The other day I had the rare opportunity to go to an Ashtanga class while Henry was at school. The class happened to be at the same time as the Crawlers & Toddlers class that I took Henry to for so long—where we moms did Kundalini while the babies played around until their turn. As we were laying in our final rest pose, I could hear our old class through the wall. I could hear the babies crying, the moms singing “The Longtime Sunshine Song”, and finally, the gong.
And just like that I was transported back, back to what seems like ages ago. That dark time in the months after Henry’s first birthday when I was finally coming to terms with all I lost in his traumatic birth. When day after day after day of his 14-hour stretches of wakefulness were finally taking their toll on me. When I was trying to come up for air and couldn’t get a breath to save my life. That class every week was my lifeline, the only time I could ever really breathe with my child in the same room.
I lay there in the dark warmth and listened, limp, with my eyes closed. I thought about how grateful I am for every minute of that time, every single one of those nights when I laid in bed the entire night with my eyes wide open, heart racing, wondering if I would ever be able to shut my mind off enough to sleep again. If not for those days, I wouldn’t be where I am today, here, finally on the other side, and ripe with possibility.