Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Keane
I don’t do it right away—join Julianna in the mornings for yoga.
It takes me almost two weeks to find strength to do something different. It wasn’t practicing that I avoided, but being close to her. That night in Rayne’s room I opened myself too much. Let them see a person I’ve been trying to hide. Singing a lullaby was out of character, and yet, something that I used to find simple. Creating a song for just the right moment.
And that’s yet another thing I don’t understand. For so long nothing has come to me, not a lyric, not a note, but that night it just happened.
Ray helped me find it. Not sure if it was her distress, or Julianna’s desperation. I just wanted to help them with the little I have in me—music. But after that, facing them felt strange. Let’s be honest, they can see me. And I haven’t let anyone inside me for a very long time.
Today I finally made my way to Julianna’s backyard. I stand at the edge of the mat she’s laid out for me, feeling distinctly out of place. My hands hang awkwardly at my sides as she finishes adjusting her own mat, her movements fluid and deliberate.
“Just follow my lead,” she says, glancing up at me with a small, encouraging smile. “This isn’t about getting the poses perfect. It’s about listening to your body and breathing. Always breathe.”
I nod, swallowing the lump of doubt in my throat. The last thing I want is to admit how much tension I’ve been carrying. How much my body aches this morning. But I’m here. She said that time at the studio, right? It’s about showing up and breathing.
She steps to the front of her mat, her bare feet pressing into the grass. “We’ll start simple,” she says, taking a deep breath and raising her arms overhead. Her movements are slow, deliberate, almost hypnotic. I mimic her as best I can, my shoulders tight and reluctant to cooperate.
“Inhale deeply,” she says, her voice soft. “And as you exhale, let your arms float back down to your sides.”
I try to match her breath, but it’s uneven, shaky. She glances at me, her gaze kind but assessing. “Let’s take it slower. There’s no rush. You’re doing great.”
Her reassurance eases some of the tension in my chest. I follow her lead as we move through a series of gentle stretches. According to her, each one is designed to awaken parts of my body I’d long since ignored. The poses aren’t difficult, but they demand a focus I’m not used to giving. As I stretch and fold, I can feel the tightness in my shoulders, my back, my hamstrings.
Julianna says it’s a physical manifestation of years spent carrying things I should’ve let go of long ago. I think it’s the car accident and five years in a coma, but I won’t burst her bubble.
“How’s that feel?” she asks as we settle into a forward fold.
Like fucking hell. “Tight,” I admit, my voice gruff. “Like everything’s about to snap.”
She chuckles softly, not unkindly. “That’s your body’s way of telling you it’s time to let go.”
Let go. The words stick in my head. Like it’s that easy to just say fuck you and get it all out of my head and my body.
“You’ve been holding on to so much for so long—anger, grief, pain. Each piece of it etched into your muscles, your bones, like scars you’ve refused to acknowledge,” she states. “Breathe into it. Find where it’s tight and send your breath there. Let your exhale do the work.”
I try, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply. The air fills my lungs, stretching against the tightness in my chest, and as I exhale, I imagine it carrying the tension away. It’s a small thing, but it feels like a step, however tentative, toward something better.
We move into a lunge, and my legs tremble slightly as I hold the pose. Julianna glances over, her expression softening. “It’s okay to shake, your muscles are doing all the work,” she says, her tone quiet but firm. “Your body remembers, even if you don’t.”
Her words hit deeper than she probably intended. My body remembers—the late nights, the parties, the things I used to numb myself when the world felt too sharp, too unbearable. I was too fucking young the first time I got high. The buzz was electric, a rush that made everything seem brighter, better. But it didn’t take long for the high to wear off, for the edges to come back sharper than before.
I shake the memory away, focusing on Julianna as she guides us into a seated twist. The stretch pulls at my back, a dull ache spreading along my spine. She catches my wince and softens her tone. “Don’t push too hard. Let it come to you.”
Her words are grounding, and I adjust, easing into the pose rather than forcing it. The ache remains, but it’s manageable.
“You’re doing great,” she says as we transition to a child’s pose. The position feels foreign at first, my knees pressing into the mat, my forehead resting on the ground. But as I let myself sink into it, there’s a strange comfort in the vulnerability of it.
“This one’s about surrender,” Julianna says. “About letting the ground hold you when you can’t hold yourself.”
I close my eyes, the weight of her words settling over me. I’ve spent so long holding everything myself, refusing to ask for help, refusing to admit I needed it. The idea of letting go, of surrendering, feels impossible and freeing all at once.
“What’s going through your head?” she asks gently.
I hesitate, the instinct to deflect kicking in. But something about the way she’s looking at me, her eyes steady and unjudging, makes me want to answer honestly.
“I’ve been carrying a lot,” I admit, my voice low. “Things I should’ve let go of years ago.”
She nods, her expression open, inviting me to continue.
“It started when I was really young,” I say, the words coming slower now, like they’re being dragged out of me. “I didn’t know how to deal with . . . anything, really. My parents were famous and had parties at home too often. So I found other ways to cope with . . . stuff I saw. Drinking, drugs, whatever made it easier to not feel.”
She’s watching me, but definitely not judging. It gives me the courage to keep going. “I kept telling myself it was working,” I say. “But I never realize how many people I was hurting. Not until . . . until it cost me everything.”
The silence stretches between us, but it doesn’t feel heavy. It feels like she’s giving me space, like she understands there are no easy answers.
“You’ve come a long way,” she says finally. “Just being here, doing this, it says a lot about you.”
I let out a short laugh, the sound more bitter than I intend. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”
“It’s a start,” she says firmly. “And sometimes that’s all you need.”
We finish the session lying flat on our backs with our arms and legs extended. The grass beneath my mat is soft, the sun warm against my skin. Julianna’s voice guides me through the relaxation, her words soothing.
“Feel the ground beneath you,” she says. “Let it remind you that you’re supported, even when it doesn’t feel like it.”
I close my eyes, the tension in my body slowly unwinding. For the first time in a long time, I feel . . . still. Not just physically, but emotionally. It’s a strange sensation, like I’ve found a moment of peace in the middle of this place, with her.
When the session ends, neither of us moves right away. The silence between us feels less like an emptiness and more like a connection.
“Thank you,” I say finally, my voice rough.
“You did the work. I just showed you the way.” Julianna smiles.
As we roll up our mats, I catch her gaze and hold it for a moment longer than I mean to.
“Maybe we could do this again sometime,” I say, surprising myself with the suggestion.
She nods, her smile widening. “I’ll be here all week, just swing by. The door is always open.”
“Thank you,” I say, and begin to walk.
Then she calls out, “Keane?”
“Yeah?” I halt, looking over my shoulder.
“Every time you start blaming yourself for . . . well, anything, just repeat, ‘I forgive myself. The past won’t change, but I have.’” She smiles, this time it’s gentle.
Have I really changed? Instead of telling her she’s wrong I only answer, “I’ll remember that.” But then I wonder if that’s her way of telling me that I have to forgive myself.
Did I move on? I thought so, but maybe I just figured out a few things. But I haven’t forgiven myself for all the damage I’ve done. Have I?