1) The document describes three instances where the author uses deep breathing techniques to manage anxiety and fear. The first time is in high school giving a speech, the second is during a therapy session for anxiety, and the third is while exploring martial arts books at the library. 2) In each situation, the author finds themselves anxious or stressed and uses abdominal breathing to calm their nerves. They inhale for 6 seconds, hold for 7 seconds, and exhale for 8 seconds in a repeated pattern. 3) This breathing technique proved effective each time in helping the author feel relaxed and anchored. It became a coping strategy recommended in their anxiety workbook and continues to provide comfort during times of stress or discomfort.

1. Hickey 1
Danielle B. Hickey
Professor Daryl Morazzini
Intermediate Nonfiction Writing Workshop (ENG-341)
7 June 2015
Inhale, Hold, Exhale, Again
The first time, I am sixteen years old. The lights are off and we’re on the first floor,
below ground, so the only light is that which creeps across the ceiling tiles from the high
windows that face the rising sun. It’s eight o’clock, first period, but we more resemble monks in
deep meditation than sleepy high school students preparing to give speeches.
Mere minutes ago, we were not nearly so calm. When we entered the classroom, hearts
were beating fast as crashing waves. My own hands shook so violently that my teeth chattered in
time. Just as I began to fear I could not open my mouth to breathe, let alone speak, our teacher
stood before us.
“Sit up,” she had instructed gently. “Feet flat on the floor. Spine straight, shoulders
relaxed.” A rustle of sound and movement crosses the room like a wave as we adjust ourselves
in our chairs, peeling sweaty thighs from plastic seats, scuffing sneakers over coarse carpeting,
clearing throats still fuzzy from sleep. A couple of people crack their backs, thunder amid a
weeping rain.
“Place a palm on your abdomen,” our teacher continues, demonstrating. “Don’t press
down on your belly. Feel your breath raise your hand.” She is silent while we gulp oxygen like
men desperate to avoid drowning. To either side of me a student holds his stomach, caught in
the mantra: up, and back down; up, and back down.
“Breathe from your diaphragm, not from your chest,” our teacher reminds, and then in a

2. Hickey 2
whisper, “Close your eyes. Clear your mind.” And then she counts.
As a unit, my classmates and I breathe together. Inhale through the nose for six seconds.
Hold for seven seconds. Exhale through the mouth for eight seconds. Start from the beginning.
Inhale, hold, exhale, again. If we had written down these words, we’d have called them
our class creed—our very own version of the Ten Commandments, of a shampoo bottle’s lather,
rinse, repeat.
When our teacher finally whispers, “Open your eyes,” our heartbeats have slowed to
gentle lapping. My jaw has gone slack with calm. I dare not break the silence with even the
click of my teeth as I lift it.
When I am called upon to present my speech, I take a deep breath and stand.
The second time, I am eighteen years old. The couch is plush leather. To lay down on it
would feel like hovering in midair, a dead man’s float, but I do not lay down. I am perched on
the very edge, knees pinched together, hands folded tightly in my lap, altogether compact as a
sinking stone.
My brand new therapist doesn’t bother to comment on my rigid posture, the moisture on
my eyelashes, the way my eyes dart like a pinball to every corner of the room but hers. Instead
she swivels, relaxed, toward her desktop. I only allow my shoulders to slump when she redirects
her gaze at a tablet and not at me.
“The Anxiety & Phobia Workbook,” she says, her voice breaking through my relief.
“Have you heard of it? There’s some four or five editions now.”
Just in case she looks up from her writing, I take a keen interest in the movement of my
bones underneath my skin as I wring my wrists to redness. “No, I haven’t,” I reply, shaking my
head too quickly.

3. Hickey 3
“I’d like for you to get it,” my therapist continues, not missing a beat. “Whichever
addition is most recent. The fifth, I think. Can your mom afford—?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” I offer immediately. Between my medical expenses and senior year
extras, the twenty dollars for the workbook is considerable. My pride is more so.
“All right,” she says. She hands me the note with the title, the author. Tells me what the
cover looks like, what the book entails. I listen half-heartedly, only showing enthusiasm with her
announcement that my time is up.
When the workbook arrives in the mail five days later, I open up to the chapter on coping
strategies. The first is labeled abdominal breathing. I grin, like a shark, so wide and so slowly
that I feel my mouth move over every tooth. I square my shoulders and close my eyes, losing
myself in the familiar comfort of inhale, hold, exhale, again.
Although I still don’t work up the courage to lay down at my next therapist appointment,
I notice I do not sit quite as stiffly. I am tense everywhere but my belly, which moves up and
down again like a buoy on the sea, anchoring me.
The third time, I am twenty years old. I am standing in the nonfiction section of the local
library, bumping my finger down a line of book spines with titles like Boxer’s Start-Up: A
Beginner’s Guide to Boxing and Boxing: The Complete Guide to Training and Fitness.
Eventually I find what I am looking for. My finger slides up along the words The Karate
Handbook and pulls when it reaches the top.
The cover depicts a martial artist mid-kick, his foot level with his jaw, and I grimace. As
I leaf through the handbook I see more of the same: women performing splits, men holding
perfect crouches, children balancing effortlessly on one foot.
I came to the library bored and disappointed with myself. As I prepare to add

4. Hickey 4
discouraged to the list, I flip to a section dedicated to mental fitness. Halfway down the page
there is a photograph of a woman sitting cross-legged, straight-backed, eyes closed. I feel like
I’m moving in slow motion, underwater almost, as I mirror her position.
There on the floor, in between the stacks of library books and shelving, I breathe.
Inhale, hold, exhale, again.