The Pause That Nourishes

What the Heart — and the Fire Service — Taught Me About Rest

There’s an organ inside your chest that’s been working for you since before you took your first breath. It’s relentless. Steady. Devoted. From the womb to your very last moment, your heart beats with astonishing consistency.

But here’s the thing we often forget:
Even the heart takes a break.

After every powerful contraction — called systole — there’s a fraction of a second where the heart rests. This pause is called diastole, and it’s not idle time. It’s when the heart fills. When it gathers what it needs to keep going. Without diastole, there would be no oxygen-rich blood to send to the brain or the body. No nourishment. No life.

Without the pause, there is no power.

I’ve spent over 30 years in the fire service — decades of service that demanded everything I had. The public needs us at our best, always. Firefighter/paramedics are regularly away from home for 48-hour shifts. Add mandatory overtime, campaign fires, and natural disasters, and it’s not uncommon to be gone 72 hours, 96 hours, or even 16 days. There’s no built-in pause when someone’s survival is literally in your hands. There’s no rest when a wildfire is tearing toward a town.

Or is there?

I found yoga initially as a way to stay strong and prevent injuries for triathlon and the physical demands of the job. I kept practicing because, slowly and unexpectedly, it started changing me in ways I never anticipated.

Yoga taught me to pause.  And in that pause, I discovered more than rest — I found awareness.

I began to notice things I’d missed for years. I started to breathe deeper. To love deeper. To show up more fully for the people I care about. I became more present — not just in my body, but in my life. And somehow, I had more to give.

Firefighting is a sacred form of service. So is paramedicine. But now, I’m learning to serve in a new way — not in high-stress, life-and-death moments, crawling through thick black smoke looking for the unconscious. But in quiet studios, with mats and movement and breath. I want to serve those who feel lost — not in a burning building, but in the daily blaze of overwhelm.

People who can’t catch their breath — not from an asthma attack, but from the crushing weight of stress, expectations, and grief.
People who are trying to make it to the end of the day with a thread of sanity.
People who are giving so much, they’ve forgotten how to receive.

Just like the heart, we all need diastole.
We need moments to soften, to fill, to breathe.

Yoga is that pause.
It’s not weakness. It’s not escape. It’s the fuel for your next act of strength.

So whether you’re a first responder, a caregiver, a parent, or someone carrying silent burdens — know this:
You are allowed to rest.
You are allowed to be nourished.
You are allowed to pause — because you are worth filling back up.