This week for yoga teacher training I had to write an essay about how I find my edge. In this case edge is being defined as, “a place of comfortable discomfort, where growing and healing happens.” However, when I think of edge, the word is riddled with negative connotations. Edge to me is the sharp side of a razor, the thing that hurts me but keeps me alive. Edge is the precipice I stare down into every time I find myself fearing that depression has won the war. Edge is the danger zone, the line in the sand, the outer limits of my window of tolerance. Edge for me has never been something that I just “find.” Edge has been vital, crucial, persistent. My edge finds me as I jump head first into the abyss of the unknown.
As someone who has spent years disconnected from her own body, the idea of a physical edge was foreign to me, completely alien. My body was pain. The edge was visceral for years. So I shut down. I blunted the edge. Yoga has slowly brought me back into my body, it has slowly helped me realize I do have a physical edge. But I still don’t know the edge until I’ve gone too far, I’ve fallen over the edge and I’m hanging on for dear life. That’s how I find the edge in life, when the edge doesn’t find me… I fall into it and hope that there is water or something soft at the bottom of the canyon.
It isn’t just my yoga practice where I careen into the unknown. I did it with work. I do it with school. I take risks. Make leaps of faith. Struggle against the pain of not knowing until it clicks. Until something falls into place and I am able to really lean into that comfortable discomfort. I think maybe that’s what the journey is really about, knowing how to stop struggling. Start trusting in the universe. I think that’s why I’ve never been afraid of any of the edges, not like one might expect. Because I have always been confident that when I just let go the Universe will catch me.