Pretty.

There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely, I realize. It’s a fine line, blurry but razor sharp, and easily crossed if you’re not careful.

Sitting in a coffee shop reading and blogging and people watching: Blissfully alone.

Standing under a scalding hot shower at 3 o’clock in the morning, just standing there, until the water runs cold: Pretty damn lonely.

It’s all about perspective, of course. Is it a pen, or is it something else? I know the drill.

I feel like I’ve been going through this evolution this year from “Where am I going?” to “What am I doing?” to “Why can’t I do it right?”

At first I just wanted to run. I had this “anywhere but here” kind of mentality. I’ll find work anywhere but here. I’ll feel settled anywhere but here. I’ll be happy anywhere but here. It took a lot of growing up to let myself settle down, to just live somewhere without plotting my next move. So then it became not where you are but what you’re doing.

My mom always says “Bloom where you’re planted.” The point being that where you are (on the planet or in your life) shouldn’t dictate whether or not you thrive. Fair enough. So I started focusing instead on what I wanted to do with myself, independent of where I was. I thought I’d nailed it with the whole grad school thing, but we know I’ve been questioning that for a while now.

So then it becomes this question of: What am I doing wrong? Why can’t I get this right?

Today in microbiology (what the hell am I doing in microbiology?) we were talking about the growth of flagella on bacteria. (It’s the tail.)

Hey, guy.

The curious thing about flagella growth (that could be a book title… dibs!) is that it doesn’t move from the base outward like a plant rising up from the ground. Rather, it comes from the top down. Basically (I’m going to butcher this), a little cap attaches to where the tail should grow. But rather than the tail sprouting from the body and pushing the cap outward, the cap creates all these little layers that pile up on top of the base slowly pushing it up and away.

Shwaa? I know. In the end it’s the exact same growth in the exact same trajectory. But it leapt out at me today as I was sitting there just aching in class and my professor saying in her delightful British accent, “It’s such a strange way to grow.”

Ain’t that the truth.

That’s the only thing I wrote in my notes today: Strange way to grow.

Cool.

I think maybe that’s my problem. I’m fixing things slowly but surely, yes, but maybe I’m going backwards. I’m starting with the little details.

Where will I live? What will I do? Who will I be with?

And inching outward to bigger, scarier questions.

What am I doing wrong? What do I want? (Who do I want, perhaps?) Ultimately… Who am I?

I think that all of those questions are really, really difficult to answer. But I feel like the work I’m doing in yoga is getting me there. Like the whole practice has plopped down on top of my life like a little cap and it’s creating all these new thoughts, all this new possibility. Letting life build, layer upon layer of old stuff, to slowly push me upward.

Anyway. I watched the coolest documentary last night. Everyone in the world needs to see it.

Fig granola bars

A Saturday night can usually go one of two ways: fun or boring.

But this is for normal people with normal schedules. For someone who works seven days a week, the Saturday night spectrum ranges from soul-crushingly unbearable to BLACKOUT DRUNK. (When you’re single you take the numerical equivalent of each extreme to the power of ten.)

You see, when you’re going nonstop and you get a hot minute to hit the town, you have pretty high expectations for where they night will lead you. Fall short and you fall into a pit of despair–”Noooo, my only night off WAAAASTED.”

Go hard and you’ll hardly remember you have a job at all–”My only night off and I’m gettin’ WAAAAASTED, bitches.”

Last weekend, Mitch and I went with the second option.

Cats included.

DREAM IT DO IT

Ladies and gentlemen, my brother.

I started out not wanting to go out at all but after a bottle of wine was most certainly whistling a different tune. It went a little something like THIS:

That song pretty much defines my college career. My parents are so proud.

So yeah, my day started innocently enough baking sweet little fig granola bars with pumpkin puree instead of oil and honey and things because I’m a dietitian or something.

Pure joy.

Figs make everything better.

And it ended barefoot in a parking garage somewhere uptown…

CLASS ACT.

Somewhere in between this happened:

One for each of us. Duh.

MITCH AND JOE PA'S FACES.

WHO ARE YOU

Whoops.

I’m a firm believer that this is part of a balanced, healthy life.

Salads are for winners.

“I don’t know why you do that, Katie.”

Mitch is across the table from me, eight candles burning between us because I like to pretend they create an acceptable (albeit hazardous) makeshift fireplace on gray, rainy days. I’m giving her my most recent sob story and she’s calling it like she sees it, giving it to me straight like so few people do. I have immense respect for people who can and will put me in my place.

“I know you say you don’t have your shit together but as an outsider looking in, trust me when I say this, you’re the only one who thinks that. I don’t know why you do it.”

She’s right, of course. We humans have this incredible ability to build up intricate lies in our heads about who we are or aren’t, who we like and who we don’t, what’s good and what’s bad. We have the capacity to build entire alternate realities for ourselves, and the really amazing thing is not that we can do this but that we almost always choose misery over happiness when we do. (See: Right or Happy? Your Move.) Why do we do this?

There’s a story I keep hearing in yoga and reading in books about this concept, about how things are not themselves by themselves. They are what we think them to be only because of what we make them to be. Bear with me.

Think of an object, any object, and define what it is. In yoga the example is a reed pen. A teacher holds a reed pen up to a student, “What is this?”

“A pen,” the student responds.

“No,” says the teacher. “What is this?”

“… A pen?”

“NO. What is this?”

“It’s a pen.”

“No. What is this to a cow?”

“It’s… food.”

The point is that the pen is only a pen if the seer thinks it’s a pen.

You could go further with the pen. What is it to a warrior? A weapon. To a child? A magic wand.

Try again. Think of a park bench. What is it? A place to sit? Somewhere to sip on a latte? What is it to the homeless guy that slept on it last night? A bed, maybe?

How about me?

I blew through my life savings and can’t get my head back above water. Or… I invested in my future with higher education.

I’m at the mercy of an impossibly full schedule. Or… I’m busy because I want to be.

I sell black stretchy pants at the mall. Or… I’ve met some of my best friends at a fun job that gives me free yoga.

I’m letting everyone down. Or… I’m doing what’s best for me.

I don’t know what I want. Or… I already have everything I need.

I’m lost. Or… I’m exploring.

I read How Yoga Works in the Bahamas and it focuses a lot on this concept of things not being themselves by themselves. There is one page in the book that I’ve dog-eared, underlined, starred and shared. It is this (page 179 if you’ve got it):

He shook his head tightly, forcefully. He almost saw, and he didn’t see, and it was killing him. I picked the pen up from his desk and held it up between us–my shining golden sword.

“Is this a pen; or is it something to eat?” I demanded.

He shook his head again, violently. Help me.

I leaned over intensely and slammed my palm into his chest. 

“Is this flesh–born only to die; or is it pure and loving light?”

He looked up at me, his face changing.

“And your wife, and your daughter,” I said, loudly now, thrusting my palm there, at his chest, where the highest compassion of all lies choked. “Are they dead and gone forever; or do they stand at your side, waiting to be seen, waiting until you learn to see them, be with them, be them?”

And then I slammed my hand down again on the desk and held the pen up between us. “Is it a pen or something to eat? Answer me!” I screamed.

“A pen!” he screamed back now, nearly across the border. “A pen!”

“No!” I screamed back. “Not a pen! Never a pen! Never a pen! NO COW HAS EVER SEEN THIS PEN, AS A PEN, AND SO…” I waited for him.

“And so, and so… they would say… cows would say… that there are no pens,” he finished, still thinking it out.

“The mind makes it a pen,” he went on to himself. “It is not a pen… by itself.”

And then he looked down, at his own chest, where my hand had woken him. “And the body… my body, this flesh…” he said, holding his own two hands there, with a look of wonder growing on his face. “It is flesh, it is flesh, because… because… and only because, my mind makes me see it that way.”

It’s just… enormous. This whole concept. It’s huge. It’s all I’ve been able to think about for the last two weeks. I keep telling everyone but I feel like I’m not explaining it right. I want everyone to read it and get it and, more importantly, do it. Make the choice. What do you want? Do you want to be right or happy? Are you flesh and bone here to die or are you pure, divine, immortal light?

It feels so very out there–a little too “yoga,” if you know what I mean–but I choose light. Definitely.

Fire hazard. Look away, mom.

Stay in that one pure thought, and never forget it. That single most important thing: things are empty of being what they are by themselves. Yoga sutra I.43A

WHAT DO YOU MEAN CHANTAL IS BACK?!

Oh heeeeeeey.

Do you know the last time I had a Caturday off?

Go.back.to.work.please.

ME NEITHER.

DAY OFF DAY OFF DAY OFF

I have big plans to sit around by myself and do absolutely nothing but bake and read and yoga and sleep and throw more things away (just kidding, donate). I love getting rid of things. Where do all these things keep coming from? No one knows. I just keep accumulating stuff… like cats.

They’re coming out of the woodwork.

HAAAAAAAAAA

Anyway. I don’t have anything to say about the cats. Except that Ralph has almost memorized the entire ashtanga primary series. And I’m proud of her.

Good job, Ralph.

Let’s go bake something. Happy Caturday.

Completely unrelated cookie picture.

I have this very vivid childhood memory that I think sums up my entire being.

(Are you ready for this?)

We were at Farm & Fleet. Anyone who grew up in the Midwest understands this to be the kind of store that sells tractors and overalls and coon traps and tacky little knick knacks to distract the ladies while their husbands shop for deer-gutting knives. You could also probably find a sweatshirt with a “Hang in there” dangling kitten screen printed on the front if you looked hard enough. There is usually a hotdog stand out front on Saturdays. In the months leading up to Christmas they section off a significant chunk of the store with mysterious hanging tarps. Every kid in town knows that behind the hanging tarps is the most magical place on Earth (to hell with Disney World), the Alpha and the Omega, the Holiest of Holies… Behind the hanging tarps lies Toyland. Row after row of toys, glorious toys. Toys on the floor. Toys on shelves up to the ceiling. Toys as far as a three-foot eye can see.

Wouldn’t you know it, I didn’t care so much about toys, oh no. For along with Toyland came the Christmas decor display. A veritable fake tree forest sprouting up in the middle of the store, each plastic bough bending under the weight of hundreds and hundreds of ornaments. An awkward kid’s dream land.

Now. What you need to understand here is that I had this very peculiar childhood habit of attaching human emotions to inanimate objects. I’m not just talking dolls and stuffed animals and things that normal kids bring to life. I’m talking pillows and napkins and, like, wood chips. To me, everything had a story and everything had feelings and I was not about to go hurting anything’s feelings. I had to make sure that pillows didn’t fall off the bed at night, lest they feel rejected. That dirty used napkins be balled up with other dirty used napkins before reaching the trash, lest they end up in the dump scared and alone. Are you following this?

So anyway, we’re at Farm & Fleet at Christmastime. My brother and sister are in Toyland like normal children and I’m in the tree display like a lunatic. I circle the displays in search of the perfect ornament. Not perfect like the prettiest or the biggest or the coolest. Perfect like the weirdest, the straggler, the loner. The one that needed a home.

I set my sights on a simple wooden reindeer. No glitter or sequins or lights or anything. Just this one little wooden reindeer. The only little wooden reindeer, it appeared. I wanted the little wooden reindeer because the little wooden reindeer needed me.

I walked around with the damn reindeer for what felt like hours fretting over whether or not it would be mine come checkout time. I paced up and down the aisles. Set the reindeer down. Walked away like I didn’t want it anymore. Picked it back up. Put it back down, didn’t need it. Sidled back over, hid it behind other ornaments. Scooped it back up. Slipped it under tree skirts. Eventually put it back in its place and walked out with my family with not a word spoken of its existence.

That night I lay sobbing (I’m not kidding you, sobbing) in my bed. I cannot even imagine what my mom must’ve thought when she came to tuck me in and found me in such a state. Eventually, with much coaxing, through streaming tears and snotty sniffles, I managed to speak English. “I… w-w-w-wanted… the… reindeer… REINDEER ORNAMENTWAAAAAAHHHH.”

Oh, to have a photo of my mom’s face at that very moment. There was no possible way for her to have any idea what I was talking about. I envision shock, confusion, amusement and mild irritation.

“Tater. What ornament? What reindeer ornament?”

“THE REINDEER ORNAMENT AT FARM & FLEET THAT I FOUND AND I CARRIED AND I WANTED ITWAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH.”

“Well we’ll go get it tomorrow.”

“BUT IT WILL BE GONE OHHHHH GODDDDDD.”

“Well Tater, we didn’t know you wanted the ornament,” said Mom in that tone moms use when they know their child is being ridiculous but they know they’d also strangle a lion with their bare hands to protect that ridiculous child. “There was no way for us to know that. Why didn’t you just tell someone what you wanted?”

[Silence.] “I thought you’d say no.”

I never did get the little wooden reindeer ornament. I imagine I had forgotten about it the next day when some other helpless inanimate object needing my love and affection came along. Golf balls aren’t gonna tend to themselves, you know.

The point of this story is that I still do this. I always do this. I’m 26 years old and I’m still crying over little wooden reindeer. Only now things have gotten a little bigger and a lot less tangible than something so simple and innocent as a little wooden reindeer. But the story is still the same. I see something I want. I attach myself immediately. I fret over it. I hide it and disguise it and sneak it and convince myself I don’t want it or need it or deserve it. I keep it a secret because sharing it–because asking for it–opens the door for someone to tell me no.

And that, my friends, is the root of all my problems ever in existence. The end.

Om namah sivaya

“Do you have to be a guest of this resort to pass through here?” I called to a lanky security guard whose sole responsibility, it appeared, was to stop wandering freeloading yogis from taking up valuable five-star towel space.

I had this vision of the ashram being completely secluded, peacefully tucked away on its own little island, and when you’re on the grounds, that’s certainly how it feels. After all, I arrived after dark and, as far as I could tell from my vantage point in a little tent by the sea, was as far from civilization as possible. But after just one night on the compound the veteran residents started to fill me in on some dirty little secrets.

“Oh girl, you must be new. You know there’s a Starbucks five minutes down the beach at Atlantis, right?” Her name was Roicin (Rah-sheen), a feisty Ireland native with a heavy Gaelic lilt. She’d been tending bar in New York the last four years before moving to the ashram two weeks ago to complete their intensive, militaristic teacher training program, which she described as “BULLSHIT… bullshit, girl.” We became fast friends. As fast as two people who do little more than shoot cynical glances across the temple during satsang can be, anyway.

Tile floor is hard.

“You look like a guest to me,” the guard laughed with a wink.

This must be one of those sexist moments that works in my favor, I thought. Still, ever the rule follower, I hesitated.

“Go on, girl. Walk normal. Like you know what’s going on,” he said.

Little did he know I never walk like that. I carried on anyway past the pools and lounge chairs and rich people to a quiet little secluded spot as far away from everything as I could get.

“I’m Mario,” he called after me.

“I’m in the damn Bahamas,” I thought. “What am I doing in the damn Bahamas?”

Yeah. Do that.

So this is how most of my days went.

At 5:30am the first morning bell would ring. For some reason I did not find this to be a disgusting hour at which to rise (maybe someone slipped me some of the Kool Aid?), and I’d bound out of my sleeping bag and off to the temple for satsang before the second warning bell even sounded at 5:45am.

Mandatory morning satsang starts at 6 o’clock with 25 minutes of silent meditation followed by an hour-and-a-half of chanting and singing. Two hours is a very long time to sit on the ground, yes. At 8am the first yoga classes commence. The only practice allowed is Sivananda style, a long, slow two-hour ordeal with lots of inversions, savasanas and breathing exercises. Not my cup of tea but I played along. At 10 o’clock brunch was served, a vegan buffet usually involving some kind of soup, curry, rice, salad and fresh-baked bread. Caffeine and eggs are not allowed on the grounds.

YES.

Because I was not enrolled in any courses during my stay, I was free from 11am to 4pm when the second mandatory yoga session started. (Yep, same damn two-hour set series.) I used this time to quietly practice the ashtanga primary series (blasphemy!) and sneak down to Atlantis to lay around on the beach for the rest of the day. In case you’re counting, this brings my yoga practice count to six hours a day. I spent a lot of time walking up and down the coast, a lot of time reading and one metric shit ton of time sleeping. So much sleeping.

Whatever. Judge me.

Dinner was served at 6pm, same style as brunch. The second mandatory satsang started at 8pm but I regret to inform you that I only made it the first night. After dinner I would slip off to my tent “just to rest for a bit” and would pass out by 6:45pm. Every night. Like clockwork.

For me, the routine was exactly what I needed. The total disconnection. The solitude. The time outdoors. The time resting. My body told me what it wanted and I listened.

This morning I woke up at 5:30am, just like nothing had changed. I sat down next to my bed for 25 minutes of meditation and then sipped on hot water with lemon and coriander. Today I’m working 8am to 4pm at one job and 5pm to 10pm at another. It is my goal to hold on to the feeling of that trip in spite of my life’s rude interruption of the daily schedule. To walk normal like I know what’s going on.

Mmmhm.

I had to buy a bathing suit at 10pm. Well, 9:54. Target closes at 10. That’s how last-minute this trip was and how completely unprepared for it I was. Who doesn’t own a bathing suit?

After relying on my go-to coping mechanism of avoidance for the last month, I finally accepted the fact that the flight was booked, a space at the ashram reserved, my bag packed and my excuses weak.

But…

• I’ll miss work.
• I’ll miss class.
• I’ll miss… the cats.

All fine excuses, I suppose, if they were actually why I didn’t want to go. The real reason? I was scared. I was scared to death. I don’t know if it was traveling alone or sleeping in a tent or the weird cultish yogi chanting every day at 6am that awaited, or if maybe, just maybe, I was really just scared to be with myself by myself. No friends. No computer. No phone. Nothing to distract me from the fact that I had some healing and searching and growing to do.

Lovely.

So 24 hours before my flight was to take off, I paid my balance to the ashram, got my shift covered at work and started publicly announcing my “plan.” I still didn’t really think I’d do it.

Adam took me to REI to get a tent and a sleeping bag and a rain cover and all those things I was planning to just “figure out” when I got there. We went to yoga and dinner and rushed to Target to buy a bathing suit before they closed–but not before stopping for frozen yogurt. Duh. Priorities.

Oh hey. The bathing suit fit.

He set up the tent in the living room so I could pretend like I was a pro when I tried to do it myself a few hours later. We laid around in it right there on the living room rug and I realized this safe, comfortable little cocoon would look and feel quite different outside on a beach in the dark by myself.

Tah dah.

“If you leave the rain cover off you’ll be able to just lay here and look at the stars,” he said.

I don’t know why something so pleasant sounded so utterly terrifying to me at that moment. I don’t even know the last time I looked at the stars.

We took it down and he showed me how to properly fold it, which knew I would undoubtedly be unable to replicate.

“Don’t get sand in it,” he said.

“I won’t,” I lied.

“You will,” he laughed.

The whole night was one of those “Am I in a movie?” moments. Like all that was missing was a soundtrack.

I went home around midnight and started packing. This is when things got ugly.

What if my plane crashes? What if I can’t find the ashram? What if everyone is really weird? (They totally were.) What if someone kills me? What if I can’t set up the tent?

I fanned the flames of insanity by reading the retreat’s TripAdvisor reviews. Only the bad ones.

Cult or temple? You decide.

This sent me into a tailspin of irrational thoughts and actions, and I stayed up until 5am packing and repacking, binge eating an entire bag of Trader Joe’s olive oil popcorn and generally freaking out.

I eventually talked myself into at least two hours of sleep and prayed to God that I would oversleep and have a real reason not to go.

I guess God had other plans because here I am on a plane somewhere over Miami. I suppose this is happening.

Not a bad place to practice, really...

So that’s the first entry in my journal from the trip. More to come, so much more…

Hey, baby.

I’ve clearly run out of things to pre-post. It is now 4am the morning I’m supposed to be leaving and here I am blogging away like a damn lunatic.

The last time I went out of the country (Nicaragua), I didn’t sleep before getting on the plane either. I actually went to my friend’s wedding in Atlanta the night before and then drove all the way home arriving at, like, 3am. Then I packed and got on the plane three hours later. Ridiculous. My life is ridiculous.

Anyway, this seemingly irrelevant meal was one actually worth mentioning but I forgot about it so here it is now (as I grasp for filler) in all its glory:

• greens
• feta
• nuts
• dried cranberries
• quinoa
• tomatoes
• carrots
• celery
• hummus
• balsamic + olive oil

Yeah, boy.

Based on the reviews of the place I’m visiting, their “vegetarian buffets” are severely lacking any actual produce. Lame. I bet I really want an apple right now. I guess I’m not allowed to complain if I’m on the beach. But what if I’m writing from a time when I’m not on a beach even though when you guys read this I will be on a beach? What? Time travel. Messin’ with your head.

I’m sorry. I’ll be back tomorrow. Tan and talkative.

Oh, the stories I will tell…

Irrelevant yellow photo.

I’ve been wanting to write this rant for quite some time and since I’m safe and sound in a peaceful ashram on an island in the Bahamas, I figure now is an ideal time to share it.

Let me preface this by saying: Hate on, haters. You were thinking it, too; I just said it. Also, much like racist jokes and sexist jokes and homophobic jokes and all that mess, this is only ok for me to say because I am a blogger bad habit. My whole life is one big blogger bad habit list and, as such, I get to call all the rest of you out because I do many of these things myself. (But never #6. Ever.) It’s fine.

Without further adieu…

12 Blogger Bad Habits to Break in 2012

1. Apologizing for not posting for 24 hours. I hate to break it to you but no one is waiting around with bated breath to hear you rant on about your oatmeal. Life, as they say, goes on. Even when we don’t post.
2. Passive aggressively attacking readers on Twitter. “Ohmygawd, some commenters are so stupid when they as things like (insert perfectly reasonable question).” Guess what? Your readers probably follow you on Twitter, too. Now you look like a big ol’ bitch. But a big ol’ passive bitch, and that’s even worse.
3. Calling your significant other anything but his/her given name. I’m serious with this. Just stop it.
4. Posting shitty, irrelevant photos. See above.
5. Talking about your traffic. Ever. Especially if you are living off your blog, this is basically like discussing your salary. Tacky.
6. Using emoticons. This is the writer’s equivalent of putting a bumper sticker on a Bentley. Or iron-on patches on a couture dress. If your message is strong, your style natural and your tone clear, people will get exactly what it is you’re trying to say without the need for a winky face. Promise.
7. Instagramming everything on Earth. I realize the hip fade makes your skin look flawless and your pumpkin spice latte look like a damn work of fine art, but please just take it down one notch.
8. Passive aggressively bitching about people stealing your recipes. Every recipe is stolen, my friend. You probably stole the one you “wrote” and don’t even realize it. There are only so many ways to make a cookie. At some point, every recipe is an adaptation of something that came before it. Ask your great-grandma. She’s probably sick of the whole world getting credit for her goods. Besides, you can’t even copyright ingredients, only instructions. So write a compelling narrative on how to bake your cookie and then (and only then) can you complain if someone jacks it.
9.  Calling yourself a writer. I’m sorry but… you’re just probably not. Eep. I said it. I’m ok with joggers calling themselves runners, but I’m not ok with casual gym goers calling themselves athletes. Do you see the difference? Someone who enjoys cooking is a cook, not a chef. Following? I’m ok with you calling yourself a blogger or even a freelancer or saying that you write as a verb, but you are not a writer. It’s a fine, blurry line, I realize. Respect it.
10. Retweeting compliments. I totally do this. It is sad and pitiful.
11. Acting like you didn’t just Google that. Stop spouting information like you knew it before Google told you two seconds ago. Cite your shit… even (or especially) if it’s Wikipedia.
12. Thinking you’re famous. Just don’t.

I love you.

First of all… All I can think right now (3am the morning I’m supposed to leave) is: “Oh dear sweet Jesus I hope they serve coffee at ashrams…” Do they? God, I hope so…

Anyway no, I did not bring my laptop to the ashram with me. But I seriously considered it. (Don’t judge me I HAVE A PROBLEM!)

They do have Wi-Fi here but I thought it counterproductive to bring my number one vice along with me to a place where I’m trying to seriously clean up my act by spending some quality time with myself.

SO… I pre-posted a few ranty-rants for your reading pleasure while I’m away. You are welcome.

The other night in class, Adam was talking about the fine line between knowing when to hang on and when to just let go. In yoga we see this (and feel it) in tough postures and long holds. For some reason, the body’s natural reaction is to tense up, for muscles to grip to bone for dear life, for our shoulders to inch up towards our ears, for our eyebrows to crinkle and our minds to flip out. “I WILL HOLD THE HELL OUT OF THIS POSE,” says the mind. “I WILL TENSE THE HELL OUT OF MYSELF,” says the body.

But this doesn’t make holding the pose any easier. It actually makes it harder. In fact, it’s straight up exhausting. The key to getting through a tough pose or a tough series or a tough class or, hell, a tough life is learning when to let go. When to take a nice long exhale and just let it ride. When to ignore discomfort and focus on inner peace.

As always, this is a big fat metaphor for our lives, too.

This is the mother holding on to her adult daughter because it’s too scary to let her live her own life.

This is the girlfriend holding on to her boyfriend because it’s too scary to start over.

This is the executive holding on to a job she hates because it’s too scary to follow your passion.

This is the controlling, Type A, paranoid blogger holding on to “content” because it’s too scary to move beyond her safe comfort zone.

Let go and let her find her own way. Odds are, it will lead back to you anyway. Let go and let yourself hurt. It’s temporary. Let go and live your dream. Life is too short not to. Let go and be uncomfortable. You have no idea how capable you are.

There are countless things we hold onto in our lives because we think that life without them will be worse. Relationships. Jobs. Material things. Addictions. But, really, there’s no way to know that until you let go. That’s when things really happen.

In yoga we pair our movements with breath. Inhale: hold. Exhale: release. It’s in the fluid release, not the rigid hold that our bodies begin to open.

Life will open up much in the same way if you can only learn to let some things go. How? Just stop holding your breath. Exhale: release. Just like that.

The day after that class, I walked into work and stepped down from one of my leadership roles. Just like that. It wasn’t fitting in my life anymore. It wasn’t something I wanted and was something I knew I could release if I simply let it go. So I did. It felt great.

What can you let go?