I felt like an impostor — like they’d chosen the wrong person to teach. Surely I wasn’t smart enough or qualified enough for this. I should be sitting at a desk, not standing behind the podium.
She asked us to breathe out when my body was craving a gulp of air. She asked us to inhale for the duration of a pose, which made me lightheaded. It just didn’t feel right. None of it felt good.
How might yoga, a physical practice associated with inner peace and relaxation, possibly cause stress? Let me count the ways.
I was captivated by its simplicity, its wide-open page spaces, and its daily “HOT” notations that sung out to me, siren-like: you, absent-minded gal that you are, can prioritize! You can!
This was not simply a pouty-pants day. I didn’t want to get out of bed, I started emotionally eating, drinking, and found it nearly impossible to do any necessary tasks.
When you walk up to that stage and collect your diploma, you kiss your state of dependency on your parents goodbye. Your safety net is gone.
This is the first time I have ever truly lived alone, and I just happened to get stuck with a city that has been declared safer than only 15% of cities in America.
I am poor, I am discouraged, but I am stumbling through these first steps into the world with mountains of bills and a yoga mat with which to calm my anxiety.
Can someone please tell me how students are supposed to find time to get two years of professional experience in their field while attending college full-time and likely holding down at least one part-time job?
As soon as reports of my fellow classmates securing jobs began to roll in, I discovered something else about adult life. Nothing I did in college mattered—not my major, not my degree, and pretty much nothing I even learned (especially since I went to a liberal arts school).