My Journal
Writing is an important way for me to process my feelings, questions, confusions, and experiences.
CW: some journal entries are about traumatic experiences
8.5 cm
When I was in labor at 8 centimeters dilated, the process got stuck.
When I was in labor at 8 centimeters dilated, the process got stuck. I stayed there for hours, at 8 centimeters, breathing and screaming and moaning through each contraction, desperate during the breaks between.
At 8.5 centimeters - with the gentle urging of my doctor, doula, and wife - I got an epidural and it was just the medicine I needed. I took a deep, long, sleep and woke up two hours later to push my beautiful daughter earthside.
A few weeks ago, my wife told me that while I was sleeping in the hospital bed, she looked over at me and saw me curled up, sucking my thumb.
Imagine that – a grown woman, about to give birth, sleeping like a baby and sucking her own thumb.
We are all mothers, daughters, and grandmas. We are all here and beyond. We are all life and the darkness of death. And everything in between.
Potomac again
The river doesn’t rush the rain.
The river doesn’t rush the rain.
And the pull of my planet
sometimes intersects with yours,
making me forget my gravity.
I’ll meet you there,
where the river narrows.
Our bright eyes alive,
again.
gaslighting haiku
told him what happened
told him what happened
”do you know your memories
are real?” he replied
how could this be true?
Beach. Crying. 1:40am.
Beach. Crying. 1:40am.
Stars.
Digging as deep as I can to find forgiveness.
Help me, God.
Please.
He taught me about constellations.
He took me camping.
He ripped my body from me.
How could this be true?
this is the time when I’m meanest to myself
Mirror glimpse,
fat old ugly fat old ugly double chin bad skin acne shame hatred
Mirror glimpse,
fat old ugly fat old ugly double chin bad skin acne shame hatred
stabbing into me…
And then I smile at myself and try to move on
accepting that mean voice
being Zen or something…
But it hurts so bad.
It’s my mom looking at my body and my dad looking at my body
and my dad preying on me and seeing me as meat.
And then me repeat.
But sometimes I catch my sparkling gray eyes,
my Bubbie’s eyes,
and I see a spirit and a crackle and dare I say magic…
And in the quick moment before I start tearing my body apart again,
I’m free.
I'm sorry
That I wrapped my head for so long
It was hurtful and appropriative
That I wrapped my head for so long
It was hurtful and appropriative
And I’m so sorry
I am working to repair by honoring the South Asian roots of yoga every time I teach
By remembering that I learned this practice from people of color
And staying humble in the process, always learning