Deep Breath & Mothers

My first book, When The Universe Holds Your Hair Back, was a labor of love—and by “labor,” I mean full-blown emotional reckoning. Living it was hard enough. Writing it? Brutal. Reading the audiobook? Like performing surgery on my own soul with a butter knife. And then summoning the last scraps of nerve to release it into the world? That took a whole other level of courage. Honestly, “brave” started to feel like an understatement. I cried through every chapter—especially when I read them out loud.

One Saturday morning, still in my pajamas and curled up in bed, I called my mom. She picked up. I asked if I could read her a chapter—the chapter. The one about us. My voice wobbled like a kid standing on stage, about to sing a solo with buck teeth clenched tight behind lips that barely moved. “Mom… can I read you the chapter about us?” I wasn’t sure how she’d respond. That chapter had been the hardest to write.

I didn’t care what the “fathers” would think about their chapters—the entire lot of them. My only worry was getting sued. I mean, sure, part of me wanted to buy a billboard that said something like: “This motherf’er[insert name] deserves to be publicly called out for generational devastation.” But apparently, there are laws. So I kept it classy.

My mom was different. We were still repairing, still arriving at hope and possibility. It felt like we were slowly righting a tilted world, trying to get it spinning on its axis again.

She answered my call just as I finished the chapter. The timing was too perfect. The universe cracked the door open. I told her, “I just finished the chapter and want you to hear it.” She said, “Hang on, I need to sit down,” and I imagined her settling in at her kitchen counter with a mug of coffee. We both needed to sit down for this one. It was a biggie.

I read the whole thing, voice catching at least twenty times. I paused often—under the guise of pacing—but really, I was trying not to cry. A lifetime of social conditioning had trained me to pack my emotions tight and hide the mess. But psychedelic healing had taught me the opposite: feel it, let it move through, don’t dam the river. Still, old habits die hard.

By the final sentence, tears were streaming down my face. My upper lip became a drainage system for both my nose and eyes. I barely choked out the ending. Then silence. My heart thudded. I braced myself for anger. Or worse—disappointment. But all she said was, “I love it. You should put it out into the world.”

That moment? Full-body sigh. Like my cells breathed. We were both brave that day—standing in the messy beauty of our truth, letting our shared story exhale. That chapter, and really the whole damn book, was just our monumental screw-ups tied together in a 262-page truth burrito.

Recording the audiobook was another beast. I did it in a makeshift “studio”—an infrared sauna with a wood bench that doubled as a medieval torture device. After 15+ hours of recording and re-recording, I finally learned where my tailbone ends. Important information, apparently.

But there was something alchemical about saying the words out loud in my own voice. It felt like the stories were leaving my body—dripping down my bones, sliding through the wood grain beneath me. When I finally posted about the book going live, it was like walking the plank—except the pirate behind me was holding a sword and asking me to talk about trauma, psychedelics, and healing in public.

The next morning, I was walking the neighborhood, dragging a stubborn 65-pound rescue yellow lab who was overly committed to sniffing every blade of grass. And I noticed something strange: I could breathe. Like real breathing. For the first time in… maybe ever. The weight on my chest—the one I didn’t even realize I’d grown used to—was gone.

I could smell the air. I felt space in my ribs. For years, I’d been chasing the mythical deep breath that everyone raved about in yoga classes and ceremonies. “Breathe into your belly,” they’d say, like it was a casual Tuesday thing. For me, it was a mission impossible. But suddenly, the breath arrived. With the book. With the voice. With the truth.

It was freedom. Hard-earned. Holy. And hilarious in its own way. Because sometimes healing happens on a hard surface, with makeshift padding to dull the echoes, and someone standing beside you—strong enough to say, “Let’s step out into the world.” And somehow, the world greets you like a breath of fresh air—for the very first time.

Honestly, freedom came for us both. We shared something that most people don’t always get - to repair the relationship with their parent.

Song: Divine Surrendering by Doe Paoro. Sometimes letting go can be challenging but so can holding on.

© Katie Baker 2025