A few weeks ago, I told over 100 strangers I’m on Prozac. The reaction was silence. Of course, I was telling a story so the whole point was to not interrupt me. Flummoxed after that, I only remember crying and having an epiphany about my relationship with my mother. January was a busy month.
Since then I’ve done a lot of yoga. It’s how I process my heavy thoughts. The magnitude of my confession, symbolic though it was, weighed on me like the pressure of a wedding dress. I don’t feel different, but I’m certainly not the same. Getting deeply involved in standing poses after multiple repetitions, I was able to stay grounded. My balance was off for almost a month, so I used a chair or block as needed to stay steady.
A friend mentioned a chrysalis metaphor to me last spring. It’s fairly cliche, but that’s my modus operandi these days. Applying a steady yoga practice to the patience it takes the moth to emerge seems like the right attitude. I want to teach. I want a meaningful daily practice. I’m not sure what my life looks like when that all happens. I’m just bursting with excitement to find out. In keeping with the chrysalis, I’m at the start of unfurling my metaphorical wings. Not much to look at, unless you admire potential.