Every year, my birthday sends me into an existential spiral. Born January 9th, the “new year, new me” rhetoric has always added to the perfect storm. The older I get, the heavier the pressure to “succeed” feels. I always thought that by 32 I’d be happily married, settled down, and raising small children. After a few gut-wrenching turns of fate over the past few years, my life couldn’t look more different than what I’d imagined.
The quest for self-discovery still feels endless. My navel-gazing is neck-breaking, and it follows me around the world as I travel. My internal interrogations make it impossible to relax. I am working on letting go of my resentments, my impatience, my perfectionism. I am learning to be gentler with myself instead of spiraling into negative self-talk and silent lectures about never doing enough, never being enough.
I often bottle up my grief and disappointment because it makes me feel myopic and ungrateful. I live a blessed life surrounded by friends and family who mean the world to me. My work is interesting and my students give me a deep sense of purpose. But still, the desire for a partner who wouldn’t dream of doing the things past ones have done and the ache to be a mother color my life more and more with every passing birthday. My loneliness has been wrapping itself around me lately like a boa constrictor, forcing out all the air in my chest.
Last year, I took a detailed inventory of my life and started removing myself from unhealthy relationships in every sphere. Turns out that self-care isn’t doing mental gymnastics for years (or decades) to evolve and “learn to deal with difficult people,” but rather to remove myself from situations where I felt disrespected, unheard, or drained. I’ve been leaning deeply into my remaining friendships. I’m blessed to be surrounded by incredible humans who see me in my wholeness and help me to feel cozy and secure.
I bought clothes that fit my body instead of angrily shoving myself into ones that have been too small for years. I stopped working anywhere where I felt that I was being talked down to or taken advantage of. I told the people in my life how much I loved and appreciated them. I scrubbed my apartment clean almost every day in gratitude for the coziness of my space. I started lying down and closing my computer more often. Turns out, it took being diagnosed with a third chronic illness for me to finally start giving my body permission to rest.
My journey as a yoga teacher has helped me find my center over and over again throughout the tumult of the past few years, when the rest of my life has seemed to be in constant limbo. Turns out that learning and teaching others how to breathe, how to bend, how to cultivate flexibility and how to be of service are also applicable to life off the mat. As a workaholic constantly cursing the fact that humans aren’t born with more hands, the Eight Limbs have served me greatly.
When leading asana classes, yoga teacher training, and workshops, I am continuously struck by my student’s vulnerability and willingness to share with me. My confidence in myself as a teacher, a yogi, and a community-builder have all increased exponentially over time. Never have I been so sure that I have something to offer the world. I have so much gratitude for the teachers who led me through my training and the students who trust me to help guide them through theirs. Family looks a lot of ways for a lot of different people. Three Sisters has always felt like a family to me, especially during my 300-hour training, when fostering deep friendships was central to the program.
I have begun to accept my life as a story forever in flux. Its ever-changing nature is a constant call to find balance and equanimity in both body and mind. The lessons I’ve learned through Three Sisters and the community I’ve built here, which I couldn’t imagine my life without, have anchored me in ways I never thought possible. I may not know where the road is headed, but I know with great certainty that I won’t be walking it alone.
With eternal love and gratitude,
Anna Rose