A welcome in one breath
Breathing is something most people assume they’ve mastered simply by existing. Yet it is the first thing we lose when life overwhelms us: the breath shortens, tightens, hides in the upper ribs. It becomes a negotiation rather than an instinct.
Musicians tend to think of breath in technical terms - support, release, resonance, timing. But in recent years, it has revealed itself in a different dimension, not as the engine of a musical phrase but as an indicator of how life is being lived. The cornetto requires precision and control; the rest of life has asked for a gentler form of awareness, a way of breathing that does not immediately brace for impact.
Past experiences taught the body to organise itself around alertness, often without permission. Trauma rarely announces itself; it restructures things from the inside. It alters posture, expectations, and the interpretation of silence. It takes time to learn that calmness is not a warning and that kindness can arrive without conditions.
Moving to Switzerland offered an environment where my nervous system could begin to unwind. Early music provided solace and structure when unpredictability felt constant. People - some of them rare, luminous souls - reminded me that softness is not only allowed, but welcome. Writing supports that same process of understanding. My thoughts arrange themselves more clearly on the page than in speech, where they often scatter or soften. The written word allows a precision and honesty that conversation sometimes fails to grant. I did not begin this blog to offer grand declarations. It is not a performance stage, but a place to collect the moments that usually disappear into the margins: the psychological shifts, the unexpected comforts, the ways music and life pour into one another.
If breath is the beginning of every phrase I play, then these words are another beginning - a way of noticing where I stand now, and how far I have travelled from the person who survived by holding her breath.
Moving on is never linear. It happens in pauses: the moment before answering a message, the instant you recognise you are no longer living in the past, the subtle awareness of a breath travelling deeper than it used to. These recognitions accumulate. They become evidence that life is being re-entered. A travelling musician’s life complicates stability - rehearsal rooms, hotels, train platforms, and concert halls create a kind of perpetual motion. Yet movement has revealed something valuable: stability is not geographical; it can be internal. It is possible to remain oneself even when surroundings change daily.
The music I play demands sincerity. There is nowhere to hide inside those lines; they expose both the breath and the intention within it. Perhaps that is why this repertoire feels like home. It asks for genuine presence. It begs you to mean what you play.
Writing shares that same quality.
If breath begins each musical phrase, then these words mark another beginning: a way of acknowledging where life stands now and how far the quest has already extended. This first entry is not a conclusion but an opening gesture.
For now, it is enough that it begins with one deep, steady breath.
