Beyond the Noise
How Breath, Love, and Yoga Taught Me Healing Wasn’t About Being Fixed
After a six-car crash in freezing rain, I was trapped in my car facing oncoming traffic, waiting to be saved. I remember trying hard not to die, knowing my parents had already buried their eldest child — my brother. I couldn’t let them bury another.
In the months that followed, even leaving the house felt like scaling a mountain I had no strength to climb. At first, my world revolved around doctor visits and physical therapy. I went through surgery, clinging to the hope it would restore what I had lost. But eventually the doctor looked at me and said, “You are permanently disabled.” The words did not just land, they lodged inside me, heavy and unshakable.
I felt shattered, like a delicate vase broken into pieces that could never be put back together. How could I live without the use of my primary arm? Anger rose in me like a fire, sadness seeped in like a slow, gray fog. All I wanted was someone, anyone, to fix me. Who will want me now? The question echoed in my head, over and over, until it became my own refrain.
For years after that, I rarely left the house except for medical appointments, physical therapy, or groceries. Everything else stayed out of reach. My world had grown small, and so had I.
Something needed to change.
I took the first steps.
And in doing so, my story began to change.
I thought back to the accident itself, sitting frozen in the car, near death pressing close as if waiting to claim me. Something kept it away. I like to believe it was Grandpa or my brother, standing guard in a way I could not see. If they fought to protect me then, I could fight to heal myself now.
The truth is, on the outside I was The Golden Girl. On the inside, I felt blemished, imperfect. Every time I reached toward perfection, life seemed to remind me, sometimes gently and sometimes harshly, just how imperfect I really was. Epilepsy, then lupus, then the accident: each one chipped away at the shine I tried to hold.
The real work of life was not about polishing away the flaws, but about learning to embrace them.
One day, I did something outside of my comfort zone. I decided I had carried enough labels. The disability label weighed on me the most. For so long, it felt as though the Universe was conspiring against me: epilepsy, then lupus, and now this. I HEAR YOU! I had been waiting for someone to fix me. But maybe fixing was not the answer. Fixing meant I was broken. I was not. I was hurt, yes, physically and emotionally, but healing could be my path.
I opened my iPad and searched for a yoga app. I didn’t really know how apps worked, but I was determined to try. I searched, and I found one. I was learning, stepping into uncharted territory. Each night, I kept up my physical therapy exercises even after the doctors had signed me off with that “disability” label, but now I did them for me.
Then I added yoga.
I began to explore movements, doing what I could, when I could. Each small effort became a step toward something bigger — preparing me for the possibility of a yoga class in the future. I especially loved the variations of cat/cow: standing, seated, kneeling. Each version brought relief to my shoulders and restored a sense of movement I thought I had lost. For the first time in years, I heard myself say, I like this. I can do this. I will do this. And I did.
For years, the boulder pressed me down, heavy and immovable. It felt like grief itself, weighing on my chest, a constant reminder of everything I had lost.
But now, it is different. The boulder is still with me, but it no longer presses me down with grief or sadness. Instead, it rests like a paperweight that is easily lifted or set aside. A simple yet powerful reminder of where I have been, who I am, and how I choose to show up.
I was still very much in the house, because that is what agoraphobia does. It convinces you that everything inside is safe and everything outside is dangerous. One day, I swallowed my fear and contacted a yoga instructor, asking for private lessons. An hour was too much, so we agreed on half-hour sessions.
And in those one-to-one yoga classes, I was given something I hadn’t expected: support. I was held in my fear, never judged for it. I was allowed to be imperfect and to loosen the grip of old identities, not only the limitations of who I was not, but also the heavy expectations of who I was supposed to be: The Golden Girl, solid, valued, important. In that space, I began to discover something far more real: me.
At the end of my first lesson, I sat perfectly still on the mat.
“Let’s Om together,” she said.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It is the sound of the Universe. Just follow me.”
She began to Om as if it were her natural breath. My Om cracked and wavered, awkward and out of tune with the Universe itself. I wondered if we were from two different universes.
She smiled gently. “It’s okay. Would you like to hear a sound and just lie still?”
“Yes, I was happy to escape the agony of this ordeal. If the Universe sounded like my Om, I feared for everyone beyond.”
“What sound would you like?” She scrolled through her iPhone.
“Do you have the sound of trains on railroad tracks?”
Her eyebrows lifted, curious, but she found them. The next five minutes were peaceful. My body felt no pain.
Before leaving, she asked, “What does the sound of trains mean to you?”
I smiled. “It reminds me of my Grandma and Grandpa in Brooklyn. We always passed the El-train and could hear it from their apartment. To me, it was the sound of love itself and a sound that could travel miles and miles, carrying me back to them no matter how far away I was.”
And in that moment, I realized: love itself could move the boulder. My family’s love that once shielded me, my grandparents’ love carried in the sound of trains, my own growing love for myself. Each pose, each breath, each remembered sound lightened the weight. Slowly, I was no longer crushed beneath the boulder. I was learning how to push it upward, guided not just by survival, but by love.
I smelled Grandma’s chicken soup simmering on the stove. I saw myself perched on the fire escape, watching the city pulse and breathe in color. And inside, I crawled onto Grandpa’s lap, the hum of the black-and-white television filling the room as we watched The Honeymooners. I smiled at Jackie Gleason’s famous line: “One of these days… straight to the moon!”Grandpa laughed, and I thought, I hope you made it there, Grandpa.
For so long, I had been holding my breath without realizing it, through the limits placed on me because of epilepsy, through lupus with its supposed stop-clock on my life (boy, did I fool them!), and through the accident that left me feeling broken. Life often felt like an hourglass, the sand running out grain by grain, threatening to empty at any moment. But somehow, I kept finding a way to turn it over.
“Breath did not fix me, because I was never broken. It freed me to heal.”
Yoga taught me how to press reset on life, not through perfect postures but through breath. Each inhale was another chance to flip the hourglass, to claim one more moment. Each exhale carried away fear, anger, and the long weight of survival I had borne too long. Breath gave me permission to live beyond the limits, to outlast the hourglass I thought was always emptying, and to feel, at last, free.
This was only the beginning of my yoga journey — the first step in healing not just the accident, but the many traumas I had carried through life. Breath became my teacher. When I learned to allow it to flow, to stop holding so tightly, to let go of what no longer served me, the changes began. Subtle at first, like cracks of light seeping through a wall, then steady, then undeniable. Breath did not erase the traumas, but it gave them space to soften. It did not fix me, because I was never broken. It freed me to heal.
For years, the boulder pressed me down, heavy and immovable. It felt like grief itself, weighing on my chest, a constant reminder of everything I had lost.
But now, it is different. The boulder is still with me, but it no longer presses me down with grief or sadness. Instead, it rests like a paperweight — easily lifted, easily set aside. A simple yet powerful reminder of where I have been, who I am, and how I choose to show up.
Yoga did not fix me. It did not erase my scars. But like a tree etched with carvings, my marks became part of my beauty — living testaments to where I have been, and to the resilience that still allows me to grow. “What I once believed was a shattered vase beyond repair revealed itself instead as something new…” so vase imagery now flows after tree, instead of sounding like a competing metaphor. The tree that had fallen was given new meaning and a second life, etched by carvers who transformed its scars into symbols of life. I am not a solo act. I, too, have many such carvers in my life, and for them I am deeply grateful.
Much like Kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold, I have come to see my cracks as places where light enters, where healing shines through. (Read more in my Kintsugi reflection here.)
“Like a tree etched with carvings, my marks became part of my beauty — reminders of where I have been, and how I continue to grow.”
This reflection pairs with “500 Miles” — a classic train song that reminds me how sound can carry love across distance, memory, and time.
💌 From My Heart
If this reflection spoke to you, I’d love to hear: what has felt like a boulder in your life, and how have you learned to see it differently? Or perhaps, what carvings — scars, symbols, or stories — have shaped you into who you are today? Please click the heart, leave a comment, or share this piece. It helps me know that these reflections on breath, healing, and acceptance are not only meaningful for me, but may also speak to you. Together, our marks, like carvings on a tree or stars in a constellation, tell a story of resilience and connection.
With gratitude,
Chellie 🩷
Chellie Grossman is a Certified Life Coach, Keynote Speaker, and Writer who empowers leaders to reclaim their voice, embrace their strength, and lead with authenticity and purpose.