I would have been a yoga teacher. I almost was in this life.
It’s a long story, and I’m bone tired. So I’m not going to tell it. It’s interesting and tragic and sad and hopeful and honest.
But I’ll say this: yoga is the only thing that has consistently kept me off the ledge. Not my meds. Not therapy. Yoga.
When I go to yoga 3 times a week, my body is healthy and my mind works. I don’t get headaches, I don’t have fibro flares, my tummy calms down, I don’t have to pee every ten minutes, and I don’t yell at my kids. I will practice at home when I feel like it, but I love the energy of a class. I think that means to most yogis, I’m not a real yogi b/c I don’t have a consistent home practice. I don’t really care what you call me. I just know what I need.
But for some reason, knowing all that, knowing that I need yoga like I need air, to live, sometimes I get out of yoga for months at a time. And my life goes to shit. It’s the strangest thing. It’s like that person inside that’s trying to kill me. I don’t know how she gets strong, but sometimes she does. And then I have to fight her back and drag myself to a class and BAM! knock. her. out.
And it always comes back to me. My body doesn’t forget. I may be sore as all hell the next day if I’ve been gone for a while, but my body doesn’t forget. It yearns for yoga.
I might still be a teacher sometime in this lifetime. IDK. Would you take my class, crazy as I am?