I remember the first time I tried breathwork. It was at a retreat center in Ubud, Bali. You know the type – lush jungle, the distant sound of gamelan music, and more yoga mats than you can shake a stick of incense at. The facilitator, a serene man in white linen clothes and long white beard and hair. "Just breathe," he said, his voice as smooth as the rice paddies outside, "and let whatever comes up, come up."

So there I was, lying on a mat, surrounded by blissed-out strangers, all of us breathing like we were running a marathon while perfectly still. And let me tell you, what came up was... rage. Blinding, white-hot rage.

For an hour, while everyone around me seemed to be floating on clouds of ecstasy, I was a volcano of anger. I was mad at the mosquito buzzing near my ear, furious at the sweat trickling down my back, someone was touching me, and why was that guy making so much noise when he was breathing?! I had visions of getting up, kicking someone in the head and storming out. But of course, I’m too polite to ever make a scene.