Breathing in the proper state gets you into a state where you

Host: The gym was nearly empty, the air thick with the scent of iron, rubber, and sweat. Dim light from the ceiling bulbs flickered across the mirrors, reflecting the ghosts of a thousand movements — lifts, pulls, gasps — the ritual of discipline carved into the silence.

Outside, the night pressed against the windows, and the steady hum of the city was distant — like the sound of a heartbeat under water.

Jack sat on a bench, a towel slung around his neck, his chest rising and falling, his breath still shallow from the last set. Jeeny stood near the free weights, her hands on her hips, her face glistening with sweat, her eyes calm — too calm for the chaos of the room.

Between them, a speaker played a low, steady melody, almost like breathing itself.

Jeeny: (softly) “Bryson DeChambeau once said, ‘Breathing in the proper state gets you into a state where you digest food better and calms your brainwaves down.’”

(She paused, watching him exhale roughly, his chest still heaving.) “You ever think about that, Jack — how breath controls everything?”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “I think about finishing this workout without passing out. That’s about it.”

Host: The fluorescent light buzzed above them, casting a faint halo over the weights. Jack grabbed a water bottle, unscrewed it, and drank in long, hard swallows, as if trying to drown something deeper than thirst.

Jeeny: “You laugh, but he’s right. The body listens to the breath. Breathe wrong, and you send panic through every cell. Breathe right, and everything aligns — your digestion, your mind, your focus.”

Jack: (wiping his mouth) “You sound like one of those meditation apps.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe. But that doesn’t make it less true.”

Jack: “I don’t buy into this mystical breathing nonsense. You inhale, you exhale — it’s biology, not poetry.”

Jeeny: (walking closer, voice calm but sharp) “Biology is poetry, Jack. You just refuse to hear the rhythm.”

Host: Her voice was low, steady, like the metronome of a heart in control. Jack laughed, but the sound was tired, uneven.

Jack: “You think breathing fixes everything? You think if you inhale long enough, life suddenly balances out?”

Jeeny: “Not balances — centers. There’s a difference. You spend so much of your life running, calculating, reacting — but you never stop to breathe. Not really.”

Jack: “I breathe just fine.”

Jeeny: “No, you survive. There’s a difference there too.”

Host: The words hung in the air — light, but piercing. The sound of a barbell clanging in the distance echoed like a rebuttal neither could make.

Jeeny: (after a pause) “You know, I once read that when soldiers panic in combat, they’re trained to breathe in counts — four in, four out. It doesn’t stop the fear. It tames it. That’s the point.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “So now I’m a soldier in a gym?”

Jeeny: (smirking) “No. You’re a man fighting his own nervous system.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging, breath still uneven. The light caught the sweat on his skin, glistening like rain on stone.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? When I’m angry, I stop breathing. I mean, I still breathe — but it’s… mechanical. It feels like I’m fighting air itself.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly. That’s the body trying to control what the soul can’t handle. Breath is the bridge between the two. You control one, you calm the other.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You sound like a monk.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone afraid to slow down.”

Host: The music shifted, a low bassline, almost like a pulse — slow, rhythmic, steady. The room seemed to breathe with them, each sound a synchronized inhale and exhale.

Jack: (standing, pacing) “You know what I think? Breathing’s a distraction. People use it to escape thinking. The world’s falling apart, but sure, let’s breathe deeply and pretend it’s all zen.”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “It’s not escaping, Jack. It’s returning. The world outside might be chaos, but the breath is proof that you’re still here. Every inhale is a vote for staying.”

Jack: “That’s dramatic.”

Jeeny: “So is suffocating.”

Host: He stopped, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. The fan above whirred, pushing warm air around them, the sound of motion without progress.

Jeeny: “You live like you’re holding your breath — waiting for something to happen. But life’s not in the waiting. It’s in the rhythm you make between breaths.”

Jack: (quietly) “You talk like breathing’s faith.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe it is. You trust that the next breath will come, even when you don’t control it.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, slow, gentle — a kind of peace that had been absent from this space for too long. Jack closed his eyes, inhaled — slowly, deliberately — held it — then exhaled, steady, measured.

Jack: (after a few breaths) “You ever think about how everything in life mirrors this? Expansion, contraction. Inhale, exhale. Win, lose. Live, die. It’s all the same pattern.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “That’s the rhythm of the universe, Jack. Even the stars pulse in and out — breathing light. Everything alive moves to that beat.”

Jack: (looking at her) “So you think DeChambeau’s right? Breathing calms the brain, helps digestion, all that?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Completely. You breathe right, you digest life better.”

Jack: (laughs) “That’s poetic — and ridiculous.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s true. The same way you digest food, you digest experience. Breath is what lets you process both — slowly, completely.”

Host: The light dimmed, the music faded, and for the first time that night, the gym felt still — as though every machine, every mirror, every echo had paused to listen to the soft, measured sound of two humans simply breathing.

Jack: (sitting back down, quieter now) “You know, I’ve been so used to holding everything — tension, regret, control — that I forgot how to let go. Maybe that’s why I can’t sleep anymore.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then start by breathing like you mean it.”

Jack: “You make it sound too easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s essential.”

Host: She moved beside him, sat on the bench, their shoulders barely touching. The sound of their breathing began to sync, slow, steady, like the ebb and flow of tides on some distant shore.

Jeeny: “You can’t think your way out of chaos, Jack. But you can breathe through it.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “And then?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then you’ll think clearer. Digest better. Live quieter. Maybe even forgive yourself a little.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full. Full of air, warmth, and a strange, quiet understanding.

Jack: (whispering, almost to himself) “Breathe in what you can’t change. Breathe out what you don’t need.”

Jeeny: (closing her eyes) “That’s it. The science and the soul finally agree.”

Host: The night outside had deepened, but inside the gym, a kind of peace had arrived. The mirrors reflected not just bodies, but beings — both tired, both alive, both learning the most ancient lesson of all:

That to breathe is not just to live — it is to become.

And in the quiet hum of that shared rhythm, two hearts — once at war with themselves — finally found their alignment.