Our society doesn’t offer robust options for how to be strong in functional ways, no matter how we define the word. How many young children each day are told “be strong, don’t cry,” thereby losing contact with the strength of connection that comes through vulnerability? How many people are so consumed with the directive to “be nice,” that they have no access to the strength of their anger, can’t set boundaries well, and/or no longer know what they truly feel or think? Too many. So, while the struggle you are walking through is not easy, you are not alone. And while the symptoms of the challenges you have been through may have created feelings of isolation and loneliness, as most addictive processes do, you are most certainly in the midst of the shared human experience of claiming an empowered relationship to your strength, unravelling the shadow elements you have internalized, and finding your way to a greater possibility.

No matter how good you get at teaching yoga, people will walk out of your classes, write bad yelp reviews, and gossip about you occasionally. No matter how many mistakes you make, people will love you more than you feel you deserve, come to class when you are not at your best, and occasionally ask you to their weddings, birthday parties, and anniversary celebrations. You may have seasons where you struggle to pay your bills and you need to take an extra job to pay for your teaching habit. You may have seasons where the money you make teaching feels worth the effort and all those hours of training. And, whether it’s an up season or a down season, friends who know you beyond those outer manifestations will help you know yourself and your deepest worth beyond them as well.

In fact, I know very few people right now who aren’t feeling a bit beat up by modern life. In a recent conversation with my therapist, I was talking about how nourishing the shorter form classes I was offering seemed to be for people in the face of their fatigue, depression, and anxiety. She said that she had just come from a meeting with some of her colleagues who all reported that their clients were reaching the limits of their capacity for resilience. The relentlessness of our current times is wearing many people down and their self-care strategies are not even as effective as they used to be, if they are even managing to do them at all.

That being said, I am an asana teacher who teaches public classes, workshops, and trainings. That means the scope of what I can contribute is limited by the very nature of the offering. Can asana heal all kinds of pain in the body? Sure. Can that happen in every asana class? Probably not. Is asana therapeutic and psychologically helpful? Sure. Is every yoga class a safe space? Clearly not. Can yoga community provide deep meaningful connections aimed at inclusivity, belonging, and unity? Yes. Is every community functional enough to deliver on that promise so that no one ever feels left out, different, misunderstood, or lonely? Not that I have seen. We can all improve at these tasks, but we will never provide a utopia. Utopias don’t exist and relinquishing the fantasy of utopia is a key feature of maturity.

On a practical level, this means making peace with the small bit we can do in the face of the ever-growing reality of what we can not do

It might be the help you have to offer isn’t “improving poses” as much as creating safe space. You might not be the teacher who knows all the origins and insertions of the muscles, but the poetry with which you teach conveys the inner experience of the posture in a way that invites people beneath the muscles and closer to the bone. You might not know yoga philosophy, but your love of the breath-based movement helps students understand what it means to be live inside the Spirit as it flows through them and through the shared experience of class. I could go on, but the point is, not everyone has the same help to offer, which is great because not everybody needs the same help at any given time.

I love the way that teaching redeems my many mistakes, turning them into touchstones for compassion, empathy, and connection. On the path of teaching, so little is wasted because, regardless of the subject I teach, I am teaching people. Every human experience I have deepens my understanding and weaves me that much more surely into the fabric of our shared human condition.

The only way I have been able to teach through it all is by relying on the basic skills of teaching— sane sequences, simple themes, clear instructions, active commands, observable actions, etc. I can teach a solid class feeling happy, sad, scared, or mad. I can “verb your body part in a direction” in a heart-breaking election, a pandemic, a death in the family, with no money in the bank, and with a marriage on the rocks. Of course, I prefer teaching when I feel happy, inspired, in touch with my beauty, and with hope for humanity in my heart, but I do not require any of those things to deliver a solid class. Notice I am saying solid class, not the “best class ever” or the “most inspirational class ever” or any such thing. If I keep my skills up, I default to decent under pressure— whether that pressure is my internal state, the state of the world, a personal crisis or a political one.

My point here is that I would rather be a rabbi than a priest when it comes to teaching yoga. I would rather take the seat of the teacher as a learned member of the community than as an intermediary for God. I would rather find the confidence that comes from belonging to my community in a shared process of awakening than what might exist in standing above, outside, or beyond others in my specialness. Each one of us is on a unique life journey; each one of us is special in our own ways. Each one of us is seated at God’s right hand because each of us is sitting down next to ourselves, the teachings, and one another in the shared intention to move toward greater expansion. And what else is God other than the power that binds all this together in Love?

The best part of this series is that revisiting some very basic principles of teaching under the guise of “Advice to New Teachers” has reminded me to take everything down a notch, simplify, relax, and enjoy myself. I am currently in a big personal asana learning curve right and sometimes that means my offering isn’t simple enough, not distilled enough yet to be delivered succinctly. But well, its an ebb and flow and I am being nice to myself about it. Today, when Michelle’s essay reminded me of my own words from almost a decade ago I thought to myself, “Ooooh.. good one…. I should probably take my own advice!”

I have students with far more anatomical knowledge than I do, with psychology backgrounds that exceed my own, who are more deeply steeped in philosophical studies than I am, and who are more established in meditative practices than me. I am rarely the strongest or the most bendable person in the room. And yet, enough people like to practice and learn with me that I’ve managed to stay the course as a yoga teacher. I used to think I had to be “the best” to be a good teacher and that not knowing or being able to do everything would compromise people’s confidence in me. Turns out, there is more to the story of teaching than being a know-it-all.

So, on the days we are inspired, creative, and fresh as a teacher, great. If we are lucky enough to be someone for whom that state arises frequently, we should count our lucky stars. Most of us are going to teach on good days and bad days. If we walk the lifetime path of teaching, we will teach through heart-break and joy, through betrayal and reconciliation. We will fall from grace and we will be redeemed. We will teach through long stretches of burnout that feel as barren as the desert and we will be present for others in moments of exaltation where the shared, living Presence in class has us all knocking on heaven’s door.

We will teach through it all.