Don’t Be Cocky Unless Your Name is Mick Jagger



“Yes, sir!” I chirped with a smirk when asked if we wanted to do another round of duck walks across the dojang. I have lower jump kicks and less forceful strikes than my male classmates, but 20 years of being a gym rat and yoga enthusiast makes me excel in conditioning exercises. I scurried across the floor with masochistic glee, silently thanking a thousand Buddha squats for my energy and agility.

The next day I had trouble walking down the stairs.

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Everyday Struggle


“Don’t practice ‘struggle’…or that’s what you’ll get good at,” my yoga teacher quipped lightly during class on Sunday. She continued discussing the finer points of mastering balancing half-moon while I remained fixated on that statement. As a swimmer I’ve learned not to fight the water. As a commuter I’ve learned not to get angry and fight the traffic. As a student of my own mind I’ve learned not to drag myself further into the strangely addictive combative misery my brain likes to create. As a yoga and martial arts practitioner I’ve learned to be mindful of my movement and forgiving of my mistakes.

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Priority or Passing Fancy?


“I played for five years, and I was pretty good at it. I just had to put it aside and focus on other things,” I said wistfully to my brother as I reflected on my 5-year stint of studying classical guitar.

“That often happens with people who aren’t full-time musicians,” he replied sympathetically.

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