Re-Thinking Titles

I'm a fan of titles. Not so much hierarchical titles such as "Mr., Mrs., and Miss," but more so titles that I hoped would explain the meaning of human existence. This has always been a poorly justified reason for indulging my ego and taking the Myers Briggs test five million times.

(In case y'all were curious, I'm an INFP, which basically means I'm that person who breaks down in tears when people say "you look tired."

One of the reasons that I started this blog four years ago. was to clearly define who I was and what I liked. I was bound and determined to transform myself into the stereotypical yogi that rocked a head of dreadlocks and could not only resist a heaping of Wendy's chicken nuggets, but was the epitome of healthy living.

Two nights ago, I stuffed my face with chicken tenders and ice cream. So you tell me how that one's going.

While my obsession with coffee has never been an issue, my self-proclaimed yogi title has caused a lot of inner turmoil, as seen here and here. (There are more, but I'll let you save yourself from the soul-crippling boredom go down that rabbit hole yourself.)

However, as luck would have it, the one thing I love more than titles is a good paradox. Thus, it was yoga that taught me to be less trapped in strictly defined categories, and to simply live my life as a complex, nuanced human being.

However, as yoga taught me a vital life lesson, that realization led me to conclude that I needed to spend less time defining--and letting others define--myself as "that girl who does those poses and breathes."

Sure, some of this stems from my own self-consciousness. I don't eat kale or vegan cheese. If I'm not in the yoga studio, there is rarely a day that goes by when I remember to meditate or chant. During my short journey in the yoga teacher training class, I felt like an anomaly who could never quite "just get it."

I guess I didn't advertise the "lipstick yogi" trend hard enough.

Mainly though, my reason for quitting the teacher training wasn't the fact that I couldn't fit in. I'm pretty swell at eating tofu, wearing long, floral skirts, and talking about the energy flow around me. My reason for quitting was based on my realization that I could fit in but didn't want to. I didn't want to try to squash my authentic, somewhat-materialistic-but-working-on-it, goofy, glitter-loving self.

Somehow, I knew that running through Eddie Izzard's "Cake or Death?" skit wouldn't fly at a yoga studio. 

It's scary to leave a place/community that has felt like home for so many years. But, especially at a time when refusing transitions stunts your emotional growth, it's necessary.

I should have expected this outcome, but ever since leaving the teacher training group, I've felt a much wider distance between myself and yoga. I still go to class, but I recognize that I fall short when looking past the physical benefits of an asana practice (just to clarify, I mean the fact that my body feels calmer and looser, not the fact that I have abs. As far as I can tell, I still don't have abs). But it's awfully freeing to admit that while I am happy to do pigeon pose for five minutes, being "the yogi" just isn't me.

I've come to terms with the fact that self-reflection can be challenging when you don't necessarily fall into one neat category. However, after years of wailing that no one in the world would understand who I was or what I was going through, I've gained friends who also don't fall into categories. I've, as my friend Brave Heart put it, "found my little group of misfit toys."

And somehow, even though I'm at a point that's more confusing than ever, I'm okay with that.