*Heads up! Some strong language below!*

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I’m a yoga teacher, Reiki Master and tarot reader. I generally consider myself a mindful, aware human.

But even though I am all of these things, I still experience depression and anxiety.

When this happens, I tell myself what I would tell anyone who is experiencing the same thing:

“It’ll get better tomorrow.”

“Meditate a little.”

“Do some breathing exercises.”

“Get on your mat. Chant your mantras.”

“Do some Reiki on yourself. Use a mudra.”

Some days, I do every single one of these things, and I still feel terrible. It doesn’t mean they don’t work—no, not at all. Most days they work instantly.

On the days they don’t work, I have to remember that I’m human for fuck’s sake. I’m not a yoga robot that can flip a switch and a rainbow comes out of my ass when I’m in downward-facing dog!

No. I have feelings, and I will feel them.

I won’t wallow, and I won’t allow them to drag me down to the depths never again to see the light—but I will stop, pause, feel and listen.

I’ll listen to my breathing. I’ll feel the emotions that come pouring out of me as I write. I’ll listen to the soft, still voice inside me that is barely audible underneath all of the excess. She whispers:

“I know you don’t feel the best right now, but you have a right to embrace yourself no matter how you feel. You deserve to be loved. You can cradle yourself without coddling yourself. Be gentle and kind. Tomorrow is another day.”

Doing these practices does not mean my life will be sunshine and butterflies every single day. Doing these practices means that I have a tangible way to get in touch with all the parts of me: the human bits, the messiness and the chaos.

It allows me space to not be perfectly okay. It gives me the tools I need to sit with my pain.

Pema Chödrön, the wise Western Buddhist nun, says to lean into the pain and the discomfort. I have never had a problem sitting in this place of discomfort; I tend to lean in and let it consume me like wildfire. It has burned me alive more than once.

Sitting with my pain is one thing, but allowing it to take over is another. It is a hazy, lonely, unforgiving place to be. Running and trying to escape the pain doesn’t do any good either.

What if we could be in the middle and just sit with it, instead of leaning one way or the other?

The middle is the hardest place to be. In these moments, I can feel utterly hopeless, depressed and incredibly lonely—but I keep moving, keep feeling, keep writing.

This is the cycle of human existence. Up and down. Ebb and flow.

And I—the singular leaf floating down the river of life—will continue to move with the currents.

 

Relephant Read:

There’s nothing to hold on to.

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Author: Erin Roca

Image: Flickr/hedrives

Apprentice Editor: Cori Carlo; Editor: Toby Israel

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