This is not where I thought I’d be. I’m on the floor, moving into a yoga pose that I’ve done thousands of times, but, today it is with deliberate slowness and carefulness because somehow I hurt my back and I don’t want to injure myself further.

I came into class knowing that I would take it easy on myself and that I wouldn’t push myself. That I have every right to do this and that this is a generous form of self-care.

Yet, somehow, I still feel the disappointment well up inside of me and I feel the urge to burst into tears right in the middle of my inversion, my legs straight up in the air above me.

I sense the urge to prove that I am indeed capable. I sense the urge to prove that I may be getting older but I’ve still got it dammit. I sense the urge to prove that I’m not afraid of challenging myself and that I have what it takes.

But, who am I trying to prove all this to, exactly?

I gently come out of my inversion and hug my knees to my chest. There isn’t a single person in this room who hasn’t experienced pain or been injured. In fact, my yoga teacher found yoga via an injury.

So, what is the point of all this, really? I could have stayed home. I didn’t have to come here. Something in me cared enough to make the short trek to the yoga studio. Something in me knew that even if I was in pain and even if I couldn’t do everything like I wanted to, it was still worth showing up.

Maybe I proved something after all.

(What I’m listening to right now: Sam Smith - How Do You Sleep?)