nathalie shushan

I had a long list of intentions to actualize at Lakshmi Rising. Drenched in curiosity, I resolved to take advantage of every opportunity to learn in the jungle. To accomplish these goals would require honesty and courage. Physically, I was determined to go beyond the limits I set for myself when I was mired in fear of pain. Not only did I have to recognize what I was afraid of, I had to figure out if it was serving its purpose of keeping me safe or if it was actually holding me back from something greater. I wanted to take fear by the hand and march boldly in the direction of my ~higher self~. As someone who, for most of my life, constantly needed to be doing things, I always thought that perseverance was the only way to grow. On my journey to become a yoga instructor, I learned the power of pausing. In the same way that we need to be disciplined with our actions in order to create change, we must also be disciplined with rest.

There were crystalizing moments when I became aware of thoughts that kept me from accomplishing things I was capable of doing. I began to use non-judgemental inquiry to shift the narrative whenever I noticed limiting inner dialogue. It was as simple as asking, “why not?” when I heard, “I can’t do that” from the corners of my mind. There was often no real evidence to support thought patterns that kept me stuck. New awareness gave me the confidence to push past my fear into postures that seemed inaccessible. I was still crying in yoga (I am who I am, after all) but, for the first time, I recognized my tears as hopeful, imbued with a lightness that illuminated a path forward. They were tears of gratitude, steeped in the conviction that I had the strength and resilience to keep going. I believed more and more in the power of my body to heal, and so it did. I was doing what I came to do: answering the call of my heart to build a bridge of connection and trust within myself. 

I started paying close attention to my body on and off the mat. Each action caused a ripple effect of movement that spread across my entire being. Muscles sang with ache or relief as I flexed and extended my feet or lifted my arms toward the sky. The stiffness and sounds of my shoulders were no longer setting alarms off in my brain. Instead, these messages became gentle reminders to treat myself with compassion and take time with the articulation of each motion. Healers reminded me of the wisdom that pain plants in bodies and of the power we invoke when we are attentive to our own needs. I tuned into my ribs’ expansion and contraction on either side of each breath and listened to the thump of my own heartbeat like a song – learning, for the first time, the joy of being in my physical body. 

Our capacities are a moving target, new each day, and I was thrown off balance when I had my period. Fatigue compounded and I moved tentatively instead of mindfully in a restorative class, afraid of each transition. A sharp sensation stung in a simple side stretch, right ankle crossed over left, chest lifted, left arm overhead reaching toward the jungle. I quickly uncurled from the posture that tugged uncomfortably on the inside of my thigh. For the rest of the afternoon, I moved cautiously. There was a slight pain in my knee and tenderness in my ankle when I put weight on it, like every muscle in my left leg was suddenly wound too tightly. 

“Go slowly,” my body asked. So I did.

I had become accustomed to the momentum of growth after two blissful weeks, and began the next day more eager than attentive. The promise of progress pushed me through over two hours of asana practice. I stopped interrogating the sensations in my body that reminded me to proceed with care and, instead, told myself that I could rest again as soon as class was over. This time was finite and I refused to let it slip through my fingers. I proved that I could hear my body; now was the time to strengthen it. It would be a disservice not to give everything I had. 

By the afternoon, my body was so sore that I could hardly sit upright. I vowed to take it easy for the remainder of the day. I reclined during evening meditation and skipped our physical review of the six movements of the spine. Quietly, I made my way to bed early that night, recognizing for the second night in a row that I trusted my body to heal when given the chance. 

When I awoke the next morning, the fatigue in my body was still present, begging me to give in to true rest. The need to slow down to a pause poured out of me in the form of tears while I brushed my teeth and again when I laid my body down in a class that asked me to move more than I could. 

“Please,” my body wept. “Stop.”

Rest became urgent, an unignorable call. After years of struggling to hear, my body was finally telling me what it needed. It was my responsibility to listen. The real mistake was thinking I had to prioritize my desire for growth over respect for my body when the two were actually in perfect alignment. 

It’s crucial to give ourselves the space to process and integrate after periods of exertion, especially if we are wired like old energizer bunnies and prone to burnout (who, moi?). It requires discipline to find the edge and not fall over. We have to be consistent with our check-ins and graceful when the answers we receive aren’t what we hope to hear. 

So here’s a reminder, in case you need it, to give yourself permission to come to a full stop every once in a while. Expansion often happens in stillness.