What powerlessness is trying to teach us
There are moments in life when nothing you do seems to make a difference. You can think about it, talk about it, try to fix it from every angle—and still, it stays exactly the same. It’s that feeling when there’s nothing left to do, and you still have to stay. That quiet, heavy realization that you can’t move this forward no matter how hard you try. I’ve come to understand that feeling as powerlessness.
I often use the word powerlessness in my sessions with clients. It’s a word I’ve come to respect—not because it feels good, but because it names something real. At first, most people don’t understand why I would ever suggest they breathe into it. It sounds passive, even defeating. I understand that reaction because I’ve had it myself. But over time, through breathwork and meditation, I’ve learned something different. When I stay with the feeling—when I resist the urge to fix or solve or escape—and instead breathe into it, something shifts. Nothing in my external world changes. The situation remains exactly as it is, and yet internally something reorganizes. There is a steadiness, sometimes even a quiet kind of strength. Not power over the situation, but power within it. And sometimes, that’s all we get.
If you know me well, you know I don’t tolerate discomfort easily. This has been both a blessing and a curse. The blessing is that it pushed me toward growth early in life. It made me someone who reflects, who seeks help, who takes action. But the shadow side is this: when something feels uncomfortable—physically or emotionally—I react. I want to solve it, or at the very least understand it. If something feels off, I research it. If there’s tension, I try to talk it through or find the right tool to fix it. These instincts have served me well, but not everything needs a response, and not everything can be solved.
I see this in my clients too. The overthinking, the analyzing, the looping thoughts that won’t let go—it often sits on top of something deeper. That same feeling of having nowhere to go with all that effort. Obsessing can feel like control, but it isn’t. It’s just movement that keeps us from feeling what’s actually there. And underneath it is that same experience again—powerlessness.
Lately, I’ve been sitting with a question I don’t have a clear answer to: when do I step in, and when do I step back? I’m still waiting for the blueprint. But I do know this—someone like me, who is good at reacting and problem-solving, is often served by doing the opposite. Pausing. Waiting. Staying with what I can’t change, even when every part of me wants to try one more thing.
My resistance to pausing is mainly because it feels the same as waiting. And waiting has always felt like inaction to me, and inaction can feel almost dangerous—like something might fall apart if I’m not actively holding it together. Logically, I know that’s not true. I understand the value of pausing, of being instead of doing. But my body doesn’t always get the message right away.
So the other day I tried something simple. I sat with the discomfort and breathed into the powerlessness. The first breath, my mind pushed back—“what are you doing, you should be fixing this.” The next breath, “this feels wrong.” Then, “this feels terrible.” And then, somewhere in the next few breaths, something softened. I noticed a bird in the tree outside. I felt the sadness again. I kept breathing. The bird flew away, another one appeared. I felt relief. And then more sadness. Then more relief. I then felt ready to move on and start my day.
There’s a part of me that still believes there must be something to do, some right move I haven’t figured out yet, some way to make things easier or different. But more and more, I’m being brought back to the same place: sometimes there isn’t.
So, maybe the work isn’t to fix it. Maybe the work is to stay, even when it’s uncomfortable, uncertain, and unfinished. Staying with what’s hard, without trying to control it.
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