So, I did not do my IG Live, as I told myself I would do every Wednesday.
This living stuff is large. All the things. Not only the things that need to be tasked, but all the caring. The worry. Not to mention pockets of shame that creep up in the most untimely moments. Ugh. It’s a lot.
I used to feel quite able to be out in the world. I’d quickly digest the stuff and pull the nutrients and even more quickly release the waste from all the experiences. I’d find some relatable and teachable yoga anecdote to make everything make sense to my mind, share it, and let myself bathe in the dopamine hits of social media-landia, or teaching classes in community, which would carry me to the next low dip and I’d do it again.
But that stopped feeling correct. And then there are the times when it feels correct again.
I’ve been thinking. Paying attention. Feeling a lot. Spending much time alone. Noticing myself and how close to my skin I’ve made my world: My honey, my home, my kid & step kids, writing my book, my cat and chickens, a few friends, a tiny bit of yoga teaching, occasional small social gatherings. My mom and sisters. That’s as wide as I’ve made my protective bubble for a couple of years now.
It’s been wonderful, until it hasnt. I needed it, until I didn’t.
As someone who had spent much of my adult life out and about, it’s been confusing. At a soul level. Somedays I’m all “look at my little life, it’s magical” other days it feels more like, “Where did I go?”
There’s pressure, internal pressure, all those intense inside voices that say, “Jump back into life! Teach more! Go to the gym! Get on IG Lives! Create content! Hurry, back to living again. Don’t waste your 20 years of professional life! Don’t hide!” . And then im like, “Nah. I’m good.” .
And both voices are right. And they aren’t right.
Anyone else feeling this way?
So I’m gonna just keep listening. And trying. And being. And doing me.
Love, Sherry
