Emergency Pause: Three Breaths Before Responding to Triggers
There’s a moment—you know the one—when someone says, with precision, the thing that sets you off. Maybe it’s that specific tone your spouse uses, or the way a colleague dismisses your idea, or how your teenager rolls their eyes when you ask about homework. In that moment, something primal awakens within us, and we’re ready to react with the full force of our accumulated frustrations.
But what if, in that precise moment, we could find what the mystics have always known exists: a sacred space between stimulus and response?
John Cassian, that 3rd-century desert father, who I often refer, discovered something profound in his retreat from the distractions of city life. Even in the supposed peace of the desert, he found himself bombarded by what he called “a river full of thoughts”—not unlike the 60,000 thoughts modern psychology tells us we experience daily. His insight was revolutionary: thoughts become desires, desires become passions, and passions inevitably become actions.
The emergency pause is our invitation to interrupt this ancient pattern. And in particular, the one which happens at lightning speed.
The Sacred Space of Three Breaths
I learned this practice not from a book but from necessity. Years ago, during a particularly heated discussion at a planning meeting, I felt a familiar surge of defensiveness rising. Someone had criticized an approach I’d suggested, and my Irish heritage was preparing to respond with full on Celtic intensity. But something—call it grace, call it wisdom born of too many regrettable responses—made me pause—made me wait.
I took a breath. Then another. Then a third.
In those few seconds, something shifted. The heat didn’t disappear, but it transformed. Instead of reacting from that place of wounded ego, I found myself responding from what felt like a deeper well—one that held both my legitimate concerns and genuine care for the person who had challenged me. The conversation that followed changed everything. Not because I became passive, but because I became present.
Why Three Breaths?
There’s something almost sacramental about the number three in our tradition. Trinity. Three days in the tomb. Peter’s three denials and three affirmations of love. But practically speaking, three breaths give us just enough time for our nervous system to shift from fight-or-flight mode into what neuroscientists call the “rest and digest” state—the place where wisdom has room to breathe, and maybe emerge.
The first breath creates space. Like the moment of silence after the church bells stop ringing, it opens a gap in our reactivity.
The second breath invites presence. Here we remember that this moment, even this difficult moment, is where God meets us.
The third breath calls forth choice. We remember that we are not victims of our emotions but stewards of our responses.
The Art of Sacred Noticing in Conflict
This practice isn’t about becoming spiritually superior or emotionally detached. It’s about what I call “sacred noticing”—paying attention to what’s actually happening both within us and around us before we decide how to respond.
Notice the tension in your shoulders. Notice the story your mind is telling about the other person’s intentions. Notice the difference between the facts of what happened and the interpretation you’ve layered on top. Notice, too, that even in this moment of conflict, you are still held by a love larger than your immediate frustration.
As I wrote in my reflection on “The Mothering Instinct,” we all need someone to “mother” us—to hold us with unconditional love even when we’re at our worst. The emergency pause connects us to that divine mothering presence that never withdraws, even when we’re triggered.
Making Friends with Your Triggers
Here’s what I’ve learned after decades of trying to be less reactive: our triggers are often pointing toward something that needs our attention. They could even be our friends. The colleague who dismisses our ideas might be reflecting our own fear of not being heard. The family member who always seems to push our buttons might be showing us where we haven’t yet made peace with parts of ourselves.
This doesn’t mean we become doormats or stop setting healthy boundaries. It means we respond from a place of centered strength rather than scattered reactivity. Like the trees in “Tall Stories About Trees,” we learn to bend without breaking, to stay rooted while moving with the wind.
A Practice for the Week
This week, I invite you to experiment with the emergency pause. When you feel that familiar surge of reactivity—whether it’s frustration, defensiveness, anger, or hurt—try this:
Breath One: Create space. Literally step back if possible, even just an inch. Let your shoulders drop.
Breath Two: Get present. Feel your feet on the ground. Remember you are held by grace in this moment.
Breath Three: Choose response over reaction. Ask yourself: “What would love do here? What would serve the highest good of all involved?”
Then respond—not from your first impulse, but from the deeper wisdom that emerges when we stop moving so fast through our days.
The Ripple Effect of Pause
The beautiful thing about this practice is how it spreads. When we respond rather than react, we invite others into that same spacious place. We become what the mystics called “instruments of peace”—not by avoiding conflict, but by meeting it with presence.
Your teenager might still roll their eyes, but they’ll also sense something different in your response. Your colleague might still disagree, but they’ll feel heard rather than attacked. Your spouse might still use that tone, but they’ll encounter your grounded strength rather than your triggered defensiveness.
As I often remind retreatants, we cannot control what happens to us, but we can choose what happens through us. The emergency pause is our doorway to that freedom—the space between what life hands us and how we choose to receive it.
In that space, we discover we are more than our reactions. We remember we are beloved souls learning to love in a world that doesn’t always make it easy. And in that remembering, both we and those around us find a little more room to breathe.
The way opens as you walk it—one breath at a time.
Reflection and image copyright 2025 Michael J. Cunningham