It was day three of our Yoga Therapy retreat, and I had just woken up – bright & early – and dragged myself to the meditation hall.
And I mean dragged.
I was exhausted after three days of waking up at 6am (plus a two hour time change) to get to morning meditation. I was exhausted after two and a half days of retreat packed with dense material as we all worked hard to train as Yoga Therapists. On top of this fatigue I had a horrible headache and was nauseous – which I later learned was thanks to a 1-day bug that was making its rounds.
Still, on this day I showed up to meditation because the previous two days – well, they had been absolutely magical!
See, I’d thought of myself as a meditator for many years now, but what I had never done – up until two days ago – was be in community with a wonderful group of fellow yogis, all sitting together in one room, creating a beautiful field of collective energy as we chanted and meditated together.
The previous two days had, indeed, been magical as I felt the collective spirit bring me to more absorbed places in my own consciousness.
On this day, I was not feeling good, but I showed up anyway looking forward to more of that bright and peaceful light.
I did not find it.
Instead, as I went in, I was surrounded by a familiar darkness.
It’s a darkness that I’ve spoken to in depth – one that has been a regular companion on my journey these past couple years (and, I’m sure, before that – although I wasn’t in tune enough to be able to find it and label it).
And, on this day, it was taking a specific form. I mean that literally. As I sat in this space, eyes closed and my full attention inward, I was witnessing a clear form – one that I could simultaneously visualize and feel as it swirled around my consciousness: a mix of pain, heartache, and a deep level of stress, all manifesting as a dark and swirling form in my mind’s eye.
Now, what was to be done about this shitty situation?
I recognized that I couldn’t fix the pain nor nausea in the moment. These components of this experience were here to stay.
What I could do in these next 40 minutes was to get intimately familiar with this swirling darkness and the deep stress that accompanied it.
The stress – the heavy burden that I’d been carrying around with me for so long, and the one that had seemed to be growing and growing in the previous weeks. I could focus my attention here and see where that would take me.
I released the beautiful mantra that I had been instructed to focus on. Today was not going to be another beautiful morning moving into bright states of consciousness.
But could I still turn it into something magical?
The stress we create
I knew I wasn’t quite ready to sign up for a 100 miler. It had been a dream of mine for a few years now, and after running 100 kilometers (~60 miles) through the mountains of Colorado the previous summer, my takeaway had been that if I were to ever increase the distance, then I would ideally spend another year focused on strengthening up important muscles and healing injuries (you know, like a good yoga therapist would do).
But life doesn’t always work in an ideal fashion, does it?
I had completed the 100K, which meant I now had my qualifier, and it was only good for the next year or two. And, as I looked at the next set of big races to choose from, I was struck with the realization that all of the ones that piqued my interest had a lottery. That is, I couldn’t directly sign up – I had to enter my name and see if I got picked.
So, I did what seemed like a fair plan in the moment: I picked the race that looked most exciting – and potentially offered a next step to the grand race I dreamed of running one day – and I entered my name.
When I heard my name called a few weeks later, I knew, logically, that I could turn it down. But my heart was having none of that! I felt a deep terror and thrill of excitement as I signed up, knowing that I was way in over my head here.
The thing is, I’ve become quite good at being way in over my head in life. For whatever reason, there’s a part of me that relishes in taking on way too much, feeling like I’m drowning in the too muchedness, and finding a path forward through it all.
I knew that if I could focus on my training plan and consistently put in the effort, then I would be able to show up on race day and have a good shot at finishing the race.
What I didn’t anticipate was all that happened once I signed up for the race and began training for it:
That I would finally experience Covid and go through the following months with unhappy post-covid intestines.
That our forests in New Mexico would start burning at extreme rates, leaving me in deep states of grief and stress (which did not help the already unhappy intestines!), and resulted in the whole system of trails being closed down.
That, combined with the familiar and expected chronic pain in my ribcage that makes it difficult (and often excruciating) to run downhill, meant that months of training had gone by in a far-from ideal fashion.
I’d been dealing with it. I’d been continuing to push through. But here, today, on the other side of the country and with the race just weeks away, I finally collapsed.
Here, silently, in a supposed-to-be beautiful meditation, feeling deep fatigue and temporary illness, I felt, fully, the too-muchedness of it all.
As I sank into that darkness, I did the one thing that I felt was left to do.
I opened to it. I welcomed it in. I let it take over.
And there I sat for quite some time.
Just sitting.
Just feeling.
It’s taken many years to get to this space – the one that involves being able to sit peacefully with my internal darkness. In those years I have spent a great amount of time fighting against the sensations that are asking to be let in.
I know the reason why I did this for so long: because we’ve been told countless stories – stories that have become deeply programmed within is – about what life is supposed to look like:
- what’s supposed to make us happy
- what’s supposed to make us feel fulfilled
- where our attention is supposed to be
These “supposed to’s” guide our lives, and when hard feelings arise while we are on our way in these directions, the only logical action becomes to push them down: You are not welcome here. I am too busy for you, out here doing the thing that I am supposed to do.
But what if we changed the narrative? What if we chose to recognize these sensations for what they are: simply, feelings – ones that carry important information that is asking to be heard.
To be known.
And, if the timing is right, to be acted upon.
It’s taken me many years to be able to let it all in, and I’ll admit, oftentimes it takes me a while to get to a space where I am ready for the task.
On this day, the timing was past due.
As I sank into that dark feeling of the too much, I did the one thing that I felt was left to do.
I opened to it. I welcomed it in. I let it take over.
I allowed myself to be in it, fully, as it wrapped itself around me, moved through me, and – finally – began to emerge….
It emerged, at first, a tiny whisper, carrying with it the absurdity of this task I had taken on.
The whisper – it grew, and as it did, I finally found space to see how much I’d been carrying with me, and just how much I had been pushing through.
With time, the messages continued to grow, finally morphing into a full-fledged and powerful realization:
I did not have to carry this stress with me. If things weren’t going well, then I had every ability to say “no more” and shut down the operation.
If training for this race was adding too much to my already stressful experience, then I did not have to do this anymore.
In other words, I did not have to run this race.
The bell rung, and I opened my eyes. I would not run this race.
–
Of course, at this point we already know the end of the story: I did go on to run that race, and I did go on to finish it.
Alas, this story is not one of giving up, but instead, of giving into the reality of my experience while training for the event.
The stress – it had kept accumulating, and it became too much to bear. It needed to be released, and to do this, I needed to release my strong attachment to the way I thought this training should unfold.
I needed to release my attachment to a perfect process leading me to the successful completion of an event. And, in its place, to simply be in the experience that is being a trail runner.
–
For 48 hours, I was fully set on my decision. I let go of this grand goal of mine, and in doing so, life began to flow.
I felt lighter and more joyful as I set out on the trails at a walking pace. I took in the bright colors around me. I let the sun rain down on my skin. I soaked in the beauty of it all.
And, as I walked, I began to remember…
These feet – they wanted to move faster, and to keep moving, and to keep moving.
I let them flow.
Off the trails, I connected with others, and they asked me about my running – full of excitement for the big event they had thought I would be taking on in the near future.
And, within these conversations, my heart began to open once more.
In other words, I began to remember – why, exactly, I took on this grand challenge.
Through the electricity in my legs and the flow through my heart and the spark of excitement in mind… I opened back up to it all.
Maybe I could show up to the starting line of this race.
Maybe I could begin putting one foot in front of the other, and to experience the event for whatever it would bring.
Maybe, I could continue to answer to the asks of my legs, my heart, my soul.
And just maybe, that would lead to me all the way from the starting line and through it all to those final, desperate steps across the finish.
Maybe… but there was only one way to find out, and that journey could only be had by stepping foot on the trails – one foot after the next – while staying open and present to whatever came my way.