The Day Yoga And I Became Friends Again
Today yoga and I decided to bury the hatchet. Well, I made the decision on my own and yoga just went along with it because she wasn’t mad at me to begin with. She is quite a nice gal, to say the least, for she received the punches resulting from a fight that had nothing to do with her; it was just me against my lack of something that I now understand is self-compassion.
In regard to physical activities, my performance has always been narrowed to a neutral meh: meh dancer, meh runner, meh weightlifter. These mehs might not have been strong or talented, but they were constant and diverse, and yoga represented the perfect haven for them to thrive. On the mat, the sum of my average but constant abilities resulted in excellence, and excellence made me feel like I could fly.
Let’s be honest, how on Earth could I dare to declare that flying is anything other than marvelous? One’s got the stamina, the freedom, the cheers, and the attention. But sometimes when one has access to such staggering things, a time might come when one cannot go a day without them. Unfortunately, people rarely speak about the price to pay when becoming addicted to flying. On the mat, the sum of my average but constant abilities resulted in excellence, and excellence made me feel like I could fly, which resulted in wanting more and more of it, which eventually lead to a complete contradiction to the principles of yoga.
Postures shifted from being a way to stretch and strengthen my body for its own good, to being a megaphone that I employed to shout that I was finally outstanding at something. Breathing exercises that were meant to aid in keeping focus and assuring mental and physical balance, started becoming a means through which I could prove that I was stronger than my nagging anxiety — spoiler alert: I wasn’t, and I was just denying it, but that’s another story for another time. My greatest motivation was nothing more and nothing less than being called to the center of the room to set the example for others; whenever I took side-glances and saw a higher leg or a lower squat or a straighter headstand, I pushed further, and I pushed harder. My body and I pushed and pushed and pushed until one of us desisted…you guessed right: it wasn’t me. Nonetheless, I dragged my body against its own will and I kept showing up, showing up with bandages, smeared with pain relieving cream and after popping ibuprofen like candy, but showing up.
I accepted too late that constant pain, stress, and suffering are not normal and are neither a sign of bravery nor of willpower and endurance. At the time, I held my head high when bragging about how I could barely walk and was still able to do 108 Surya Namaskar in a row. It is until now that I realize how messed up that sounds. I went to see a physical therapist and he recommended complete rest for two weeks and after that, he told me to get back into exercise little by little. I was fully aware that if there’s a discipline that smoothly allows patience, introspection, and self-paced practice, is yoga, but the winged part of me wasn’t going to tolerate the shame of being seen walking instead of flying because, as they say, go big or go home. And I did that; I went home and completely abandoned yoga.
Now I’m here telling the dispiriting story of how, on my own and with my bare hands, I turned something that used to fulfill me into something that I couldn’t even think about without despising myself for a masterminded weakness that wouldn’t allow me to touch a yoga mat ever again. As it can be noticed, I’m not only good at self-deprecating, but I’m also an expert in drama…my oh my.
Right now, I’m referencing my experience with yoga, but as I type these lines, I realize that my reflection can be transferred to a handful of aspects of my life. I find myself questioning how many of the things I do I do because I genuinely want to? How many I do because I seek validation from others? I mean, if I’m being completely sincere, I’m even forcing myself to write my thoughts down, of course, so I can free my mind a bit, but also so I can eventually publish this text and demonstrate my capacity of turning my anguishes into something that makes sense.
This past year my living dynamic changed, and I got to spend a lot more time with myself, which represented both a burden and twisted blessing. During these months, I bumped into yoga once again and decided to re-open the door for her; it seemed like the world was about to end, so why not? I signed up for an online class and the setting was completely different from what I was used to: it was just me, my mat, my laptop, and my dog, who conveniently craved cuddles right at the time of my practice. Moreover, I was already appropriately addressing the previously mentioned anxiety and some other mind knots that were bugging me. I had no teacher in front of me, I had no peers beside me and for the first time in forever, I had some accumulated kindness that had just one specific recipient — hint: it was me.
It took a global pandemic and some therapy sessions for me to discover a different, but just as wholesome, way of flying; these new wings were given to me by the bliss of enjoying things for the sole reason that they make me feel good. Maybe I couldn’t get a full split or caress the clouds with the tip of my toe, but I was able to get through the whole session without pain, and most importantly, I was able to show up again, and again, and again. I learned that most times a constant and healthy little is way better than a one-time and damaging lot, that sticking with it for oneself overshadows getting through it for others.
I’m not going to lie; I have not yet freed myself from the chains of the empty and pointless spotlight desire. However, every time I realize that people care way less about me than I think, I get happy chills. So, kudos to yoga for putting up with me and my internal fights, for paving my road to self-compassion and for gently and ceaselessly whispering in my ear that I don’t have to prove anything to anybody.
