Once upon a time, I didn’t have a regular practice. Then a door opened and I walked into a steamy, sweat-soaked studio nearly every single day during my two years of graduate school at NYU. The writer in me was craving anything but writing, and I thought yoga was physical. And it was.
There were abs and arms to tone, weight to lose, hips to stretch. But there was more. All the bending and moving and concentrating on my body was unearthing years of buried emotions. Two years into it, and my practice was calming me, healing me. I found myself craving yoga in place of food or drink, instead of closure and explanation. Yoga had become my medicine.
Was I that sick? No, not really. I was lost and a little sad, hating a job I was supposed to love, and stuck with the frustration of life events gone wrong.
When I was 14, my father suffered a traumatic brain injury. One fluke car accident and I was left with a whole new life trajectory full of challenge, sadness, anger, growth and acceptance. No one could have seen any of it coming.
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