Every year, my teacher Ti Harmony chooses a pose of the year that he then teaches in detail throughout that year. All sorts of fun pose explorations have come from that for me - Triangle pose, for example, is still a rich source of yogic wisdom (and frequently, honestly, frustration) - a gift that keeps on giving. This year, Ti has chosen two poses - Bow pose and Handstand. When I first found out what those poses were, all of Ti’s classes were still online only and I remember feeling concerned (or was it impressed?!) that he was endeavoring to teach handstand online! During that winter and early spring, I made a few halfhearted attempts to get upside down next to the wall in my living room, with not much confidence or success. And then it got warm enough to have outdoor classes as the yoga studios were still closed. The handstand came up during each class! No walls, fences, or anything else to support the body upside down in that practice space. So I started trying to kick my legs up, one at a time, with much fear and trepidation. I remember feeling so insignificant then, trying to get my legs up and holding myself back for fear of flipping over and falling on my back.

After one particular outdoor class, after yet again trying to kick up but holding myself back, I came home with a sense of injured pride and a hurt ego for not being able to do something with my body. Now, if yoga has taught me anything it is to avoid getting hooked by ego or pushing past the edge. Digging deeper, behind the pride, I noticed another feeling - the critical, shameful feeling of my body “not being good enough” and “not skilled enough” to get upside down. I registered a very strong sense of fear and a loud inner voice saying, “you can’t do this pose; it’s not for you,” seemingly implying that my body type, size, level of fitness weren’t somehow compatible with bringing my body upside down in this way. I let myself feel all of that and let it pass through me. It’s always hard when this inner critical message comes through! I felt embarrassed, then angry, then lighter and lighter internally, bit by bit, as I let a little more compassion and space happen where there were previously hardness and harshness.

Then I remembered that once upon a time - I must have been six or seven - I covered my bedroom floor with couch cushions, overcame my fear, and, with my dad’s help, taught myself to do a cartwheel in one evening. That’s the story that my family still tells to illustrate my persistence (or stubbornness, I guess). I’m less stubborn in many ways now and have a little less of that competitive, must-achieve-at-all-costs attitude, for better or for worse. But I remember the satisfaction and fun of cartwheeling around the room or out in nature somewhere. Cartwheels were, even back then, a way to celebrate being in the body. So one day soon after that one outdoor class this year, I moved aside the kids’ stuff littering the floor in my dining room and tried a cartwheel. My body remembered! Yeah, I landed on my foot a little funny, it didn’t look graceful, I came down with a loud thump, but still - my body remembered. After that, I decided to approach the handstand with the same attitude - not going for perfection, but at least trying it - for fun, for the experience of it, to see what I can learn. So now in studio class, I get upside down - next to the wall, mind you! - with an understanding that I can trust myself, trust my body to hold me, to keep me safe, and to give me signals for when I’m too tired or too inattentive to practice this pose safely.

That experience got me thinking: What else can I do that is fun and allows me to trust myself more and be in my body more fully? Biking. At the end of summer, I bought a bike and went out with my family to try it out. I felt like such an idiot - a grown woman pushing 40, decidedly non-athletic-looking, with a terrified look on her face, squealing as she’s trying to balance on a bike, trying to keep up with her 5- and 9-year-old and her former-mountain-biker husband. But I got over myself, rode a bunch and now I can go on a mellow bike ride in the neighborhood. So nothing major, still: not cycling on country roads long distances and not commuting on my bike -but still feeling like I can get from point A to point B, with a bit of effort and a bit of sweat.

And so it is in our yoga practice and in life - to practice letting go of fear, we don’t have to perform enormous acts of courage; it only takes a little bit of opening to what is and a little bit of trust in the flow of things.

What’s next for me? Riding my bike to the yoga studio this spring! Can I manage it? We’ll see :) What else? Sometime in the next decade or so, by the time I’m 50, I want to become a more confident swimmer. Water is not my thing, apparently, but of all the elements, water teaches us the value of relaxation and self-trust. So check with me in 10 years to see how that project is going!

What helps you trust yourself and your body more?