Traveling by myself does that to me. Without the pressure of organizing others, mainly the kids, I settle into my Quiet Observer mode, and I like it. People argue at the airport, about lines and regulations. Their words swirl around my peaceful brain like a flock of unhappy migrating birds swooping and dropping, and then they’re gone. I find myself simply smiling and figure I must look lobotomized amidst the chaos, and I don’t care when I’m alone. Everything is going to be alright is my mantra in my silence, like Bob Marley gently whispering in my ear 24/7. Now that’s a good life right there.

So as the sun laid to rest while I was still driving to P-Town I let my anxiety keep napping. Black waves lapping up at me from the side of the road and I resist the urge to ditch the car and jump into the cold darkness. The moon as bright as a floodlight I find my way and then settle into the sweetest room. Alas, I’m alone on this trip, and it makes me wish someone else could see it, enjoy it.

Even eating alone is a treat. Some of my friends detest this quality of mine that can head straight into a lavish four star restaurant all by myself and feast without a care. If I look past the hefty tabs I create, I actually love this about me. I take it all in, luxury in slow motion. Afterwards as I journey back to my tiny palace I meet a group of gals who were sensational and without a single twist of my arm I am back at dinner again, talking, laughing and learning. This WAS a special trip indeed. Effortless. Fluid. Meaningful.

The next morning was filled with adventuring around the town searching for an almond chai latte and the perfect angle for quick Instagram pics. Successful in my search (thanks to Wired Puppy) I floated through the rest of my day including my keynote speech and the following discussion about gender diversity in children’s literature. It was divinely right, each step.

As the Quiet Observer I’m able to let go and live. I give myself permission to craft my moments as I please so why do I give that up when I step back into my life at home? Tension flares. My old stress patterns return. The Quiet Observer is bound and gagged as the adrenaline machine churns more and more, streaming fear into my veins like a fitful transfusion. I’m ready to break this pattern.

Lonely alley at sundown, just me and my thoughts, until I saw this little snippet of wisdom shared on the side of a building. Yes. It’s all what we make it. Minute to minute, day to day. What are we really searching for?

Busy-ness by creating a double booked schedule to keep us from standing still and feeling what’s left when all the i’s are dotted and t’s crossed?

Acceptance from others so we start to believe that we are good enough?

Money so that we can measure our wealth by our bank account and not by our heart?

Love from anyone or anything that fills the void?

Sedation so that we don’t feel anything at all?

Or do we seek Enlightenment? Truth? Self? The Divine? Whatever you want to call it… do we search internally for fulfillment or externally? Where is our happiness found?

What was happening? I’m a dedicated yoga student. I’m certainly not advanced, but I’m no beginner. Why am I dizzy when I reach samasthiti? Standing on my own two feet started to feel like a technically challenge pose. Instantly I became vengeful. I blamed the new instructor. I blamed everyone else for being more agile than me. I even blamed Amazon because they hadn’t delivered my Ashtanga DVD and THAT’S why I’m having trouble. Heaven help me, I even pointed the finger Baron Baptiste for creating such a grueling style of yoga. It was the longest twenty minutes of my life, and I knew I had an hour and ten minutes left. I had to make a choice.

Look inward… whispered in my ear as I wiped the sweat in Down Dog and nearly toppled over. Slowly I closed my eyes and found what I’d been resisting all along. Me. Nobody else was at the heart of my practice, except me. Either fight with myself for another hour or surrender.

What a foreign concept to someone like me, a junkyard dog who never ever lets go. Surrender? Throw in the towel. Are you kidding me? Let go? It goes against my nature was my first thought, but that’s not exactly true. When I reached a do-or-die moment in the last marathon I ran, I had my first glimpse of release.

“There’s a point when the body stops, and the spirit begins…”, Summer, my cousin and best friend, told me as she tore off her jacket to run me in to the finish line. It was true. As soon as the words left her lips I let go of what I was dragging behind me all those miles. Call it my ego or my expectations or my determination, I tossed it aside and instantly became lighter, and faster. When she tells the story, she mentions that I even began to smile. It changed me.

So when I lowered down after what seemed like the fortieth sunburst in class, I gave it all away. I emancipated all the tension and whispered yes. I won’t stop, I’ll never quit, but I won’t struggle with it anymore. For the first time in my life I truly quieted my mind and let it all flow. Electric shocks still sparked (I won’t say it was easy after that) but I stopped reacting to what hurt me. I became the silent observer.

In a serious state of bliss, post savasana, I thanked the instructor for such a powerful experience. His once rigid facial features were now soft and welcoming, he smiled and lifted his hands in prayer position to gesture his thanks. Surrender is a revelation for me. Maybe I’m that type of person who could read 10 books about letting go and still never buy in? Yesterday life forced my hand asking me if I was ready, and finally I was. It changed me and this time, I won’t forget.

I guess some of our most meaningful life lessons come in the most unexpected places. Yesterday it was my mat. Today the grocery store?

Whenever I reached the full commitment phase of my practice (and it was always there impatiently tapping it’s foot staring at me like, “What’s it going to be this time?”) I’d resort to holding my breath as I turned my back on the most fulfilling part of my personal life. I wouldn’t accept real happiness back then; I felt I didn’t deserve it. And I couldn’t allow going there, so deep inside myself that I’d unearth my demons, blindfolded and gagged for years. I didn’t want to face what was trapped within my strong, resilient facade. Until now.

A few years ago a friend, also a yoga instructor, told me she wanted to be my teacher. Sheepishly I had to admit that I didn’t have the funds for such a lavish expense, a private yoga instructor. It sounded so extravagant, like a live-in nanny. I’ll never forget her response, so calm and cool. She said that she was called to do it and would come to my home for free. Who would turn that down, I thought. I set up an appointment immediately, as if this special offer deal would run out at midnight, completely unaware of how actions have a ripple effect on our lives.

The breath was my first gift. Unbeknownst to me I held my breath for the majority of my day (and my life if I want to be honest with you) and the chain reaction inside my body led to more fear, more anxiety. This was the first hurdle, breathing. Next came sinking into the discipline of the asanas, unlocking my old thought patterns about what my body can or cannot do. Living with where we are at today, right now. This, I’ve found is ongoing, and I love it. We are limitless creatures.

Soon my teacher led me to books that expanded my practice, things like Pema Chodron, Louise Hay and Don Miguel Ruiz, cracking the shell of my old patterns and retraining my inner dialogue. Effortlessly I became open to all the aspects of yoga that I feared before. Divine time. Divine order. Don’t get me wrong, embracing the 8 limbs of yoga is not an easy (or quick) task. You don’t just wake up one day and nail it. It’s an unfolding, like slowly peeling layers of an extremely large onion. Most of us spend our lives just enjoying the work, the practice of yoga. And that’s enough.

My mother chuckled when she heard I was (finally) focusing on my practice. “You were about 4 years old when you begged me to buy this little book about yoga at the grocery store. Jenny, you never wanted anything before and you never wanted anything so badly. You had to have it,” she explained, “Once you got home you spent the next five years doing these crazy poses. You’ve always done yoga.” Funny how people see things from the outside. Yoga has always been there for me – guiding me, comforting me, restoring me, energizing me, calming me.. and ultimately, waiting for me to come back home.

Yesterday my daughter slid in when I was preparing for meditation, her long locks falling into her bright eyes as she stared at me. “May I join you?” she said softly. I thought you’d never ask! And there we were, mother and daughter sitting in lotus position, hands in anjali mudra, smiling at one another in perfect silence. Bliss.

Picture a person holding their breath through a difficult pose and you see how I have been getting through the tough stages of my life. Enduring it, but fighting it. Any beginner to yoga will tell you- yoga is the breath. It’s not twisting yourself up for a couple minutes while your mind wanders and then moving on. It’s a spiritual journey of being present and diving in. I didn’t know that. In truth, after 35 years of my on-again-off-again love affair with the practice, I don’t think I’ve ever truly embraced yoga until now.

I’ve spent my whole life searching for something (or someone) to make me okay. My Catholic upbringing didn’t do it for me. My love affairs didn’t fill the void. Neither did friends, food, fashion, movies, art, marathons, literature, alcohol, work, gardening, philanthropy… you get the picture. Fill in the blank- it didn’t make me feel whole. Only now do I see the equation more perfectly than I ever have in my life. Those things are all wonderful and beautiful, but they exist outside of me. I never knew that everything I ever needed exists right here in me. Right here in the breath that I seem to hold captive. I am enough.