Hello From Another Side

There is a mantra commonly used in yoga practice that means I am. The Sanskrit is so’hum. An easy way to employ this mantra is to inhale on the so, and exhale on the hum. Breathe in, so. Breathe out, hum. Inhale I, exhale am.

I’ve used this mantra hundreds of times on and off my yoga mat. It’s an efficient way to bring the mind to the present moment, and it’s effective in getting the breath back into a balanced rhythm. Sometimes I like to complete the mantra with my own word—for example, I am here…I am strong…I am a badass…you get the gist.

This morning I arrived at my favorite local studio and got on my yoga mat, as I have so many times before. The class was packed and I arrived with enough time to scope out a prime spot next to the studio’s large windows. I like to tell anyone who will listen that each time I get on my mat, I’m beginning again. “Beginner’s mind”, if you will. It’s that gift of humble renewal that keeps me coming back. I arrived on my mat this morning as a beginner, begging (and trusting) the practice to restore me. (Thank goodness for this practice. Thank goodness for the ability to begin again.)

Midway through the 90-minute class, the teacher cued us in a pose and suggested the so hum mantra. I inhaled so and exhaled hum, just as I’ve done many times before. I fixed my drishti and inhaled, so. As I exhaled, hum. I sank deeper into the pose. In, out. So hum. I am…an additional word rose to the surface and landed on my lips, and without realizing I was mouthing the words, I heard myself whisper it out loud…

I.

Am.

Healing.

I gasped a little, surprised at my own admission. I came out of the pose for a moment, realizing that up until that moment (and for exactly how long I can’t be sure, though I can tell you it’s been at least two years) I had been holding my breath.

Earlier in the morning, I met a darling friend for breakfast. She and I spent much of early quarantine together, our friendship and bond seemingly impenetrable during that time. We clung to each other during the uncertainty of the pandemic, created a bubble for our children during the days of remote learning, and held space for one another through the turbulent emotions brought on by our coinciding divorces. At some point, after many months of porch happy hours, window seat coffee talks, and countless pasta nights, quarantine lifted, our children returned to the classroom, and I moved away from our neighborhood. This is about the time that our fortress-like connection began to suffer. My divorce had become downright volatile at that point, and she was already on the other side, having completed the legal process, with a new relationship blossoming. We both agreed during our breakfast, though, that it’s likely impossible to truly ever get to that other side. We share common heartbreak over the breaking of our families, a fracture that digs too deep to ever fully forget or ignore. Perhaps it’s better said that she arrived on another side, and far quicker than I could keep up with.

Over bagels and coffee, we caught up on where life has taken us since those glory days of quarantine bff-ery. We’d lost closeness through physical distance and the everyday smatterings of life, though I said out loud I am…aware of my own isolation. With the release of those words, a mass of emotions lodged in my throat and I felt a surge of tears swell to the verge of release. It was a confession I didn’t need to say out loud, though it felt good to let it fly off of my lips and out of my heart. I am aware that I backed away from our friendship during these last few years. We didn’t have to talk about all that, though. It was understood. (Thank goodness for being understood.) We had more important things to discuss, specifically plans for her fabulous August wedding and ways we can resume our hunt for the perfect hot dog. (Time has its way of getting us through to another side.)

On the yoga mat, I continued to focus on the mantra. I am. I felt the same lump swell in my throat as I inhaled so and exhaled hum. I am healing, my body vibrated. With each movement, I felt both the strength of my physicality and also the weakness of my grief. Grief is the cost of love, I read recently on social media. If that is true, I am a billionaire.

I’ve spent a long time isolating. I’m sure you’re curious as to why? Mostly I felt shrouded in shame. The details of my life kept me immobile due to cortisol-pumping stress. I functioned from a fully frozen state, my adrenals firing in constant fight or flight. There were a number of factors that contributed to this season, to be sure—the uncertainties of a global pandemic, the shattering of live events (and so my livelihood), the intricacies of home schooling, the jarring nature of moving from one state to another (twice)…like many of you, the last three years have cut new pathways through life as I’ve known it. But there is one experience that has trumped all others, and as I moved through the mantra during that yoga class, I exhaled. I stopped holding my breath.

When I left my marriage, I received feedback—from my ex-husband, from family, and from sort-of friends who felt so inclined to comment: You were never really committed. You never really loved. You are cruel. That was the best you’ll get. Nobody wants a used-up woman. You should’ve given in—it’s what women are supposed to do. You aren’t capable of being on your own. You aren’t capable of supporting yourself. You aren’t capable of love. You’ve destroyed your children’s future. You’ve destroyed your children’s happiness. You’ve destroyed your own future. You are selfish. You are reckless. You are a liar. You are a quitter. You are…You are…You are…

I am…

I am the woman who has held all of these opinions, tightly. I’ve received them, swallowed them, internalized them, metabolized them, put them on like clothing, covered myself, and removed myself from any setting that might force me to let any of it come into the light. Under the weight of that experience, I became silent and scarce. I isolated myself from friends, from opportunities, and from joy. Who was I to stand in the light? And also, how could I hold space for the joy of other’s new beginnings when I was still so very far from finding my way out of the tunnel I was required to travel through? (We call it a “tunnel”, my therapist and me. The only way is through, we say. Thank goodness for therapy. Thank goodness for the ones who hold up the light at the end of the tunnel.)

At the end of the yoga class, laying in a puddle of my own sweat, I looked out of the big window and saw the steeple of the church across the street. I saw blue sky dotted with white clouds. I heard birds chirping from the garden beyond the back door that had been cracked to let the fresh air in. I inhaled. I exhaled. I am healing.

And…

I am on another side. I have arrived. I survived. I am here.

I’d love to stop writing about the experience of my divorce because, as I explained to my therapist during our last session, I just want to speed this up already. I’m beyond tired of being in this “process” of overcoming grief and loss and anger. But also, there is no antidote to grief. I deeply loved being married. I deeply loved my family, our home, the wholeness of our future. To walk away from that wholeness gutted me beyond what I thought would be possible to survive. The time I’ve spent in isolation has been an offering to this grief and that loss. I haven’t squandered a moment of it. I have fully plunged into the depth of feeling because I completely, wholeheartedly, and relentlessly love. There is something to that. For a while I’ve wondered if it’s just been a pity party of self-induced suffering. What I believe now is that it was, every bit of it, my imperfect way of living through something I had not planned for, something I did not wish for, something I will never not ache for.

To realize that your body—the nerves, the breath, the sinew, the muscles, the movement, the mind—is healing itself, this is quite a joyful thing! One more note about my therapist—she called me out for “shrinking from the light”. Of course I did. I backed away from anything that nudged me to move faster than I was ready for. Of course I did. I let the grief consume me. I allowed every wave to knock me down until I had the strength to swim on my own, lest I allow somebody else to carry the weight of my own pain or suffering—my kids, my colleagues, a future partner, my friends. (Although I know a few friends who would carry whatever I’d let them hold. Thank goodness for friends like that.)

After yoga I drove myself to the water’s edge to hunt for shark’s teeth. (A favorite past time.) I sifted and sorted through the tide’s debris and I kept the mantra on my lips.

I am…

strong,
capable,
lovable,
joyful,
grateful,
wise,
delighted.

I am healing.

I watched the sun set over the waves, and I felt the rhythm of my breath. In and out. I smiled. I laughed out loud. I am here….hello from another side.

Photo: The shadow of a woman standing in the light.