The stories we tell ourselves about ourselves may be true for a time, but they don't have to be gospel forever. Sometimes, we learn they might never have been true. Maybe they were crutches we used to keep ourselves from falling or excuses we gave fueled by fear or shame.
I've told my stories for so long now they're as much a part of me as my scars and big nose. But at some point in the last year, I grew tired of the stories and bored by the constraints they put on me.
I'm the one with the crooked, broken back; I can't do back bends. I can't speak in front of crowds, how could I possibly teach a yoga class? I've been lied to in a most extraordinary manner, so I'll keep my heart walled off lest it suffer abuse again.
Our stories don't have to dictate our futures.
I've thrown my chest open, made my heart vulnerable and embraced back bends. And just this week, I taught my first 60-minute class in the studio to a small group of friends and teachers. I sat on the mat as class started, opened my mouth and found the words to lead them through a practice I love.
I put the old stories on the shelf, high up, away from reach. I'm writing new ones now.
*This post is an expansion on thoughts I first posted to Instagram a few weeks ago when I learned a new back bend transition. The transformation in my practice - but really myself - blows my mind.