It’s taken me nearly two years to write about why I haven’t been to yoga.
As a writer, I know my words can’t be forced into being, they must be carefully coaxed and wooed.
I left yoga about two and a half years ago. I had a five day a week practice that I rarely skipped—even when my mother was in the hospital for three weeks. I wrote extensively about my yogic journey for multiple, sometimes major, publications.
I was asked when I would consider teacher’s training and was even often approached in public or at the studios I attended by people I didn’t know, telling me how much I had inspired them in their practice.
Though all of this took place in the small bubble of my home town, it was still affirming to know that I had, in some small way, begun to plant and cultivate seeds of growth and compassion, not only in myself, but in others.
For what felt like the first time in my life, I was maintaining a positive forward movement.
The power of yoga and positive thoughts were all I needed to overcome any obstacles life could throw my way. My cynical, depressed, anxious, addictive, atheist self had been transformed into a blissful, accepting creature well on her way to enlightenment.
All of life’s problems could be solved between my mat and my kitchen.
Depression? Do yoga! Up dog, down dog, chaturanga. Health concerns? Watch what you eat. Juice cleanses, veganism, gluten-free! Social injustice? Practice compassion! Namaste. Anxious? Meditate! Om Shanti Om. Lack of inspiration? Search within. Om Namah Shivaya.
How had I not been doing this my entire life? It was so simple!
And then it wasn’t.