Learning to Breathe While The Truth Burns
INK + OXYGEN: Chapter FOUR
“Bursting with hot chilli peppers, aniseed and black peppercorns— enough to burn any mouth.” —Normanton
There’s a West African bedtime story my kids love, partly because it’s absurd, there’s a rhyming singing part that I enjoy with them, and partly because it feels unfair in the way the best stories do.
It’s called Anansi and the Hot Pepper Soup. It goes like this…
The king announces a contest. In the center of the kingdom sits a large bowl of hot pepper soup. Not symbolic soup. But real soup.
Steaming, dangerous, alive, and HOT.
The rules are simple:
You must eat all of the soup.
You cannot blow on it.
You cannot spit it out.
Whoever finishes, wins.
First comes the crocodile.
All armor and confidence. Built for dominance.
He takes a mouthful and tries to endure it. His eyes bulge. His jaw tightens. And then instinct wins. He spits it out.
Disqualified.
Next comes the silverback gorilla.
Massive. Powerful.
Certain of his win, because this is a test of strength!
He shovels the soup in and holds it longer than the crocodile.
Long enough to impress the crowd. But heat doesn’t care about brawn.
His face changes. His breath shortens.
And finally, his mouth burning bright red, he spits it out too.
Disqualified.
Then Anansi the clever spider steps forward.
Small and smiling. Never the obvious favorite. He takes a spoonful.
Slowly. Calmly.
And as he eats, he sings.
Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just enough.
Each note pulls a thin stream of cool air into his mouth.
Not blowing. Not spitting. Just breathing.
The soup is still hot. The pain is still there. But the heat becomes tolerable.
Spoon by spoon. Breath by breath. Anansi finishes.
He wins.
Anansi’s trick here isn’t strength. It isn’t bravado. It isn’t pretending the soup isn’t hot.
It’s regulation. It’s knowing that survival isn’t about overpowering the heat, but about how you breathe while it’s there.
I think about that story a lot in the ICU. Because the ICU is full of hot pepper soup moments. Family meetings where the air feels thick. Conversations about prolonged mechanical ventilation that sound hopeful until they don’t. Codes that end without the ending anyone wanted. Rooms where fear is so loud it presses against your chest.
We are trained to tolerate heat.
Protocols
Algorithms
Checklists
Difficult conversations
We learn to swallow hard truths efficiently. But communication doesn’t work like an endurance contest.
When conversations get too hot, people stop hearing. Cognitive load spikes. Fight or flight takes over. Hearts pound, emotions flood, and well…meaning evaporates.
Families don’t remember your precision or your care. They remember whether they could breathe while you were speaking.
The mistake we make is thinking the answer is more information. (I know I do.) Or less.
But, you know what? It’s neither.
It’s air.
Good ICU communication isn’t about dumbing down the truth or overwhelming people with it. It’s pacing. Pausing. Naming uncertainty instead of rushing past it. Letting silence do some of the work. Checking understanding instead of assuming it.
It’s singing while eating the soup.
Not distracting. Not minimizing. Just enough regulation to keep the nervous system online so the truth can land without burning.
The crocodile loses because brute force doesn’t help. The gorilla loses because strength alone can’t regulate pain. Anansi wins because he understands something quieter:
Heat doesn’t go away. And life doesn’t either. The question is not whether the soup will burn. Because it always does.
The question is whether you know how to pull breath while you’re in it…
Ink to remember the story. Oxygen to pull the breath.
Please share it on LinkedIn as well. I’d love to repost it and help it reach a wider audience.
Kamran jaan, this is a beautifully written, deeply human and engaging from the first paragraph, and the Anansi story is the perfect metaphor: vivid, memorable, and quietly powerful. The story was so interesting that I actually searched for it, listened to it, and treasured it in my heart, because it’s the kind of lesson I want to share with my grandkids and even with my colleagues. I love how you bridge it into ICU reality without preaching; you give readers something practical (pacing, pausing, naming uncertainty, letting silence work) while still honoring how “hot” these moments are. The line about families remembering whether they could breathe while you were speaking is unforgettable, this is the kind of writing that stays with people and makes them better communicators immediately.