Hearing nothing but the sound of my own breath, I kept doing push-ups until the burn in my arms and legs made me feel something—anything—besides this overwhelming sense of being trapped.
Somewhere between reps, I started to sing softly to myself. The silence was too loud, and my voice gave it something warmer to carry. I knew I had a decent voice—nothing professional—but sweet enough to echo softly in a space like this.
As I continued working out, I sang one of my son’s favorite lullabies. He used to try to sing with me, too. Not with words, no—just soft sounds, little mimics of my notes. It was our thing, our secret language. That memory alone carried me through the ache in my limbs and the heaviness in my chest. I could almost hear him now, humming along beside me.
Singing while movin
