Rain is the Mortal Enemy
In my teens and early 20s I had the coolest style. Like, I single-handedly invented thrifted flannels, ripped tights, and combat boots. My pleather jacket and shorts combo paired perfectly with bold lipstick fashioning a signature look that literally no one on my college campus could replicate…at least…it all sure felt that way.
I strutted around feeling like I was a force with which to recon; a powerhouse of style and savvy so effortlessly elusive and so impossibly chic that only those truly committed to the edgiest underground music could understand the weight with which I detested the confines of modern society and fought back against the man. I was untouchable.
Except for rain.
Rain was my mortal enemy.
Because you see, my entire identity was contingent upon a noticeable hairdo that, while definitely flammable, defined my presence. My straight, swooped bangs and shaved sides highlighted the crispy, hair-sprayed spikes that framed my adolescent ego.
And as long as the Long Island weather held up, so did my reputation.
But…as soon as the familiar density of northeastern humidity showed face, mine disappeared. The hours of intentional focus devoted to crafting a flawless image were no match for moisture and god only knows the absolute horrors that would have ensued had I ventured from my dorm to attend my intro to psych class.
Like, my hair would deflate.
I might be perceived as another nameless student who didn’t even care about concerts or art and I had morals. I had values. I had to stand for something. And so did my hair.
Until…I started failing classes because apparently, universities care more about participation than runways. Fair. I was faced with the most formidable ultimatum: commit to my studies or commit to my curated persona.
And this my fellow teen angsters, is yoga.
Yoga is taking stock in decided reality. Yoga is releasing the stories we tell and the narratives we cling to, about ourselves, about life, about existence, in favor of authentic expression.
Yoga asks us to grapple with where we settle our priorities and why we have conflated self worth with punk rock. It encourages us to explore the messy parts of our upbringing that influenced need for resistance versus the appreciation for community.
Yoga is finding root no matter where we are, how we’re dressed, or what music is playing. Yoga is everything I wanted to show but couldn’t feel behind the crunchy crown of damaged hair: that my identity is and always will be the soft, subtle energies that experience compassion, patience, and love.
From the offering of deep breath, the embracing of humility, and the relinquishing of all that pulls away from holding space for peace, yoga gives us the opportunity to return home to the self that was always good enough - even without studded belts and blue eyeliner - in truth, in harmony, in honesty.
XOXO
Haley