How slow breathing calms down your brain

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Just breathe! When you’re gripped by anxiety, hearing this well-intentioned advice can be infuriating. Compared with the power of my body’s fight-or-flight response, the notion that I can find calm by tuning into my breath feels almost fanciful.

But recently I came across a study in Scientific Reports that caught my eye because it showed that slow breathing makes a difference not just to how people feel, but to their brain activity. The results have increased my confidence that breathing can make a meaningful difference.

The researchers set things up so their participants either knew they’d be exposed to horrible images (such as pictures of injuries and scary animals) or they thought there’d be a chance they might be – this latter condition acted as a simulation of ‘anticipatory anxiety’, like when you have a dentist appointment and you’re not sure if you might need a horrible procedure.

Anticipatory anxiety increased the aversive impact of the images – both in terms of how bad the participants felt after looking at them, and in terms of the electrical activity in their brains, specifically in the beta-frequency range that’s known to be amplified when we’re stressed or worried.

Crucially, however, the effects of anticipatory anxiety on subjective feelings and brain activity were dulled if the participants engaged in 30 seconds of slow breathing (six seconds in, six seconds out) before the task. In fact, after slow breathing, the participants had lower beta brain activity in the anxiety condition than they had in the non-anxiety condition after normal breathing (two seconds in, two seconds out).

It’s a small study and it’s long established that neuroscience findings can be seductive, so I’m wary of being overly gullible. But I thought the design was clever. It showed that, while anxiety can intensify our difficult experiences, a simple, slow-breathing technique can mitigate these effects.

by Christian Jarrett

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Check out the Psyche Guide ‘How to Breathe’ (2022) by Martin Petrus.

Read the results of another study published this year that found slow-paced breathing can assist emotional regulation.


How I became more facially expressive

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A man in a hoodie on a phone walking past a wall with posters and graffiti-covered advertisements.

For most of my life I was not, I don’t think, a very facially expressive person. I’m ethnically Korean, and we tend not to move our faces too much (partly because it’s just the norm, along with a shared cultural concern that it encourages wrinkles). Even when telling a dramatic story, big expressions never felt natural to me, the way they seemed to be for others, and I’d wonder whether the restraint on my face was limiting my ability to connect with people.

It’s not an absurd idea. Research from 2024 concluded that being facially expressive is socially advantageous, suggesting it might lead others to like you more and see you as more agreeable. Another study found that expressiveness predicted how attractive people seemed to others.

My relationship to facial expressiveness started to change about three years ago, when I started learning American Sign Language. ASL is a language of the body. Individual signs provide a vocabulary, but much of the grammar and descriptive nuance comes from how you move your body and face. Suddenly, my stiff and muted facial expressions became a fluency issue, getting in the way of my legibility as a signer.

Signing ‘I like’, for example, communicates something far different when you do it with bright eyes and strong movements compared with signing it with a shrug and noncommittal expression. I’ve learned to make these distinctions clear across my face.

Over time, I’ve noticed a difference – I am more expressive now with everyone, not just when I’m signing. This, in turn, has made me feel more outgoing in conversation. I have a hunch that people now perceive me as friendlier.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling tired or shy, I’ll notice myself under-expressing, slipping back into my old ways. In those moments I remind myself that showing your feelings on your face is rewarding, and a way to invite greater understanding.

by Hannah Seo

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The Psyche Idea ‘Speaking a Different Language Can Change How You Act and Feel’ (2024) by Antonella Gismundi explores how changing from one spoken language to another can affect speakers’ sense of self.

I wrote more about learning ASL in The New York Times Magazine in the article ‘How Sign Language Can Help Us All Be Better Communicators’ (2025), describing how the physicality of this tactile language and its grammar butted up against the instinct for precise language.


NOTE TO SELFPOETRY

Existential crisis? Try reading Wordsworth

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Portrait painting of a man in a thoughtful pose with hand on head wearing a dark coat and white cravat against a dark background.

William Wordsworth was just a few years younger than I am now when he wrote the ageless poem ‘Ode on Intimations of Immortality’ (1807). He laments the falling away of his childhood as it departs ever further into memory:

It is not now as it hath been of yore;–
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

I too sense a receding past, as childish certainties are replaced by rather harrowing questions: what am I doing here? Is this it? What does my life mean? As I become increasingly aware of the finitude of my days, my desire for answers grows more urgent.

These sorts of questions can induce a sense of existential imbalance, even crisis. Two great American philosophers, William James and John Dewey, had crises of just this sort when their sense of purpose seemed to evaporate. And they both navigated their angst in a similar way.

For James, an episode of intense crisis was alleviated by poetry, when he read of: ‘Authentic tidings of invisible things … subsisting at the heart / Of endless agitation.’ It gave him a sense, he wrote, of freedom. For Dewey, relief came in the form of a full-blown epiphany, which he later gamely tried to articulate: ‘everything that’s here is here, and you can just lie back on it’. The poet who aided both philosophers? Wordsworth.

So I read his masterpiece, The Prelude (1850). He too describes finding moments of poetic lucidity that unburdened him of a certain human painfulness. When he climbed Mount Snowdon, he recognised – in a flash – that an impersonal God speaks through nature, that love is the fount of all that’s worthy, and that suffering is necessary for true creativity: pertinent answers to pertinent questions. Though mine still remain.

by Sam Dresser

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On the Romantic (though German) generation of poets and thinkers, you could hardly do better than this Aeon Essay by Andrea Wulf, ‘The First Romantics’ (2022).

William James has been fortunate enough to find a brilliant expositor in John Kaag. His Aeon Essay ‘The Greatest Use of Life’ (2018) is a classic.


Snorkelling taught me stillness

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Photo of a flounder underwater, lying on a sandy seafloor with seaweed, showing its eyes pointing upward.

What comes to mind when you think of snorkelling? Tropical, crystalline waters teeming with flamboyant fish and vibrant corals? Or perhaps spectacular encounters with charismatic marine megafauna like dolphins or whale sharks? Last summer, I moved away from the coastline-spoilt Sydney, where I’d regularly encountered dolphins, whales and fish that looked like novelty running shoes. Arriving on Melbourne’s more muted shores, I felt bereft – until I discovered how much life this unfairly maligned bay holds.

Leafing through Day Trip Melbourne: 52 Nature Adventures (2023), an excellent guidebook on the natural spaces in and around Melbourne, I was surprised to discover a marine sanctuary a quick half-hour drive away. From the outside, it frankly looked a bit drab, dominated by muddy greens and browns – certainly no Great Barrier Reef. And when I first braved its frigid waters, it didn’t instantly pay off. While kelp and algae forests undulated gracefully in the currents, I couldn’t make out any of their residents until I stilled myself – no easy feat for a chronically impatient person. But just as I was about to give up, a metre below my hovering body, I spotted a flounder digging itself into the ocean floor. It was an enchanting, beige-on-beige spectacle, enough to entice me to return the next weekend, and the next. Over time, my attention to detail sharpened, revealing tiny seahorses, colourful nudibranchs, and the subtle changes in the underwater landscape throughout the seasons.

Even outside the water, the sanctuary has delivered on its name: I recall the rhythmic flapping of a banjo ray’s nasal flaps or the bay’s static crackling in my ears and a calm rushes over me, no matter how restless I feel. And as I wander the city’s parks and bustling centre, I tune in to the close attention the bay’s creatures are teaching me, noticing little details – miniature spectacles unfolding everywhere.

by Natalie Bühler

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If you aren’t close to a body of water, listening to and watching birds can provide a similar experience – check out the Psyche Guide ‘Learn to Tune into Birdsong – Respite and Fascination Await’ (2025) by David M Logue.

To discover how paying close attention in general can fill our lives with more awe, read the Psyche Guide ‘How to Experience More Wow’ (2021) by Summer Allen.


Who’s responsible for your attachment style?

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A child in a white dress clinging to a woman’s hand, hiding her face in the woman’s pink shawl, outdoors.

If you’ve heard about attachment styles – the ways we tend to relate to others in close relationships – you might have been told that it comes down to how our parents treated us. According to classic attachment theory, those of us lucky enough to receive plenty of warmth and support from our early caregivers develop a ‘secure’ model of relationships: we continue to trust close others to be there for us and feel comfortable depending on them. Those who don’t receive such support may develop ‘insecure’ models – becoming anxious about losing people, or averse to getting too attached.

Yet these models are not ‘set in stone’, contemporary attachment researchers say; we update them based on novel relationship experiences. That is, it’s not all about mom’s responsiveness to your needs. Other kinds of bonds matter, too.

Supporting this view, the research psychologist Keely Dugan and her colleagues analysed data on hundreds of people, provided by their parents, observers, and the participants themselves as they aged to around 30. As expected, people’s experiences with their mothers in childhood were correlated with how secure they felt in multiple kinds of relationships as adults. But the quality of other early relationships was predictive as well. For instance, having more positive experiences with friends in childhood was associated with feeling more secure in romantic relationships as an adult.

These results had me thinking about my own attachments in unexpected ways. Not just about how parental warmth might have equipped me to feel safe relying on others, but how my friends from childhood (some of whom I’m still close with) may have served as attachment figures themselves. Did learning – year after year, hangout after sleepover after band practice – to feel safe with my pals help set me on a course toward a happy marriage? I’m sure they’d love to take credit for that, and perhaps they deserve some.

by Matt Huston

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To learn more about attachment styles, what they mean for you, and how you might change yours, check out the Psyche Guide ‘How to Be More Secure in Your Relationships’ (2022), by Graham Johnston and Matt Wotton.

The psychologist and attachment researcher R Chris Fraley, one of the co-authors of the research mentioned here, provides a handy overview of attachment theory on his website.

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