The Dreaming Tree
Music: The Fallen Legion Dian Shuai; An Abyss of Sadness- Jon Bjork; Yoiyami- Sayuri Hayashi Egnell
Note for the Grown-Up Heart:
This story speaks to a quiet truth many children live with: when the adults who love them carry too much, the house itself learns to hold its breath. Children feel this long before they understand words like stress, survival mode, or alertness.
“The House That Held Its Breath” is not about fault—it’s about recognition.
It gently shows how a child can sense a parent’s tension and how love can become tight when a nervous system forgets what rest feels like.
But the heart of the story is repair.
It reminds grown-ups that safety is not created by perfection, but by presence—by sitting close, by telling the truth softly, by breathing together until the air becomes gentle again.
It invites the parent to remember that even small moments of shared regulation can soften an entire home, and that tending to connection is more powerful than getting everything right.
This story offers both child and caregiver a doorway into healing:
Safety begins not when everything is fixed, but when someone stays.
Moral/Theme:
Safety grows in connection.
Hearts breathe easier when they don’t have to be brave alone.
There was once a small house on the edge of a quiet street.
From the outside, it looked like every other house —
windows, a roof, a little garden that tried its best to bloom.
But inside the walls, something unusual lived:
A mother and her child who both forgot how to breathe.
Not the breathing you do with your chest —the breathing you do with your heart.
The mother loved her child more than anything in the whole world,
but her body had learned long ago
to stay tight,
to stay alert,
to stay ready.
She moved through the house like a quiet wind,
never fully still,
never fully calm.
Her eyes watched everything
— the bills,
the mess,
the noise,
the future —
as if danger could hide inside any shadow.
She didn’t know that her child watched her the same way.
The child, small and bright, felt the mother’s tightness before he understood the word “stress.”
He felt the rush in her hands.
He felt the worry in her voice.
He felt the weight she carried even when she smiled.
Children can feel the weight even when they can’t name it.
And so the child learned to stay alert too.
Sometimes that alertness looked like anger,
sometimes quiet,
sometimes tears that came out of nowhere.
Sometimes it looked like being “good” —
too good,
so the mother wouldn’t have one more thing to carry.
They loved each other fiercely but lived inside a house that had forgotten how to exhale.
One night,
the child woke from a bad dream and went to find the mother.
She was sitting at the edge of her bed, holding her head in her hands,
her breath tight like a small bird trapped in her chest.
“Mom?” the child whispered.
The mother looked up, startled —
not by her child, but by how much she suddenly needed that tiny voice.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
The child shrugged.
“Everything feels loud.”
The mother felt the truth of that like a warm ache.
She scooted over on the bed and patted the blanket beside her.
The child climbed up, leaned into her side, and for the first time that day,
the mother noticed:
the child’s breath was as shallow as hers.
They sat there in the dim room,
two hearts beating fast,
two bodies braced for things
that weren’t happening anymore.
The mother whispered, “I’m scared sometimes.”
The child nodded.
“Me too.”
And something softened in the space between them —
like the house finally exhaled.
Reflection for Parents and Guides
Ask your child:
“What do you think it feels like when a house holds its breath?”
“Why do you think the mother and child both forgot how to breathe with their hearts?”
“What helped the house finally relax?”
“Have you ever had a moment when the air int he room felt tight? What helped you feel better?”
Gently remind them:
Children are not responsible for a grown-ups’s stress—but they often feel it.
And shared breaths, honest feelings, and closeness help everyone soften again.
Artwork: The House That Held Its Breath
The mother wrapped her arm around the child and asked,
“Do you want to breathe with me?”
Not a big breath.
Not a perfect breath.
Just one small, soft breath.
They breathed in together —
just a little —
and let it out slowly.
Their shoulders fell just a little.
Their hearts steadied just a little.
And the house felt different.
Not fixed.
Not perfect.
Just… softer.
The mother looked at her child and said,
“We don’t have to be brave alone.”
The child rested their head on her arm.
“Okay,” they whispered. “Let’s not.”
And for the first time in a long time, the house slept.
Not because everything was safe or finished or solved —
but because two hearts finally remembered that safety begins when someone sits beside you and stays.
Bedtime Practice:
The Breath That Comes Home
Purpose: To help children (and the grown up ones too) remember how to release tension together, and teach co-regulation through shared presence and gentle breath.
Sit or lie close enough that you can feel each other’s warmth.
Grown up hand over their own heart, and child’s hand over theirs.
Take one slow breath in together.
Not big.
Not perfect.
Just soft.
Whisper together:
“My heart can rest now.
Your heart can rest with me.
We can breathe together.”
Imagine the house around you taking a gentle breath too—
the walls softening, the air warming, the space becoming safe again.
End with a simple grounding touch
—a hug, a hand squeeze, or your heads resting together—
and say softly:
“We don’t have to be brave alone.”