It had been two years, almost to the day, since I had been in that burning hot room in Plaza-Midwood.

It was Valentine’s Day and a Friday and I really needed a yoga class. Several days prior, I received a call saying that my dad was severely ill and in the Intensive Care unit and I needed to come home. I drove to the airport grateful for my brother, knowing we would navigate whatever we were going to find, together.

The studio smelled like incense and lavender and the instructor smiled warmly at me as I set up for my practice. As we started to move through our flow. In the heat, I felt the tightness in my shoulders and neck loosen and I was transported. In that room, for just a moment, I was back in “my old life”. My life prior to packing up everything and moving to the other side of the country. My life before Jacob, and the thousands of miles I’ve traveled both figuratively and literally. How is the world was it just two years ago I was just about to embark on this new and wonderful thing?

The hour passed and we began to slow our movements, the instructor ushered us into our final pose – shavasana and she placed a cool, lavender scented washcloth at the top of each of our mats. I placed mine over my closed eyes and while lying there, I began to cry. Slow steady tears that wouldn’t stop. I surrendered to the grief.

Grief that was for sure about my dad, his health, our messy relationship. But I really think that my heart was grieving the loss of a life filled with what is known. Life with my closest friends and family nearby, my charming (and yet reasonably priced) apartment, favorite bars and restaurants, and my favorite little yoga studio - I could go on and on. Don’t get me wrong, California is exactly where I want to be and it’s somehow even better than I thought. More importantly, I know that this is where I am meant to root myself. But still, every so often, I long for that sweet earlier season and am just about taken out by a wave of grief.

I’m not sure what to do with those emotions except to experience them. There is beauty in the tension between joy and sadness. I fly back to LA and feel gratitude for the dream that was fulfilled and the series of events that all had to line up perfectly for me to be here. Proud of myself and the tenacity required to execute the whole thing. I am humbled by relationships and love that has been lavished upon me as I continue to step further into it all. This is the stuff that can’t be wrapped up in a tidy bow. Accepting this requires more maturity than is comfortable and I’m shifting, and growing, and hating it, all while embracing the wildness of it all.