Fear, responsibility, and what it means to stay present in moments of discomfort.

I was sitting on the theater platform, the light shining on my face so brightly I could barely make out the faces in the crowd. My chest felt tight, my cheeks hot, and I could feel my body holding still, almost as if it was frozen. I didn’t know where to look. I remember wanting, for a second, simply to disappear.

Everyone was waiting for my reaction. But all I could think of at that moment was a phrase featured in a popular magazine in South America in the 90s called Tu (You): “Trágame tierra” (Earth, swallow me up).

It was a Tuesday afternoon in Portland, Oregon. A typical workday for me back when I worked as a training analyst for the city's bureau of parks and recreation. Prior to that moment, I had conducted a year’s worth of research to design a 3–4 year training program to ensure our communities felt welcome and safe to enjoy our parks and recreation spaces and services. Having spent many hours interviewing and shadowing staff and community members, I felt a strong sense of responsibility for this work.

Up to this point, the program had been pretty successful, and the parks department was blooming. The current event I was hosting was the next part of this program. The event was focused on making parks more inclusive and accessible to immigrant and refugee communities, particularly for the local Muslim community I had been collaborating with. I was hosting the panel, with the added layer that I would also share my own experiences as an immigrant.

A few days before the event, a tragedy occurred (Trigger Warning): someone drowned at one of the park locations. As a staff member, my knowledge of the incident was very limited. We were not allowed to speak to the media or others until elected officials had addressed the situation and confirmed the details. When I first heard the news, it hit me in waves. I remember feeling suspended in uncertainty, unable to fully process the information. It also brought up feelings of a near-drowning experience I once had before I learned how to swim.

More than 100 city staff from various bureaus were in attendance. When it was time for the panel to start, the speakers were nowhere to be found. I felt confused, and I had an underlying sense that something was off. I kept checking the time, telling myself they were just delayed. I informed everyone that we were experiencing delays but invited them to enjoy refreshments and each other’s company while we waited.

At this point, I was walking around the theater when I came across someone in leadership who was talking on the phone with a serious look on their face. They saw me and signaled me to come closer. I remember my pace slowing down. Something in their expression told me this wasn’t a routine call. My mind immediately started scanning for what I had done wrong.

I later learned that the person who had drowned was a young child who was part of the same community as the speakers on the panel were. I immediately felt sorrow, sadness, confusion, and worry. It was overwhelming, like multiple emotions were filling up inside me all at once without enough space to hold them. I offered to cancel the event given everything that had happened. But I was told to keep the event going and to make sure the speakers did not mention the incident. In that moment, I remember feeling torn—part of me trying to comply and the other part of me quietly thinking, This doesn’t feel right. I didn’t know what the “correct” way to respond was at that point, only that I felt pressure building in my chest and a growing fear of making the wrong move.

The speakers finally arrived, and I went to them to express how sorry I felt. They shared they had just buried the little girl, but that they were still ready to share their experience and truth. I felt a heaviness in my chest listening to them, knowing what they had just lived through. I was filled with fear. I told them I had been instructed not to let them speak about it, but that if they chose to, it was their decision. I also expressed my fear about my job security after the event. I could feel myself torn between what felt right and what felt safe. They said they would speak up. I said okay.

I returned to leadership and informed them of the speakers’ decision. They pointed their finger at me while telling me I must not allow it. I felt my body go into survival mode—tight and alert. I felt cornered, like I had my back against a wall. Again, I offered to cancel the event, but I was ordered not to. So, I went back to the speakers and relayed the message. I said that, if it were up to me, they could speak about the incident, but it was not my decision. They nodded in understanding. We decided to proceed with the event.

I started the panel by introducing its purpose and the speakers. As soon as I handed the mic to the first speaker, he said, “Nathalys did not want us to talk about this, but we will anyway …”

My body dropped instantly. "Trágame tierra." Silence and shock followed. I wanted to quit on the spot—to leave the mic, the job, the crowd.

The speakers shared what happened with the girl in full detail. They also highlighted how bias continues to play a role in the structure and functioning of parks and recreation systems.

As they started to pass the mic back to me, I reached for my breath and began practicing Sama Vritti Pranayama (box breathing), following the pattern with my index finger on my right thigh: inhale 1,2,3,4; hold 1,2,3,4; exhale 4,3,2,1; hold 4,3,2,1. With each round, I could feel my body slowly returning to me. The intensity softened slightly, enough for me to start thinking again. After multiple rounds, I began preparing my response and noticing how I felt. Though there was still fear within me, a small window of clarity was forming.

When the mic came to me, I said something along these lines:

“I want to acknowledge what just happened ... I grew up with fear of people in power, and it is something I have struggled with. So when someone who has power over me tells me how to behave, it can feel incredibly triggering. I was afraid. So I acted out of that fear and asked the speakers not to share what happened because it was requested of me by someone in leadership. That is no excuse for my behavior. I was wrong. I am very sorry for even suggesting you not share what happened. It was not okay, and I should not have done that. At the end of the day, I also held power—and I used it incorrectly because I let fear take over. I apologize, and I am so sorry for your loss."

One of the speakers patted me on the back and the other nodded and apologized. Then we all felt ready to carry on with the panel.

A couple of months ago, I was reading "Nonviolent Communication," a book that conceptualizes some of the actions I took during that event. In the book, Dr. Rosenberg explains that the denial of responsibility is a life-alienating form of communication that prevents us from acknowledging our own role in our thoughts, feelings, and actions. Using language like “they (you) made me,” or “it was the law,” obscures our responsibility. He references Hannah Arendt, who documented the war crimes trials of Nazi officers, noting how they used what she called Amtssprache (officialese or bureaucratese) to avoid accountability. When questioned, they would say they “had to” act or were simply following “a superior's orders.” Dr. Rosenberg explains that we deny responsibility for our actions when we attribute their cause entirely to external factors. He gives another example of a teacher who said she hated giving grades, but through reflection, realized that she was choosing to give grades because she wanted to keep her job even more.

I was so afraid of losing my job that day. As an immigrant and person of color, I was carrying not only the immediate fear of professional consequences, but also a deeper, more familiar awareness of how quickly stability can feel conditional. In that state, my thinking narrowed—focused on safety, approval, and avoiding risk—what I now recognize as a stress response rather than a fully conscious choice. So I chose safety over truth in that moment, asking the speakers not to share their story, without fully holding the emotional weight of what they had just experienced or allowing myself to pause long enough to grasp the gravity of the situation.

If I could do it again, I would choose differently—even if it meant risking my job. Looking back, I can see how fear narrowed my sense of choice in that moment. Still, it doesn’t remove my responsibility for the decision I made. And this is why I needed to apologize. Because regardless of the pressure I was under, the request still came through me—and so did its impact. Recognizing that connection between action and consequence is part of taking full responsibility for what happened.

May this full moon remind us that yoga is not only what we practice in stillness, but what we return to in moments of discomfort. It is the practice of Svadhyaya—seeing ourselves clearly without avoidance—and Satya—choosing truth, even when it feels difficult to speak or hold.

There are moments in life where we are asked to stay present with difficulty instead of escaping it, and to find the courage to remain accountable even when it feels uncomfortable. Moments where we see, sometimes painfully clearly, how fear can shape our choices—and how awareness gives us the possibility to choose differently.