The quiet moment before the first breath

Today, just before induction, I sat with a patient who’d been anxious all morning. No meds yet, just me and her in the dim light, holding the mask. She looked at me like she was trying to remember something important—then exhaled, slowly, as if letting go of a weight she didn’t know she carried. I didn’t say anything. Just stayed there. The silence wasn’t empty—it was full of what we both knew: this is how it begins. Not with machines or scripts, but with stillness. That’s the thing no one sees. That’s the thing I keep.