I am struggling with my spirit.
I woke up at the crack of dawn, when the light was very faint and the air was chilled. I stared up at the ceiling, wondering who I was and how I got here. I think of all those broken promises I’ve made to myself. I ask myself how I can expect the Universe and the Gods to show up for me, when I barely show up for myself, when I barely show up for them.
The struggle is real. I feel it twisting in my gut, full of dark anxiety and swirling fears.
Am I not worthy?
Am I not ready?
Too many hours have been spent making lists and writing plans. I think of the life I want and create a road map that, in theory, would get me there.
Those lists are laying in a pile on my floor, not too far from my altar that has a small yet distinct layer of dust across it’s surface.
My mat is all that’s been getting any attention, yet my practice is like an appointment. Showing up reminds me of the years my mom would schedule my dentist appointments for me. I showed up, but only because someone was making me. This time, it’s guilt that pushes me onto the mat.
Though, that’s a lie—I want to show up, I crave the sweat.
I dream of the connection I once had as I lost myself in my breath and the moving meditation. I can remember that feeling of getting out of my head and into my body, out of my body and into my soul.
Where is that feeling now?
Now all I get lost in is stress.
Yet, I love what Ashtanga means to me. I love the idea of what it could do for me. I don’t need to plan it. I don’t need to choreograph it. I just need to do it, breathing into one pose and into another, following a rhythm created by someone else. It’s beyond a classroom environment, where I still have to wait for further instruction. I know what comes next (mostly).
This morning my practice was sweaty. I moved with hope, wanting so much to be the yogi that I see in my mind’s eye, the yogi of my future, the yogi I was destined to be. I show up for that yogi. Yet, I feel so lost.
The struggle is real. I feel my mind being clogged in confusion and regrets.
I’ve been needing nourishment and craving goodness, but still reach for that ice cream cake.
I’ve read the articles and seen the documentaries. I know what’s right (for me). Yet, I can’t give up the cheese.
I can’t give up the past.
There is comfort in the known, even if that known is what gives us discomfort.
It doesn’t make sense to me either.
Yet, I travel the same path I did a year ago, lost in my doubts and reaching for something new, only to run from it the moment my fingers touch it.
I run hard and fast, running to what is familiar, even if that macaroni and cheese is what leads to my asthma issues.
I hide from the truth, hoping it will go away, but then go searching for it moments later, even when it terrifies me.
My struggle is real. My fights are devastating. But, it is in that cycle that I am returned to a state of wanting. Wanting something more. Wanting something better.
The wanting is what keeps the struggle alive. The wanting is what pushes me to keep trying. The wanting is what has me up at the crack of dawn, before the sun has had a chance to warm the Earth, choosing my mat over another piece of paper to make yet another list.
The change happens in the doing, not the planning.
The struggle happens in those moments that we see our dream on paper and doubt that we’ll ever be able to get there, to get where we wish to be.
Will what you want.
Author: Stacy Porter
Editor: Katarina Tavčar
Photo: Author’s own