I wasn’t raised with religion. My father is a professor at a Catholic university, and has worked there my entire life. I can remember when I was growing up, my dad had a Darwin fish bumper sticker on his car, and it was torn off one day while he was parked in the lot at work. That same university is where I completed my undergraduate education. Catholic Theology was a required part of the core curriculum. It is also one of the only courses I have ever gotten a “C” in. I will be the first to admit, I went into that class with a baaaaad attitude. Not because I didn’t respect the Catholic faith, or any Faith for that matter, but because I didn’t have any faith of my own. Well, that, and because most of my classmates had either gone to Catholic school or CCD growing up and inherently knew the answers to test questions. I’m usually one of the annoying kids in the front row of class who knows every answer, but in this class, I made an effort to hide. I can remember one assignment in particular that really ticked me off. At the end of class, our professor gave us the prompt for a one-page paper: What is Grace? “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I muttered out of the side of my mouth to the girl sitting one row over. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. For the next several days, I complained about this assignment to anyone who would listen. My friends, my coworkers, my family… I think I even said something to my academic advisor. I thought I was ticked off because there was a specific (Catholic) pointed response that I was expected to have memorized. And maybe there was, I can’t say for sure, because I know whatever I turned in received a big fat zero. But really, I was ticked off because I didn’t know the answer. I didn’t know the answer, because I was too blind to see it. The thought of even trying to find an answer scared me shitless. I wish that I could take that course over again, if only to redo that assignment. I’m still not Catholic. But, I do know Grace. I have seen it. I have seen Grace in my own life; my own blessings. I have seen Grace in the Divine beings around me. Grace is the luck that got me this far in life. Grace is what saved me from living in fear. Conscious living is filled with Grace. Meaningful relationships are filled with Grace. My yoga practice is Grace expressed. Spending time outdoors is Grace experienced. SO many moments in my life have been blessed; have been gracious. And Grace doesn’t care that this assignment is overdue. Grace is loving, no matter what.
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There are the stories we tell ourselves, and the stories we are told. Sometimes the line gets blurred and you aren’t even sure of the origin of the story. In any case, stories are open to interpretation. One of the stories buzzing around in my head is entitled, I Care Too Much. Now, this story has definitely been suggested to me on many occasions. In school, in relationships, at work, in casual conversation… Let’s just call these episodes of the same story. All of these episodes have a similar structure: I invest myself in something, hit a wall, get frustrated, and someone offers up, “Maybe you just care too much, Jenna.” Dear Friends, Family, and Coworkers…. That’s not exactly the most helpful piece of advice. Care is consideration paid to something that is important. What is important, of course, is relative. I decide what is important to me, and then I pay careful consideration to it. And to me, caring is black and white. You either care, or you are apathetic. There is no spectrum of gray from “barely care” to “pretty much care.” You are either all in or all out. Therefore, in my world, it is impossible to care too much. If someone suggests I care too much, maybe they just value things differently. What is important to me might not be important to them. In some episodes of this story, that might be the case. Other times, I am willing to bet that there is some truth to the I Care Too Much story. However, I would prefer to express that truth in more precise words. I think that often when I seemingly “care too much,” I am Attached to an Expectation. The next time I hear the words, “Maybe you just care too much,” I am not going to allow myself to be upset by them. Instead, I am going to take a step back and ask myself whether that sentiment may have been inspired by an unrealistic attachment or expectation. Do I really care too much about that project at work? Do I really care too much about this person or relationship? Do I really care too much about sustainable agriculture/labeling GMOs/deforestation (or whatever else I decide to go on a rant about while I’m having dinner with friends)? Or, am I just attached to an unrealistic, unfair, or outlandish expectation for that project/person/issue? If so, I can be conscious of that. I can change that. I can’t change what I care about. I just care. Caring is cool. Maybe I care too much Maybe I need to let go of attachment. Maybe I need to let go of expectation. Maybe I need to stop being afraid to let go. But, I won’t stop caring. I won’t stop loving.
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Recently, I have been feeling a lot of tugging at my heartstrings. You may not see my heartstrings, but I promise you, they are there. They are fibrous tendrils that extend from my core. They are bits of colors spinning in a kaleidoscope. Like the roots of a tree or the vessels that run through my physical body, some are big, others small; some are singular, others have tributaries. They all emerge from a giant knot, a beautiful mess. My heartstrings can’t be broken, but they can become sick. Tugs on healthy heartstrings provide encouragement, affirmation, and love. Sickly heartstrings can, too, be pulled to remind me of shadow, hurt, and fear. No matter the state of the pulled heartstring, each one ties me to a piece of my Purpose. The people that I love. The place that will always be home. Each moment I have wished that I could pause in memory forever. Every animal I have ever cared for. The sun that rises in the morning. The possibility of the future. The people who have hurt me. The moments I once wished that I could erase. Everything I have lost. The things that I wish I could change about this world. The riddle of the future. All of these things together, in harmony with one another, tug at my heartstrings. Some of the strings are in constant vibration, while others lie dormant for years. My heartstrings. My symphony.
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When I first dropped into a regular asana practice, I had no idea the magnitude of what I was doing. I now give credit to yoga for every single one of my best qualities. It has taught me to be present, strong and compassionate. Most importantly, it taught me to love myself. The cultivation of those qualities has brought me to a place where I am finally able to talk about a time in my life where I was the antithesis of my present self—disconnected, weak and selfish. I was sexually assaulted in when I was 19-years-old. Four years later, I am now able to say those words without feeling shame. Only a few months ago, that traumatic experience was still locked up inside. I have since realized that confronting it is empowering. Now, I am determined to transform it into a gift. In the aftermath of the assault, I reacted in countless self-destructive ways. I felt ashamed of myself. I escaped from the present moment and my own body whenever possible. The majority of my time was spent disconnecting from others and from myself. Why? Because I felt something was wrong with me—that I was bad. Simply being in my own body caused me humiliation. It didn’t take long for my shame to be accompanied by guilt. The disordered behaviors I found myself stuck in did not make me feel any better. Not only did I feel bad, I knew that what I was doing was bad. Not only did I want to escape my body, I wanted to escape my behavior. I didn’t have the ability to end my destructive behaviors, so instead I hid them, which caused constant anxiety. I hid my habits from my family, friends and boyfriend. I continued to study hard and work hard so that no one could see how I was feeling or what I was doing. I was functional, but still self-destructive. My life went on in this way for nearly a year following my assault. Until my friend encouraged me to come with her to a Vinyasa class at a nearby yoga studio. It was my first time in years practicing in a room with a teacher leading class, rather than on a screen in front of me. To be honest, nothing “clicked.” I didn’t find instant clarity as my hands hit the mat, but I did feel a magnetic pull—right from the center of my gut—to come back. That’s when I started dropping into a regular practice. Yoga soon replaced running as my physical outlet. In the months following my assault, I would run almost every day. Not jog—run. I was running as if I could somehow run right out of my own skin. With yoga, I was slowing down, I was even staying still. I didn’t realize it, but I was starting to heal simply by learning to be present in my own body. I abandoned my destructive behaviors. I learned to come to my mat when I was feeling shame, or guilt, or disconnection. Over time, I began to cultivate self-love, compassion and connection. You know what? It wasn’t always easy. In fact, sometimes I left my mat feeling worse than when I started. I would leave class and cry, or I’d leave and be on edge for days, not wanting to go back. No matter how I resisted, though, that magnetic pull yanked me right from my core back into the practice. Even though coming to my mat and practicing bodily presence was a great step in recovering from the assault, I was completely and utterly unaware of just how great a step it was. I was gaining a connection between my mind and my body, my breath and my movement. I was gaining intentionality. Through dedication to my practice—on and off the mat—I slowly began to rebuild a sense of self and a sense of ownership over my body.
“Release anything that you are holding onto.” 
These words are often said in the yoga classroom. Something in me was ready to be released, but I needed more time. Eventually, it all started to connect. Through my disconnected behaviors, I had so effectively buried the memory of my sexual assault that it was nearly impossible to trigger it. Now that I was beginning to reconnect to my body and my world, I was getting back bits and pieces. Three years after I dedicated myself to my practice on the mat, and four years after my sexual assault, yoga has equipped me with the tools to begin to process. I know how to breathe, even when I am in an uncomfortable position. I know I am strong; if I can bear my least favorite pose for just another moment, I can bear anything. I know that I can trust myself. Most importantly, I know that I am here.
Side note to self: Jenna, you are here. You are in your body. You can sense the world around you, thanks to your body. Be in your body. No, it hasn’t always been great in here, but you are alive and you are here. Be here. This is real. This is happening.
Several months ago, it was (unsurprisingly) my yoga practice that finally pulled the emotional trigger, and brought four years of suppressed feelings bubbling up to the surface. I was literally knocked flat on my ass for a day. I felt like a train had hit me, and I wasn’t ready to accept why. It took an entire week of nightmares for me to realize that it was time to confront the reality of my sexual assault. It was real. It happened. I turned to one of my teachers and asked for help, and with her encouragement began seeing a counselor to process my trauma. Thanks to the skills I have acquired through my yoga practice, I feel prepared to process. No, I am not healed. No, I haven’t let go of all of the shame and guilt. Looking back, it is difficult not to feel guilty for the way I reacted after my assault. It still feels like an excuse when I say I did the best I could. I wish I had learned to love myself sooner. I am grateful every day for my physical yoga practice. Without it, I might still be disconnected, apathetic and miserable. Getting onto my mat taught me how to be present in my body, learn to reflect without feeling shame, and learn to feel without being out of control. Being a part of a community of like-minded yogis helps me to feel supported, connected and grounded enough to face my demons. And as I continue to process and grow, I do so with the intention of turning my traumatic experience into a gift. I want to use my gratitude for the practice of yoga to increase its magnetism—that familiar pull that caught me right in my gut—so that others might find a way to love and accept themselves in light of, not in spite of, their traumas.   Originally published November 2014 on elephantjournal.com
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