The five minutes that feel like hours

```xml Find a position where you feel comfortable. Close your eyes or let your gaze rest relaxed. Take one deep breath in. And slowly breathe out again. Once more – a conscious breath. Today I'll tell you about Sarah, who made an important discovery on a Tuesday evening. A discovery about time and how it sometimes stretches like chewing gum. Sarah stands in her kitchen staring at the refrigerator. It is ten fifteen p.m. She has just finished a Netflix series and feels the emptiness that comes after the final credits. Her head says: "You need chocolate now." Not sometime. Now. Sarah opens the refrigerator. The light falls on an opened bar of dark chocolate. Her hand moves forward automatically. Then she stops. She remembers a conversation with her sister from the weekend. "You know what my therapist told me?", her sister had asked. "A craving only lasts three to five minutes. Then it passes." Sarah closes the refrigerator. She looks at the kitchen clock: ten sixteen p.m. "Okay," she says aloud into the quiet kitchen. "Five minutes." She sits down at the kitchen table. The first minute crawls by like a wounded animal. Sarah feels her body craving chocolate. Not just her mouth – her entire body seems to scream: "Go to the refrigerator!" Breathe with me. The second minute feels like ten. Sarah drums her fingers on the table. She thinks about everything: her work, her cat, the rain outside the window. But her thoughts keep wandering back to chocolate. It's as if a quiet voice in her head keeps humming the same song over and over. Third minute. Sarah stands up and walks to the window. The street is wet and reflects the streetlights. She wonders: "Why do five minutes sometimes feel like an eternity?" Fourth minute. Something changes. The craving is still there, but it's not screaming as loud anymore. It's as if someone is slowly turning down the volume. Sarah notices other things: the taste of peppermint tea in her mouth, the warm light of the floor lamp, the sounds of the city outside. Fifth minute. Sarah looks at the clock again: ten twenty-one p.m. The craving hasn't disappeared. But it's... become smaller. Like a balloon slowly losing air. She smiles. "Okay," she says. "Another five minutes." And then it actually becomes easier. Do you feel how time sometimes stretches? How five minutes of waiting for the bus can feel like half an hour? Or five minutes in a difficult conversation like a small eternity? Take one conscious breath in. And out. Time is strange. It stretches when we struggle. It shrinks when we let go. What is present in you right now? A craving? Impatience? A longing? Whatever it is – it doesn't have to stay forever. Remember: Everything you feel has a natural lifespan. Like a wave rolling to shore and flowing back again. Breathe with me once more. Can you allow this one wave to be there? Without pushing it away. Without following it. Simply: be there and breathe. Five minutes aren't long. Except when they feel long. And that's completely okay. The craving that feels eternal lasts only minutes. Five minutes. Then five more. The craving that feels eternal lasts only minutes. Take this thought with you into your day. You don't have to be strong forever. Only for the next five minutes. And then again for five minutes. Take one more deep breath in and out. Open your eyes, if they were closed. Thank you for these minutes together. Thank you for using Calm Sessions. ```