soften. It tightens.

The moment you start checking whether you’re doing it properly, the pressure creeps in. Your system reads that self-monitoring as demand. And demand, for a nervous system that’s been on high alert for a long time, feels a lot like threat.

So now the thing meant to calm you becomes another thing to get right.

And when it doesn’t work, you don’t just feel anxious. You feel anxious about being anxious.

That internal timer ticking louder than your breath isn’t a failure. It’s your nervous system pushing back against control.

For people who’ve spent years managing themselves to fit in, perform, or stay safe, being told to regulate on command can feel strangely familiar. Scan. Assess. Fix. Repeat.

Breathwork can be genuinely helpful in moments of acute panic for some people. But for chronic overthinkers, burnt-out high achievers, and people shaped by long-term stress, it can echo the same vigilance that already keeps the system tense.

Try harder. Do it better. Don’t mess this up.

No wonder it backfires.

What most people in this space are actually craving isn’t another tool to master. It’s an experience that doesn’t feel scrutinised.

When you’ve spent a long time proving yourself, forcing rhythm can quietly reinforce the same old loop. If I just try harder, it’ll work. And when it doesn’t, the exhaustion deepens.

This is where a different approach starts to matter.

Instead of following a script, you start listening for signals.

The moment your shoulders drop on their own.
The softening in your throat you didn’t plan.
Do a body scan and jo to random parts of you body, connect with them, no order

Sometimes it’s as simple as one easy breath out. No counting. No fixing. Or letting your breath do whatever it wants while you notice your feet on the floor. Or realising you don’t actually need to change anything right now.

These small, pressure-free moments build trust far more effectively than perfect technique.

They show your body that calm isn’t something you manufacture. It’s something you allow.

Everyone’s nervous system has its own language, shaped by history, identity, and experience. When you stop trying to control it and start getting curious instead, regulation tends to arrive quietly, almost as a side effect.

This is often how I work with clients, not by making tools work harder, but by finding entry points that don’t feel like another test to pass.

When pressure drops, safety follows. And calm shows up without needing to be chased.

If breathwork has ever made you feel worse instead of better, it doesn’t mean you’re resistant or broken.

It usually means your system is asking for a different way in.

That’s your inside perspective.