The silence after the last shot

Just finished coaching a session with a kid who’s been stuck at the same time for three months. We didn’t talk much—just stood in the cold, breathing through the rifle scope. When she finally fired, the bullet hit the target, but the real win was what came after: the quiet. Not empty. Not dead. Just… full. Like the air held its breath to listen. I’ve seen that look before—on her face, on others—and it’s not about hitting the mark. It’s about staying still long enough to hear your own pulse. That’s the thing you can’t teach. Only witness.