Stepping Back — Exploring Inward

For well over a year, I’ve been managing a recurring thought—or, perhaps, desire is a better word. What would it be like to pause my teaching and spend time delving deeper into my practice (both movement and meditation), writing, and self-study? What would that look like? How would I spend my time? Do I need guidance from others? What will studio owners and managers think? How will it be received by the wonderful folks I’ve guided and developed friendships with over the past six years? What will my family and friends say?

Notice a pattern here? All of my thoughts and concerns are placed squarely in the control of others.

It was only recently, while on retreat in New Mexico, that two of my beloved teachers challenged me to listen to myself—to recognize this persistent pattern of putting everyone else ahead of me. I thought this concern about others’ views of me was limited to my body image, but clearly this externalizing of validation and approval extends well beyond how people see me physically. Apparently, there is still this need—or desire—to be liked and accepted. Clearly, this is something to add to my list of things to explore.

After a considerable amount of hand-wringing, I finally found the courage to honor this heart’s longing.

I am stepping back from day-to-day, in-studio teaching.

I teach at four different studios in Washington, DC, and Maryland. I wrapped up my teaching schedule at three of these studios this past week, and I will be teaching until the end of August at the fourth.

Come September, my intention is to spend time returning to an asana (movement) practice that I’ve gotten away from; returning to a meditation practice that was fledgling, at best; and developing a daily writing practice. I also want to lean into the idea of recording meditations and possibly audiobooks. Writing it all down here feels like an act of self-accountability. At the same time, I want to give myself permission to simply sit and be still.

In all of my classes, I frequently encourage students to embrace the importance of—and the insights that can come with—stillness. As I write this, the almost embarrassing irony of how I guide classes versus how I live my own life has not been lost on me. I’m sure it’s not uncommon for teachers to be better at offering sage advice than following it themselves.

I started to create a narrative in my head that I was “practicing” five days a week in the eight to nine classes I guided. In reality, I was present for others—which is not a bad thing—but I was increasingly neglecting my own needs and the insights that come with a commitment to practice.

In other words, at times I felt like a hypocrite.

How can I genuinely guide others when I’m not drawing from the well of my own ongoing experiences? I’d like to think I lead with heart. I care deeply about the space I’ve been asked to hold. I care about trying to create the conditions for others to explore peace and ease in their bodies and minds. And yet, I’ve been sitting with the question of whether I’m leading more from my head—whether I’m simply someone who is adept at repackaging concepts I’ve been taught.

I’d like to believe everything I do comes from a place of love and care for the folks who trust me with their presence in class, but something in me isn’t satisfied with that answer.

When I worked for all those years in politics and congressional relations, I was proud of my ability to be agile—nimble—an inch deep and a mile wide. I could take quick, deep dives to become cogent enough to manage a particular issue, and then I would move on to the next thing. I was pretty good at shifting quickly, but something in me was never quite content with my lack of depth in a specific subject. Any subject. I simply knew enough to get through, but very little endured.

I hold great admiration for people who strike me as a bottomless well of knowledge in a field. That admiration, however, was often thinly veiled envy—and masked self-loathing. What’s that quote attributed to Roosevelt? “Comparison is the thief of joy.”

It was this very word—this feeling—JOY that came to the forefront while I was on retreat in New Mexico last month. When asked to notice where and how I experienced joy in my body, I was empty. In fact, there was such a void—an emptiness bordering on despair—that I broke down and had a full-on ugly cry. It was tough to realize I couldn’t locate joy within me. Sure, I have love all around me, but where was the internal feeling of joy?

As much as I talk about embracing vulnerability, I tend to be pretty buttoned up and self-conscious. Maybe it’s my Michigan/Midwest upbringing, but I didn’t really have models of emotional expression growing up. Even in that moment, something in my head told me to pull it together. I told myself, “Get off your knees and stop crying!”

The outburst was cathartic, though. It felt like a far-from-subtle admonishment from the universe: feel with your whole heart, and let your overthinking mind take a seat. It was on that retreat that it became glaringly obvious I needed time for deeper reflection, exploration, and stillness. I realized I unapologetically need time for me—my spirit and my heart.

To those who were there, or who talked with me on the other side—who held space for me and offered loving counsel and heartfelt hugs—I cannot thank you enough. You didn’t try to fix me. You allowed me to express myself, trusting that the answers would find their way to me in time.

I freely admit I am a work in progress. So, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t also share that part of me that hopes I’ll be a better guide and teacher on the other side of this time of inquiry and exploration. I cannot control the experience anyone has in my classes, but I can come into each space with a heart and spirit that are more at peace—and, hopefully, with more substance to offer.

I care so much about the well-being of others and want to be helpful to anyone on a path toward personal fulfillment, self-love, and self-compassion. At the same time, I cannot lose sight of the fact that I am also on a lifelong path. I have been—and know I will continue to be—truly blessed for any amount of time that our paths coincide.

Let me end with this: though I am stepping back from day-to-day teaching, I do intend to pop up here and there with deep rest workshops and/or to participate in retreats and events, if invited. So please consider signing up for my newsletter. It’s a good way to keep up with any new events and happenings.

Until then…thank you. I’ll be seeing you. 🖤