She’s a yoga teacher
I got an offer from a yoga studio here in Sydney.
EEEIYEEEEEEEE!!
Well, I got the offer yesterday, but the joy and glee continues, especially because the film of tiredness that clouds my mind dulls my perception of everything, including my emotions.
Still waiting on final details (the paperwork, logistics, etc.) but since this verbal offer was made with much sincerity, accompanied by a hug, and shared with students, I’m hopeful.
Which brings me back to my yoga journey.
I’ve been practicing yoga since 2014 and started my journey in Austin, Texas with Corepower Yoga. Despite having a background in competitive figure skating (I was very mediocre) and working at a gym that hosted free yoga classes (“free” as in I paid the university annual tuition), I was quite resistant to the idea of yoga. The resistance was either due to most teachers — and students — belonging to a very specific demographic (read: white and skinny); or because I wasn’t sure if I was participating in cultural appropriation by participating in a class led by, and surrounded by, white people; and finally (the silliest reason) because my dad had pushed me to do yoga for the longest time, buying me introductory books about yoga since I was a teen, and definitively did not want to do what my parent told me to do.
After my first Corepower class I was hooked — and frankly a bit mournful that it had taken me this long to push past the resistance of not doing something just because my dad told me I should do it (this is a common theme here). I’d have a somewhat steady, very much on-and-off-again, relationship with yoga that spanned New York, Nepal, and landed in Thailand.
The view from Sadhana Yoga in Pokhara, Nepal, where I did my work exchange.
I had wanted to get my yoga teacher certification for a while but had always put it off because I never had enough time. Most yoga teacher trainings are a month long, and it’s quite difficult (an understatement) to take that much time off from work in the US — I was actually denied a promotion because I “wasn’t considerate” about my time-off (three weeks) despite having had gotten that time-off approved six months in advance (but that’s a story for another time). With the career break, I finally had the freedom and flexibility of time to finally pursue my goal of getting certified as a yoga instructor.
Teaching is not new to me. I taught at my Chinese school for two years and have been a mentor or volunteer for students throughout my adult life. I obtained my Mat Pilates instructor certification back in 2018 and taught privately until COVID. I’ve been a “teacher” in unconventional ways as well, whether in the corporate world or in more personal, intimate spaces: I’ve facilitated and led discussions for C-suite executives and I’ve empowered women to feel more confident in their bodies. Yet despite all of this experience, I was surprised by how much I fell in love with teaching yoga.
I love creating a safe and welcoming place where people can feel at ease and where I can encourage people to feel comfortable and confident in their body. I love helping people recognize that yoga is available to everyone, no matter how bendy or athletic or spiritual one is. And most of all, I love empowering my students to take up space — by physically taking up space on the mat and transforming that into claiming space in the outside world.
Tales about the actual yoga teacher training is for another time (I originally was going to write about my teacher training, which is a much deeper reflection), but first, a big
YAY!!!!
for receiving (and creating — yes I am owning my hard work) this opportunity to share my love and joy with hundreds of people on this earth.
She’s a yoga teacher!
Free in Tassie
When I first landed back in Sydney in December, I expected to be excited — thrilled to begin this next chapter of my life, especially when for a moment it looked like the move might not happen.
But I landed on a rainy day and took that as a bad omen. Within the first week I was a giant ball of anxiety. All of a sudden I had this endless amount of free time (no more endless doctor appointments and insurance phone calls; no more rushing from one event to another) and numerous decisions to make regarding what came next (job search, living situation, community). I felt myself creeping back to old ways of thinking — mainly of wanting to go pursue the most prestigious job and sexiest title to prove that this move was worth it. Yet that was so antithetical to why I quit my job in the first place and completely misaligned to the realizations I’d discovered over the past year and a half.
Here I was in Sydney, expecting that being physically here instead of New York would immediately relieve me of all the pressure and expectations I felt back in New York. But instead I felt overwhelmed by the weight my own expectations and disconnected to the person I’d become prior to my diagnosis. To be fair, December was the first time where I wasn’t distracted by something, whether that be good somethings like the New York City Marathon and Thanksgiving or bad somethings like navigating the health insurance system, and could finally start to process and come to terms with what had happened to me that summer.
Well if I learned anything over the past two years, it’s that I do my best thinking in the mountains. So on Christmas Eve I phoned up my friend Kazu, who had originally invited me over to Tasmania, and told him I was booking a flight for Boxing Day (Dec 26) to join him, his family, and his partner Satori.
Eating dinner with Kazu, Otosan, and Okasan in their hometown of Sendai, Japan back in November 2024.
I landed in Hobart and immediately reunited with Kazu and his parents, whom I affectionally call Otosan and Okasan, which are Japanese for Father and Mother.
We spent our first day in Tasmania watching planes take off and land at Hobart Airport (I’ve always said that this would be my perfect first date — there’s something incredibly powerful and wonderful about witnessing these giant pieces of steel take off into the sky), walking along incredible beaches (the water, like all water sin Australia, was stunning), and witnessing the most beautiful sunset at the aptly named Friendly Beach.
The rest of the trip was magical, restorative, and exhilarating. I saw amazing creatures of the earth I’d never seen before; I shrieked with joy while swimming in ice cold crystal blue waters; I was surrounded by boundless views with no buildings blocking the beauty of nature.
But most importantly, I reconnected with myself again. Spending time with Kazu, Satori, Otosan, and Okasan reminded me of why I took the risk of moving to Australia to start over despite having already established a pretty good life back in New York. Speaking with them about their dreams and ambitions reminded me that there’s no right way to have a career — in fact that only bad career is the one that you’re only doing to meet someone else’s expectations, ignoring your own. Being with them reminded me that pursuing your dreams and living life on your terms rather than those set by society (or your parents) is why we’re here and what makes it all worth it.
Alive, again
When I first received my undiagnosis, the two thoughts that immediately popped up were:
I can train for the marathon now (but it’s in six weeks)!!
and
I can move to Australia (oh shit I’ve gotta start planning)!!
Post undiagnosis, my primarily focus — at least on the exercise and movement front — was running again both to participate in upcoming races (the New York City marathon and the annual Changsgiving Trinity Turkey Trot) and to reacquaint myself with an activity I love dearly.
It wasn’t until I was halfway up Bishop and Clerk when I realized that this was my first time hiking — actually hiking — since being undiagnosed. I’d “hiked” while in Grenoble, but that was less of a hike and more of a frustrating walk of tears and fears as I was still moving under the (mis)guidance of keeping my heart rate at under 100bpm.
While in Tasmania with Satori, Kazu, and his parents, we took a ferry over to Maria Island. Bishop and Clerk is one of Maria Island’s most challenging hikes so of course I was going to do it because I can f-cking move my body however I want now!*
It was so freaking exhilarating to hike normally again — to hike at my regular speed and feel the breeze against my face, to feel my healthy heart pump oxygenated blood throughout my body, to feel the endorphins rush through me as I climbed onwards and upwards. I got a little teary as I continued the hike; I was filled with awe and gratitude and wonder to be experiencing all of this again after believing I would never move my body freely again.
The best part was the rush that came from climbing tricky bits that required grasping at thin crevasses to pull myself to the next ledge or taking a (literal) leap of faith to reach the ledge overlooking the sea. It was scary and thrilling, breath-taking and electrifying — it was being alive, again.
*Kind of. There’s some complexity and nuance to this, as with most genetic diseases.
Aunt May
Today’s my last day dog sitting.
I know, I know, you’re probably surprised since I’ve never expressed interest in being a dog owner – let alone any type of pet owner – and generally am not a pet person (okay don’t all go hate on me). I’m perfectly fine being a pet aunt.
However.
Tell me you can’t fall in love with this face!!
I’ve grown to love him even more whilst Mum and Dad (Zoe and Joe, who are generously letting me stay at their place) and, to be honest, am a little sad to not have him all to myself. There’s nothing better than watching his face light up when he sees me or giving him a massive full body cuddle.
But being able to fall asleep at night without wondering if someone is going to steal him and having the flexibility to do whatever I want whenever I want heavily tips the scale to staying a pet aunt - all the fun and zero responsibility.
Rejection reflection
I recently read Jia Jiang’s memoir Rejection Proof, which is an inspiring reflection on his 100 Days of Rejection Therapy project. He intentionally sets out to get rejected for 100 days in order to build up his confidence and manage his fear around rejection.
Maybe you remember reading an article of him making a welcome announcement onboard a Southwest Airlines plane (this was my introduction to Jia) or watching a viral video of him asking a Krispy Kreme employee to make him a customized Olympic rings donut.
Jia’s book is entertaining (there are some wild requests!) and inspiring (wow look at his courage!) but most importantly, it is extremely relatable. How often have I let my fear of rejection hold me back for asking for what I want or pursuing my dreams? And sure, I manage this fear a lot better now as a woman in her early thirties, but I do look back on my twenties and wonder where might I be had I not been so afraid of what people might think of me.
The fear of rejection is one that is especially relevant, and becoming increasingly prevalent, as I begin my job search and build a new community in a country on the opposite side of the world. Being told no sucks and being not told anything, which is basically a no, sucks even more. It’s hard to remember that rejection isn’t personal — well, at least 99% of the time.
Jia’s Rejection #27 was soliciting money on the street, specifically standing at a busy Austin intersection as a panhandler, holding up a sign asking strangers for money to donate to a local food bank. This type of rejection attempts were the hardest because they were very public, where he opened himself to the possibility of being rejected by the masses rather than just one person. He shares:
“I saw the world the the way a panhandler would view it every day, with cars driving by and stopping at the red light, their drivers seeing me through their windshields, making quick judgments, and usually lowering their heads to avoid eye contact. It was silent rejection by the masses…
I felt trapped between wanting to draw people’s attention and hoping to avoid their judgment. It felt impossibly painful. I resorted to all types of coping techniques to get through it — talking to myself, trying to hold a big smile, and imagining what the donations I got could do for hungry people, who otherwise might have to do this themselves.”
Last summer while living in France I faced a dilemma trying to get home. The chateau I’d visited had limited public transport options. My options to return home were to A) wait an hour to take a train to the stop closest to home and then walk the remaining 1h 40 min or B) wait three hours to take the train that went directly home but be bored, tired, and hot while waiting for the train. Both options sounded like shit so I went for option C) hitchhike and see if some kind soul would take pity on me.
Despite having hitchhiked in the remoteness of Kyrgyzstan and in the mountains of New Zealand, I could feel myself feeling uncertain about my decision — what would people think of me?!
At first I was very nervous: Can I even hitchhike? (Well duh you can - all you do is hold out your thumb and anyone can do that!)
My first attempt was timid: I barely extended my arm out and flattened my thumb in an attempt to make my hitchhiking attempt less subtle, then realized that this was in exact opposite of my goal to get home, so my arm straightened and my thumb emerged from its cave.
Several cars drove by. Some drivers pretended they couldn’t see me. Other drivers saw me and then quickly looked away, trying to avoid eye contact. One English-speaking couple stopped and offer to help out but when it turned out we were headed in opposite directions, they continued on - I was grateful that they stopped regardless.
After several minutes I moved farther down the road to get a more optimal spot (location, location, location!). More cars whizzed by. Ten minutes passed. Some bikers across the road saw my attempts and wished me bon chance! (good luck) which bolstered my confidence to keep on trying (See? They didn’t think I was weird!). In that moment I realized what was holding me back was fear of how others might perceive me, so I knew I had to persist with my hitchhiking attempts — even if I didn’t catch a ride I needed to see this through, sit in the discomfort, in order to address and confront this fear.
A half hour passed. I walked into the local visitor’s center to see if they could get me a taxi, but none were available for the next forty minutes. The receptionist gave me a smile and encouraged me to keep on trying so I went back outside. As cars drove by I’d smile and wave. I’d make up funny scripts in my head of what the drivers were saying. I’d imagine what I’d have for dinner later that day.
And then they began to come: A man stopped to see if we were headed in the same way (no), a woman with two kids inquired where I was going (different directions), and then finally - hallelujah! - a French family rolled down their window and asked if they could help. A train station close to home was along the way for them, so they told me to hop in!
We chatted in broken French (me) and broken English (them) about our respective trips (them on a short family holiday; me on a working holiday) and briefly brushed politics (the dad laughed in relief when I said I was from New York: “good, that means you’re a Democrat!). Once we arrived to the train station, they were kind enough to walk me to the tracks to ensure the train would actually stop there since the station itself wasn’t open. They refused my offer of cash and said it wasn’t necessary, then left with kind smiles and waves.
As I sat in the train, I thought back to my successful hitchhiking attempt. I did something that required me to advocate and stick up for myself, to push beyond my comfort zone and reclaim my confidence - hell yes I was proud of myself!
In this hitchhiking attempt I’d experienced firsthand what Jia shares in his book as the most important lessons he learned about rejection:
Rejection is human. Neither rejection nor acceptance is the objective truth about the merit of an idea. Just because the first several drivers didn’t stop didn’t mean that hitchhiking was a bad idea. In fact I had people encouraging me to continue to stick my thumb out!
Rejection is an opinion. It reflects the rejector more than the rejectee. Some drivers couldn’t meet my eyes. Some drivers gave a sheepish shrug before driving away. Some drivers mouthed “sorry” as they passed by.
Rejection has a number. The more drivers who saw me with my thumb out, the higher odds that someone would stop by and ask where I was going, and the higher odds someone would be going in the same direction.
In my job search, I’ve forgotten about these lessons and fallen back into several bad habits. When I was rejected or ghosted, I thought it was a reflection of me and my worth (false). Procrastinating at reaching out to potential contacts and applying for jobs was really just fear of being rejected (see above). But really, as Jia muses at the end of his book, what I need isn’t acceptance of others but acceptance from myself. Rejection isn’t something to be afraid of because how can you be rejected if you already accept yourself?
Wise words that have yet to penetrate through the invisible blanket of fear that’s still wrapped around me, though after finishing Rejection Proof the fear is a singular layer rather than a massive cocoon. If I can go get rejected hitchhiking, then I sure as hell can go get rejected job searching.
Visiting Chenonceaux before attempting to hitchhike back home.
Bump bump bump
There’s a sense of aloneness that comes about when you continue to hit roadblocks when pursuing your dreams, whether that’s being ghosted by companies (despite making it through several rounds of interviews), feeling disconnected from your core community (that’s 10,000 miles away) or just having a frustrating walk with your dog (not mine, merely dog sitting).
Sometimes it’s hard to not sink into that feeling, and yet I’m trying to honor it and give it space before picking myself up and moving along. And I’m being honest in sharing because I find it quite frustrating when reading stories of people’s successes that gloss over the tough moments of despair: it’s not all pooping out rainbows and sunshine - sometimes shit comes out too. Yes, in saying this I’m hoping that I too will be a story of “success” (whatever that means) but while also admitting that the road gets quite bumpy along the way.
So here’s a tribute to the moments of (in-person) connection since moving to Sydney - a reminder that I can and will be able to start anew in this new country that’s an ocean away from everything I once knew.
Favorite Aussie treats
One of the most delightful things about spending time in a new country is learning and trying their unique dishes. In (northern) Thailand it was khao soi; in (northern) Vietnam it was pho; and in Australia it is…
Fairy bread!
Fairy bread is a quintessential Aussie treat for…children. Heh. It is sliced white bread spread with butter and topped with hundreds and thousands (also known as nonpareils, tiny round rainbow sprinkles, to the rest of the world). Fairy bread typically cut into triangles, with the bread sliced diagnonaly. While the term “fairy bread” was first used for this dessert(? breakfast?) in a 1929 Tasmanian newspaper article reporting children at a tuberculosis hospital celebrating their birthdays with this treat (odd), apparently Australians have been buttering their toast and covering it with sprinkles long before them.
And let me tell you, it is absolutely delicious.
Well, the gelato version is.
Gelato Messina is an Australian gelato chain that, in my opinion, has the best gelato in Sydney. They are artists in their craft and have creative control over the entire gelato making process, from the dairy (they own their own dairy farm!) to the chunks (they have a team of pastry chefs making brownies, cookies, and the works!). Their stores sell 40 flavors at one time with five of them as specials that rotate out after a week in stores.
One of this week’s specials was fairy bread, and since I had not yet bought myself a loaf of white bread and hundreds and thousands, I knew I couldn’t pass up on this opportunity. Messina’s version is toast and butter gelato with hundreds and thousands crunch - it is phenomenal. So much so that I think I might order a fairy bread gelato cake from them for my birthday. Take note, friends!
Oh and my next at home baking project? Buying a light, airy brioche loaf; rich, salted grass-fed butter; and colorful, delicate hundreds and thousands to make the most exquisite gourmet fairy bread ever. Delicious.
Don’t be so jelly
Dearest gentle readers,
Welcome to round two of dangerous Australian creatures that aren’t deadly but severely uncomfortable, whether that’s for your mental or physical health (need I remind you of the Huntsman spider or shark?).
Today’s episode brings you…the bluebottle jellyfish!
Aww, you might say. What a cute and pretty name for a jellyfish. And in fact, look how pretty it is washed up on the sand.
Photo credit: Kyle Hovey; Flickr
Fun fact: The bluebottle jellyfish actually has another name that you might be more familiar with — the Portuguese Man O’War, which you’ve most likely heard before.
Bluebottles are apparently not uncommon on Sydney’s beaches during the summer, a fact that was news to me in my second summer here in Sydney. Despite their tiny size they give off a disproportionately large and nasty sting, which can cause intense pain for a couple of hours and a lingering rash for several days. They like to linger near the surface, floating and bobbing on top of the water without a care in the world.
Most of the beachgoers at Bondi, the beach I’d decided to explore today, sat on the sand — and I’m assuming — enjoying the view of the ocean, turning faces up when the sun deemed to show us mere mortals its presence, chatting unhurriedly, Unworriedly while waiting for the lifeguards to give the “all clear” to go back in the water.
Oh, didn’t I mention? There’s a sign for every type of dangerous water situation out here.
All those blobs in the sand? Hello bluebottle jellyfish!
What’s wrong with Australian chips?
Old habits are hard to break.
I look at the sad solitary row of chips on the convenience store shelf and make some quick calculations.
The Smiths have a cheddar and onion flavor but that seems like an odd combo. The Ruffles are sour cream and onion — ooh a fave — but they have an import sticker so they’re sure to be exorbitantly expensive, and don’t get me started on the sticker stock of Cheetos. There’s Lays but they’re flat so won’t have enough crunch. Okay let’s go with The Smiths since they’ll be the cheapest.
The Smiths suck. The flavoring is almost non-existent — it tastes like plain chips with a sprinkling of seasoning. And it’s not the first time I’ve reacted this way when eating Australian brands’ chips. They are usually decidedly bland: once the chip hits your tongue the flavor goes away after a couple of seconds until you’re left wondering why they bothered to even come up with a flavor in the first place. What is up with the flavors here? if you’re telling me this is cheese and onion chips, then they very well better taste like artificial cheese and give me onion breath.
I only tried one flavor of Lays in Vietnam (beef pho), but it too was disappointingly bland and decidedly not flavorful.
I knew I should’ve gone for the American brands — it’s only in America where we really layer on the flavor and make the taste buds go wild with the perfect combination of salt, sugar, fat, and crunch. Food scientists have mastered that equation to literally make our bodies crave and be addicted to these tastes and feelings (Michael Moss’ Salt, Sugar, Fat is a fascinating, and a bit alarming, read). America is the king — no, scratch that — the overlord of warping tastebuds to no longer recognize the more subtle profiles of appropriately seasoned produce.
Good quality and sufficient length of sleep have eluded me this past week, and the lack of rest has finally caught up to me, causing me to instinctively reach for “comfort”. It’s funny how my body still associates salt, sugar, and fat with tiredness: I begin to crave the intense punch of artificial cheese (gosh the leftover cheese powder post-Cheetos is delicious) and the powerful crunch of textured foods (nothing more satisfying than the explosion of a Cheeto - or is the singular still Cheetos? - in your mouth) when I haven’t slept enough. And this association still exists despite a month and change, likely eight weeks total if you combine it all, of detox from artificial sugar and processed foods.
To be fair, I’ve built up that association (tired = reach for salt, sugar, and/or fat) over the past twelve years and only relatively recently, let’s say the past five, have I really consciously started to break apart that association — eating disorders are hard to fully “get over”, and in my case it’s fortunately morphed into infrequent episodes of disordered eating rather than remain a full blown eating disorder. And hey, before the association was tired OR stressed OR sad OR angry OR lonely OR any negative emotion = salt, sugar, and fat rotation overload. Now it’s merely tired = salt, sugar, and/or fat, with an occasionally rotation and/or overload.
In any case, I’ve learned my lesson. If I do reach for the chips, the solution isn’t to buy the chips, it’s to go straight home and go to sleep. And if the urge is overwhelming enough to still buy the chips, then at least buy the goddamn American brand.
