How Yoga Made Me Love Myself More—and Others Love Me Less 

For the first 25 years of my life, it was easy for me to forget who I am. I tended to enmesh with others, orbit around their realities, and as a result, completely lose my center. Like a moth to a flame, I was drawn to those who were outspoken, shone brightly, and took up a lot of space—which left little room for me.

Thinking the only way to “hear” myself was distance, I made a big life change: I left behind the life I knew in California and moved across the country to New York City. And while my new career as a fashion editor started to take off, I didn’t know what to do with myself in the absence of these relationships.

To cope with my increasing loneliness, I started taking mile-long walks from Williamsburg to Greenpoint so I could attend rooftop yoga classes overlooking the Manhattan skyline. In between postures, I could hear myself again—starting with my heart beating, then my breath inhaling and exhaling. Although I can’t tell you what specific poses were so impactful in those early days of yoga, I’ll never forget the embodied experience of self-acceptance I felt. I had finally found something to fill the gaping void in my heart, while simultaneously creating more space for me to be me.

The more I practiced, the more awareness I cultivated. I could finally feel what codependency kept concealed. I was able to see my people-pleasing patterns more clearly and even recall early childhood memories that induced unhealthy boundaries.

A couple years later, I returned to California. I’ll admit, it was tempting to fall back into old patterns of putting everyone else in my life first. But yoga kept me focused. I traded my corporate job for a yoga teacher training and went on to earn certifications and a master’s degree in Yoga Studies.

While I did all this for myself, deep down I still believed that the self-love I was cultivating in my yoga practice would be mirrored back to me in my relationships.

Instead, the opposite was true.

When I shared with old friends that I was committing more of my life to yoga, they’d ask when I was going to “grow up” and get a “real” job. Family members mocked my field of study, saying things like, ”What are you going to do with it, become a doctor of yoga?” Romantic partners rolled their eyes at topics that interested me, or even worse, put down the things I was learning. The tipping point was when someone I dated angrily rejected my invitation to a sound bath, declaring that he had no interest in my “voodoo black magic” lifestyle or community. As difficult as these moments were, they also became opportunities for me to pause and respond rather than react.

Before I started practicing yoga, my goal was to avoid conflict at all costs. In the past, I would have bent over backward for other people to gain acceptance, usually by hiding my feelings altogether. But 10 years into my yoga practice, I had a newfound tolerance for discomfort.

After these uncomfortable interactions with loved ones, I’d often return to meditation, turning inward to attune to my emotions and needs. I would honor my experience by bringing curiosity, kindness, and acceptance to whatever feelings arose. Through this practice of returning home to myself, I was no longer afraid to stand in my truth—even if it meant standing at odds with people who used to be my source of safety and security.

In the aftermath of that final conflict (and after a much-needed grounding meditation), I called the person I’d been dating and shared how I was feeling, which ultimately led to a dissolution of the relationship. I went to bed that night with a heavy heart. But I awoke to an almost ineffable sensation of warmth, as though I was held in the arms of some divine, loving presence.

I know now that this is what it feels like to not abandon myself, even when abandoned by another. I’d learned to choose myself, even when not chosen by another, and to love myself, even when not loved by another.

Yoga strips away all the survival strategies I thought I needed in order to be loved—the urge to fawn, flee, silence my voice, or dim my light—and brings out the totality of myself that is worthy of love, just as she is.