I don’t know exactly when I crossed the line.
There wasn’t one dramatic moment when my body stopped feeling like home.
It happened gradually.
One surgery became two.
Two became three.
Then six.
My left hip has endured more than I ever imagined one joint could.
For more than a decade, my right hip quietly became the dependable one. It compensated. It carried the weight. It did what was needed while I focused on healing, adapting, and continuing to live the life I loved.
Now it hurts too.
And suddenly I’m facing something I wasn’t prepared for.
Two painful hips.
Not one.
Both.
For someone whose life has always revolved around movement, this feels deeply personal.
I love walking.
I love teaching yoga.
I love wandering through my garden before the rest of the world wakes up.
I love carrying watering cans, kneeling in the soil, rearranging flower pots simply because they make me smile.
I live in a home with stairs that have never asked permission from my body before.
Now every flight requires negotiation.
Every outing comes with calculation.
Every invitation begins with a silent question:
“Will my body allow this today?”
That question is exhausting.
Not because it means I can’t do everything.
But because it reminds me that I have to think about everything.
There is grief in that.
Not dramatic grief.
Quiet grief.
The kind that settles into ordinary moments.
The grief of realizing that something you once took for granted has become something you now have to plan around.
I’ve also noticed emotions I don’t particularly enjoy admitting.
Sadness.
Frustration.
Fear.
Uncertainty.
And perhaps the hardest one of all…
The fear that the life I recognize is slowly becoming someone else’s memory.
I don’t like writing those words.
But they’re true.
For decades, I have poured myself into caring for other people.
As a yoga teacher.
As a caregiver.
As someone who naturally notices what others need before they ask.
As someone who says yes.
As someone who figures it out.
As someone who believes kindness matters.
I don’t regret those choices.
Not for a second.
Serving others has given my life purpose, connection, and immeasurable joy.
But lately I’ve been asking myself a question that feels both uncomfortable and necessary.
Where was I in all of that?
Not physically.
Emotionally.
How often did I postpone my own needs because someone else’s seemed more urgent?
How many times did I tell myself, “I’ll deal with this later”?
How many years did I believe that resting had to be earned?
That asking for help was somehow less noble than offering it?
I honestly don’t know.
And I don’t know whether living this way has taken a toll on my body.
Bodies are wonderfully complex. Pain rarely has one cause.
But I do know it shaped the way I lived.
I learned to keep going.
To adapt.
To push through.
To care.
To carry.
And perhaps, somewhere along the way, I became so practiced at carrying everyone else that I stopped noticing how heavy my own load had become.
Maybe that’s the real question.
Not…
“Did caregiving cause this?”
But…
“What has caregiving cost me?”
There is a difference.
The answer isn’t resentment.
The answer isn’t regret.
The answer is awareness.
Because awareness gives us the chance to choose differently.
So what do I need now?
That question feels strangely difficult.
Not because I don’t have needs.
Because I haven’t practiced naming them.
I need rest without guilt.
I need help without apologizing.
I need spaces where I don’t have to be the strong one.
I need movement that nourishes instead of proves something.
I need permission to grieve what my body has lost while still believing in what it can become.
I need hope that isn’t dependent on a perfect outcome.
Perhaps most of all…
I need to believe that my worth has never depended on how much I could carry.
That may be the hardest lesson of all.
I’ve spent years teaching students to honor the body they’re in today.
Now life is asking me to believe my own words.
Some days I do.
Some days I don’t.
Maybe healing isn’t about pretending we’re okay.
Maybe healing begins the moment we’re honest enough to admit we aren’t.
I don’t know what comes next.
There are more appointments.
More decisions.
More uncertainty.
There are still gardens to tend, yoga classes to teach, and stairs waiting for me every morning.
There are still moments of beauty tucked between the difficult ones.
A bloom opening.
A student smiling.
A sunrise spilling across the mountains.
A deep breath that reminds me I’m still here.
Perhaps that’s enough for today.
Perhaps that is what courage looks like now.
Not carrying everything.
But allowing myself to be carried, too.
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