I had a meltdown just a few days ago.
I gave my friend a call in that darkest hour of my soul. My friend, who has a braver older soul, felt drained hearing me out that evening.
“No. It isn’t self-doubt.” I heard myself arguing. “I have no problem knowing my ability. But I just doubt whether people can see it.”
“It’s still self-doubt.”
He’s right. I just didn’t know whether I would really be able to kick start my business when I move back to Shanghai, whether I would find someone I want to date, whether I would be able to support myself being an entrepreneur.
My poor friend listened till the wee hours. He didn’t try to give me solutions. When we met yesterday at this exotic Moroccan restaurant known of its plush cushions and healthy couscous, I let my guard down.
“Sign up for a yoga class.”
“I know anything you do you start at the top. This time, find their entry level class. Sit with yourself. Be with yourself. Have no expectations. Set no bars.”
“I wish I could start it much earlier. It’s not that I want my body to be more flexible. None of it. But it makes me more receptive of me as I am and be okay with it.”
“Remember, there is no such thing as ‘competitive yoga.’ If you find yourself gaging for air it’s not yoga. It’s torture.”