And then the tears fell
December, 2016. Moonlight shines through the windows of the yoga shala as I work my way into Matsyasana, fish pose. Lying on the floor with my breastbone lifted and my head dropped back, my eyes close. Breath fills my lungs, cracking the spaces between my ribs open and a small hand softly comes to rest in the centre of my chest. The lightness of fingers delicately placed on my skin. The gentle holding of my heart. The gathering of tension on my inhale and the release of it with the exhale.
Tears fall.
And as I settle down into savasana, I don’t stop them. I let them silently roll down my cheeks, salty and burning. I let my body drop into the mat. I let my breath fall heavy. I give up the struggle.
It’s almost two months since the day my partner burned out. Demobilised by exhaustion, in physical pain. Confused. Anxious. Our world makes no sense anymore and my nerves are frazzled. My heart is heavy with worry. My stomach is tense with uncertainty. All the time. I’m in a new country. My go-to support people are hundreds of miles away. My yoga mat has been rolled up for months. There’s no time for yoga - no desire to practice even, because that needs time and time, I don’t have. I’m balancing my time between writing the plot for book number three, in need of a contract, and supporting my love as we navigate our new, warped reality.
One day, he hands me an envelope. An early christmas gift, he says with a smile. Inside, I find a gift-card for a month’s unlimited membership to our local yoga shala. Because, he says as the smile drops form his face, I can’t break too. To date, it’s the most thoughtful and life-changing gift I’ve ever received.
After coming out of Savasana, I realise how much lighter I feel, contrary to the heaviness of the tears I’ve shed. I knew from past experiences how yoga can release emotions. But this was different. It wasn’t just about letting emotion go. It was about being held and supported. For those 90 minutes, I’d had nothing to do, nowhere to go, nobody to support, nobody to be strong for, no book to plan or agents and publishers to try and please. It had been like stepping into a true sanctuary, where the outside world simply didn’t matter. Where I could sweat out the frustration, breathe out the inner wobbles. I’d been scared to do this. I’d been scared to acknowledge the fears in my heart and mind because holding them inside made me feel strong and able.
Being cracked open that way meant acknowledging that I had no control over any of it. I couldn’t magically make things better, fix them or sweep them away. I didn’t have all the answers. And that acknowledgement was both terrifying and liberating at the same time. It left space for me to enjoy the crisp walk home. To feel the cold air on my skin. To feel the hunger in my belly. To be able to go home with enough space to hold my love and give some space back to him. To give space for plot lines and character visualisations to come in.
I can’t be, do or fix everything. And that’s ok. Because when I give up trying to be everything I must be, I make space for the things I can.