In the run-up to my maternity leave, knowing my time for writing would soon be limited, I drafted a blog post ready to refine and share after my baby was born. Except that was 18 months ago, and I’ve never posted it, because I got it so wrong.
The draft article was called “What happens when you do 10 minutes of yoga per day?” It was inspired by one of the most popular articles I’ve ever written – “What happens when you do 3 hours of yoga per day?” I thought my new blog post would be a nice complement to that article and the ideal one for my first piece of writing post-baby. And in my naïveté, I was sure I’d manage 10 minutes of yoga per day as a new mum. I mean, babies sleep, right?! If you’re a seasoned parent, and you’re reading this with a wry smile, know that I also believed I’d be able to carry on my PhD research while on maternity leave because, again, babies sleep. It makes me cringe now.
As a small aside, I want to acknowledge here that plenty of people manage to have babies and maintain a yoga practice. I believe some even manage to bake cakes, look after other children, keep on top of laundry and write books. I was not one of those people.
Failed attempts to get on my mat
I tried many times to do some yoga with my daughter Fenn lying on my mat, like the yoga mums I saw on Instagram. It never worked. Fenn would cry with outrage at being put down until I gave up. She did sleep; her preferred positions were on me, or being pushed by me in her pram. Neither was ideal for doing yoga. I couldn’t even put her in the sling I’d imagined she’d love, like the baby-wearing mum I thought I should be. She hated it, and it usually made her very sick, down both of us. I know now that Fenn had terrible, undiagnosed reflux, which probably explains her intolerance for being anywhere other than propped up on me or on the move. Once we had medication, life changed dramatically. But in the first few months of her life, there were no easy yoga slots. When I got some respite, my priority was sleep, or eating something with two hands, or trying to regain some semblance of control over our home.
But although my physical yoga practice took a hit, I’m so grateful I spent years practising yoga before welcoming Fenn. Navigating this life transition would have been unimaginable without the grounding yoga provided. All that practising, reflecting and connecting with my body and mind were like payments into a personal wellbeing account. And for the past 18 months I’ve been withdrawing from it, reaping the benefits of the groundwork yoga laid.
The power of reframing
One of the simplest ways has been the countless hours I’ve spent comforting my daughter and helping her get to sleep. Sometimes rocking, sometimes cuddling, sometimes just sitting and waiting. I am not, by nature, a very patient person. I want to do everything faster, to fit more and more in. But yoga and meditation have taught me practical techniques for resisting the urge to rush and surrendering to the moment. I’ve reminded myself in those moments to breathe, relax, soften into it and to see what happens. And I’ve changed my relationship to these times. Now, my time getting Fenn to sleep is when I write articles in my mind, or rest and enjoy the cuddles, or let my mind wander and see what comes up. I’ve started to recognise it as really precious time, reminding myself how powerful it is to reframe “I’ve got to do this” to “I get to do this”. When it’s harder to just sit, I count my breaths or focus on a mantra. All these strategies come more easily thanks to the times when I had a consistent meditation practice.
The meditation has also helped me to be less reactive, or at least to give me some space between my reaction and my response. Take, for instance, a particularly challenging night when, after soothing Fenn back to sleep at 3am, she threw up all over the bed. Teetering on the edge of frustration, I caught myself, recognising how tired I was. I took a breath and realised I didn’t need to waste energy on irritation, choosing instead to stay in a calm, quiet place within myself while I changed the sheets. The ability to notice my reaction, then make a deliberate choice to follow a more peaceful path, was a gift from my meditation practice months and years before.
And then there have been the times that were emotionally rough. The times when I was exhausted and questioned all my life choices and missed my old life and freedoms so much that it hurt. The times that no one warns you about. Here it was the yin yoga practices that helped. They have taught me to lean into the discomfort, to do tonglen, where you breathe into the space that feels hot and dark and uncomfortable instead of pushing it away. Because by sitting with them, allowing them, even welcoming them, I was much better able to process the feelings and move through it.
Yoga as a reservoir of strength
What I’ve realised is that the quantity of your practice doesn’t diminish its quality or impact on your life, and the physical element doesn’t need to be a constant. I’ve come to see the yoga I’ve done as a reservoir of strength, patience, and resilience that I can draw from in times of change. So, to anyone navigating major life transitions, unsure of how to maintain their practice or integrate it into their new life, know this: the yoga you’ve already done, the time you’ve dedicated to it, continues to work within you. It becomes a part of you.
I suspect I’m still mostly in the withdrawing from the wellbeing account phase, but I am finding ways to top it up a bit too – lots of journalling, the odd online yoga class and plenty of walking and running outside. When I do a physical yoga practice, it feels reassuring and grounding. Like a catch up with a really good friend, it’s still the space that lets me be fully myself. I know life will cycle back around, and I’m sure at some point I’ll get to do 3 hours of yoga per day again, but for now I’m loving what I can do.
