Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Five
This week, someone offered me a job I might’ve once dreamed of.
Teaching yoga at a studio I love, invited by someone I deeply admire, in a space that already feels like home to my nervous system.
And my immediate reaction?
Joy. Gratitude. Excitement.
…And then: panic.
Not because I don’t want it.
Not because it isn’t the right fit.
But because it has the word job attached to it. And somewhere along the line, that word started to mean danger.
I finished my yoga teacher training last year.
Back when I was still teaching kindergarten, still trying to survive the endless hamster wheel of work and burnout and pretending to be okay.
Back then, yoga teacher training was supposed to be a side gig. A way to earn a little extra money. A way to stretch myself—literally and metaphorically.
I finished the training. I got certified.
And then…I didn’t do anything with it.
Not because I didn’t want to.
But because every time I thought about actually teaching a class—standing at the front of a room, being the person people looked to—I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
The idea of starting something new, of being responsible for other people again, of even just existing in a professional way again after everything I’d been through…
It felt too big.
Too close to the wounds that hadn’t fully healed.
Too easy to fall back into old patterns of people-pleasing, self-abandoning, overextending.
So I just…sat on it.
Held the certification in my hands but never used it.
Told myself I wasn’t ready.
Told myself maybe one day, when I wasn’t so scared.
And then this week, Natasha—one of my favorite instructors, someone whose voice and presence have made my own nervous system exhale more times than I can count—asked if I would like to teach.
Not an application.
Not an audition.
Just an invitation.
Gentle. Genuine. Safe.
And even then—especially then—my stomach dropped.
I lost sleep over it.
Not because anything was wrong.
Not because Natasha had said anything scary or pressured me in any way.
But because my body doesn’t know the difference yet.
It’s still wired to treat anything labeled “work” or “job” like a threat.
It’s still holding onto the memory of late nights crying in classrooms, panic attacks in staff bathrooms, smiling through gritted teeth on law firm calls, pretending to be okay so convincingly that even I forgot I wasn’t.
When Natasha asked to meet up the next day to talk, I wanted to say yes immediately.
I wanted to be the brave, excited version of me that lives somewhere inside.
But instead, I felt my whole system start to short-circuit.
Tight chest. Racing mind. Restless sleep that never really came.
By Monday night, I knew I couldn’t do it.
Not because I didn’t want to teach.
But because I was already spinning so hard that the thought of one more step—one more commitment—felt like it might shatter me.
So I messaged her and asked if we could meet a different day.
And of course—because she is who she is—she responded with understanding, with softness, with complete acceptance.
No pressure. No urgency.
Just kindness.
And still, part of me felt silly.
Ashamed.
Like—Why am I like this?
Why am I working myself into a panic over something that feels, in every logical way, like a gift?
But healing isn’t logical.
Trauma isn’t logical.
It lives in the body long after the mind understands.
It flares up even when the danger is gone.
This job—if you can even call it that—feels like the exact kind of opportunity my nervous system has been craving.
It’s not about hierarchy.
It’s not about performance.
It’s not about squeezing myself into a role that erases who I am.
It’s about embodiment.
Presence.
Breath.
It’s about guiding others in something that has helped me feel safe in my own body again.
And still, it scares me.
Because for so long, “work” meant abandoning myself.
It meant pushing through when I needed to rest.
Smiling when I was breaking.
Holding it together so everyone else could fall apart.
But this—this is different.
This doesn’t require me to become someone else.
It asks me to come exactly as I am.
And that’s why it feels terrifying.
Because I’ve never had a job that made space for my wholeness.
Only the parts of me that were useful. Productive. Palatable.
So I’m learning not to run.
Not to back away from the thing that feels good just because I don’t know how to trust it yet.
Not to dismiss something just because it doesn’t activate my survival mode.
I want to say yes.
Slowly. Gently. With all of me.
Not from fear, but from freedom.
Maybe this is what healing looks like.
Not rushing into the fire again.
But tiptoeing toward the warmth, just to see if it’s safe.
And maybe—for once—it is.