I’m sat in the sunshine, in a park looking down over Bristol, at the end of the third day of my second stint of yoga teacher training (YTT). There’s been a lot to process already and I find myself taking a moment of reflection, on what a privilege it is to be on this journey.

I wrote already about the first weekend of training, back at the end of February. It was both hugely intense and exhausting – not just because of the sheer amount of information that needed to be learned, but because of the newness of the situation, people and environment too.

And this weekend is again proving to be intense, educational and illuminating…but in a completely different way.

There have been plenty of truths and the most honest of sharing (I’m not sure I’ve ever been surrounded by so many wonderful and open people) but, as we’ve worked each day through asana (physical postures), pranayama (breathing practice) and svadhyaya (study of the sacred yoga scriptures), there’s also been a shifting of prana (or energy) that’s resulted in outpourings of emotion from a number of the group. Myself included.

No-one else’s story is for me to tell of course; mine however is thus…

I travelled to Bristol as usual, but this time left behind my other half who has very recently lost his Mum. I was due to spend the three overnights here but, for the first evening, I travelled back to be with him. I could feel something brewing even as I drove home that evening – a rawness in my chest and throat that I could identify as emotion but that I was, as yet, unable to really define. As I arrived home and got into the flat it seemed to pass – only to resurface the next morning on the 45-minute drive back.

In our morning circle on day one, it turned out there’d been lots of ‘wobbles’ during our time apart – with doubts around capability and capacity creeping in. I however was feeling grounded, and shared with everyone how secure and firm I felt, and how certain I was about my choices and path.

By day two however, everyone seemed to have again found their feet. Apart from me who was apparently losing them! Even as I talked things through that morning, I sensed a stirring of the emotion I’d been carrying around – even though for now it still seemed rooted where it was. I explained the feelings to the group and warned of possible tears to come. Still, I had no idea of what it was.

Talking to Laura that morning I came to understand the feeling as a shifting of prana that had likely been ‘unlocked’ through practice (also known as a kriya, or physical manifestation of kundalini), something unresolved within me that was now releasing. It was ok, she told me, to be unable to identify its source – some of these locked-up energies are formed during very early experiences and might potentially never be named.

So with that I settled into the day…

That afternoon we began discussing Patanjali and the 8 limbs of yoga, in particular the ten yamas and niyamas (or restraints and observances) that should guide a yogis life. Splitting into pairs we each took a couple to discuss before feeding our thoughts back to the group. Then, as we worked around the group, each pair making their contribution, it came. A flood of tears that though not entirely unforeseen did still seem to erupt from nowhere -one minute I’d been absolutely fine, but then the next there were all these tears.

And as they came I slowly started to identify their source. We were discussing ten pieces of guidance about how to live (not at all dissimilar to the ten commandments): ten simple, basic principles of living that are core to yoga, and that I also identify with as core to my being.

[Very briefly – there’s a later series coming on these – we’re talking about things like not harming yourself or others, respect and self-respect, community, sharing, compassion…]

But not always, I realised, had these principles been applied to me. And, in particular, my marriage had been full of instances where they were rather flagrantly ignored. I was told by my husband that he simply didn’t like some parts of me. I was told that I was clumsy. Jokes were made at what I felt was the expense of others. And in other aspects of life I was judged too. My driving. My social life. My desire to spend time together…

It wasn’t like this to begin with I don’t think, but it’s definitely there in the latter years. And not just once in a blue moon either, but with a fair level of frequency. Enough that, as I look at it now, I know it was a large contribution to my leaving.

The not liking parts of me thing was repeated. And about more things than I care to remember or write down.

Then the clumsy thing – which at first was a bit of a joke. And if I’m honest I think that, as women, our periods can often be accompanied by a bit of general spaciness or loss of spatial awareness. So maybe in some instances it was true. But it became a ‘thing’. And I was just clumsy – always clumsy. I often thought (and objected) towards the end that this was a self-perpetuating statement – in telling me I was clumsy, he was making me clumsy – but by then the damage was done.

Any time we went somewhere and I drove, my driving would be scored out of 10 at the end (and I was criticised throughout for the slightest of errors). Unsurprisingly my driving became more nervous, and the errors more frequent. I asked for it to stop. Explained again that it was self-perpetuating, this repeated statement that I was a somehow lacking as a driver.

My social life wasn’t big enough. I didn’t pursue people for new friendships. I should go do things with this person, or that person. Be part of this club. Join that society…. I’ve written before about discovering I’m introverted but at this time in my life I simply had no idea – I just became accustomed to the idea that I was lacking again, albeit this time in social skills. And instead of being supported and assisted I was, in a way, told to sink or swim. Get on board or stay home alone. Which I often did.

I remember talking to my Mum about this, a number of times. About how I felt alone, and worried for our future. About how my husband didn’t understand my desire to spend time with him. He’s not an introvert of course and was out all the time, doing his thing while I languished at home living on a diet of TV.

The thing is though I knew nothing of this bigger picture at the time. Each instance of disregard for me was just a teeny tiny thing. But in time those teeny things become bigger noticeable things: a general lack of comprehension about who I was; a flagrant disregard for my wishes and feelings; an absolute offloading of responsibility onto me for the various ‘stuffs’ of life – washing, ironing, travel plans, groceries…

A number of situations I remember clearly:

His brother’s wedding. I was new to the family; he was the best man. I was hugely intimidated by the thought of a day meeting all these new people (there were so many guests, one of them collapsed and needed medical care!) without him by my side yet he couldn’t even bring himself to help me understand how (and with whom) I’d be travelling to get there. I protested; he said I was silly.

My brother. There’s been an ongoing issue between me and my brother for years (again, more on this another time!) and, to cut a very long story short, my then-husband simply never had my back once.

And sausages! This is a little silly, but strong relationships are built in the little things as well as the big ones. I was a most-time vegetarian, because I didn’t like the texture of meat, but I did have a penchant for the kinds of things that lots of proper carnivores scoff at – Big Macs, for example, and a particular brand of sausage. We’d go to stay with family members and he’d tell them I’d eat sausages but never explain the idiosyncrasies of it. I asked every time but nope. I’ve lost count of the number of occasions I’ve forced down a cooked breakfast that I couldn’t stand just so as not to appear rude. I couldn’t make a fuss – it’s an introvert’s worst nightmare being a figure of attention like that – and so I’d ask him to explain beforehand, to pave the way in advance of a visit. But he’d just brush it off. It was another thing he couldn’t understand and therefore just chose not to listen to my request.

So there it is – big things, and little things. But in the whole one massive thing that resulted in me leaving my relationship.

As I explained on Yoga Teacher Prep, I met someone else and hurt a lot of people, and of course I would go about things differently if I had the time again. I lost friends and family over it, I was called all kinds of names, and I was judged in all kinds of ways. But you know what I realised in that session yesterday? I was not being treated very well in that marriage and it had compromised me at my very core.

But I just didn’t understand any of this at the time. And it was the most confusing place.

I still don’t think I’m done understanding it if I’m honest, but for the first time in two years I feel a sense of peace, resolution and compassion towards myself in relation to it all. Carrying around guilt is exhausting – today I feel some of that lifting and I move forward with life cleansed of an awful lot of negativity.

There may be people reading this who know both me and him, and who perhaps question my telling of events (unfortunately, those who are no longer my friends will probably never read it!) . All I can say to that is imagine for a second that you are a building, remembering that buildings are only ever as strong as their foundations. Your foundations however have been chipped away at, piece by tiny piece, day after day. What do you think would happen in that situation?

I also ask that they take a minute to reflect on the person I am today – how peaceful and calm I am in comparison to what I was. Then perhaps they might see that something bigger than just my infidelity was going on.

Love is love is love. And you love all of someone or not at all. I know that now, I knew that then. But I’m stronger today – more self-aware, self-reflective and self-respecting.

Time to move onwards and upwards.

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