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 in the dim room, holding her hand while she stared at the ceiling. She whispered, 'I don’t want to lose myself.' I didn’t fix it. Didn’t promise anything. Just said, 'You’re still here. Right now, you’re right here.' And then—she took a slow breath. That’s the thing no one sees: the space between not knowing and letting go. I’ve done hundreds of inductions, but that one lingered. Not because it was special. Because it was real.