v.43 Count Me Out (But Also Kind of In)
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
Remember that 5K training I was doing? Well. About that. Turns out my piriformis, a tiny, underachieving muscle deep in my hip that I forgot even existed, is basically on strike. Because it’s refusing to do its one job, the rest of my legs are working overtime, which leads to immediate, anger-inducing cramping. The kind of cramping that pulled me right out of running and landed me directly into 10 weeks of physical therapy. So here I am, sidelined before I even got to the starting line. And while “failed” might be a little dramatic, I’m dramatic so let’s go with it.
What makes this even more absurd is that I once, long ago, ran and completed the Paris Marathon. Yes, that Paris. 26.2 miles of cobblestones, crowd cheers, and pure adrenaline. After never having run a day in my life, I trained for months. And I crossed that finish line. So believe me when I say the irony of being taken out by a 5K training plan and a rebellious hip muscle is not lost on me. There’s something disorienting about going from completing a marathon to beginner again. And yet, here I am. Back at the start. Back in the work of learning what my body needs now, not what it could do then.
And in a beautifully inconvenient twist, a few months before signing up for that race, I finally joined a local yoga studio. Not just any studio, but one deeply rooted in Iyengar. For those unfamiliar, that means alignment, props, and long-ass holds that make you question your life choices. It is precise, intense and takes itself very seriously. I’m not new to this, I’ve practiced yoga for over two decades and I’m 500+-hour certified yoga teacher. I studied, trained and learned over years for the philosophy, the depth, the practice. And still, every time I walk into this new studio, I’m building a small fortress of blocks and straps like I’m preparing for a yoga armageddon. The other practitioners are nice enough and they smile kindly. And while I appreciate the support, I also want them to stop fucking looking at me like a gentle baby bird trying her first downward dog. (I’ll admit that perhaps I’m imagining this part, though.)
My original practice was very physical but also breath-led and intuitive. In New York City, I needed that grounding to survive the chaos of the 3 train and general sidewalk rage. But the suburbs are different. The slower pace has me craving structure, and these classes deliver it in the most exacting, slightly rigid way. I’m weirdly into it and I go three to four times a week. Even if I leave every session low-key annoyed and wondering what just happened, I also feel challenged. And that’s something I didn’t know I was missing.
Here’s what’s been coming up: I am trained, experienced, and somehow still a total beginner. There’s a kind of identity crisis in realizing that expertise and vulnerability can coexist. That you can know a practice deeply and still feel completely unsteady while doing it. That you can intuitively understand something and still have so much more to learn. I’d love to say I’m handling all of this gracefully, and I think I am. But I’m also sweating through my tank top and questioning all my life choices during what’s allegedly a “basic” pose.
And maybe that’s the ironic gift of it all. Being a beginner strips away performance. It forces presence. It reminds us that we’re never really done learning, no matter how long we’ve been at it. There’s a quiet power in returning to the foundation. In letting go of being good and just choosing to be curious again.
So what does it all mean? Maybe not much. Or maybe everything. Maybe it means I’m not running races this season, but I am showing up. I’m rebuilding. I’m listening. I’m collecting props like they’re currency and sitting in the tension of what it means to be both seasoned and new. Growth doesn’t always feel like progress. Sometimes it’s a tangle of sweat, sarcasm, and sore hips. But still. I’m here. And honestly, showing up might just be the most advanced practice of all.
This week’s microjoy: I met Tiffany recently while perusing Bookbarn in Denville, NJ, where she volunteers. She walked over with the sweetest mix of excitement and hesitation and said, “Hi Cyndie. I’m a huge fan and didn’t say anything at first because I didn’t know if you wanted to be known... but I had to. Hiiii!!” It was humbling, heart-opening, and wildly unexpected. A reminder that our words travel farther than we realize. And sometimes, they come back to meet us. Hi Tiffany, thanks for making my day. 🩷
P.S. Per usual, if this resonated with you- PLEASE repost, comment, share and spread the word.
Welcome to Life, Created.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
