As a “retired” movement teacher who places a high value on her time, it’s really difficult for me to find yoga instructors that I jive with. Recently I was lucky to stumble upon a teacher that offered me all the right things. Flows rooted in connection > “peak fitness”, limited monologues, and helpful anatomical cues. Oh and her classes 100% kick my ass.

Not because they’re fast and riddled with Sun A’s, but because they are slow. They require you to hold. And, they put you in that place where your mind and body are constantly working against each other.

They are terrible. And I love them.

Well, last week, here I was in the middle of some weird twisted chair pose working up to grasshopper. My body, slippery from all the sweat. My mind, ready to throw in the f’ing towel. Yet there I was, pretending like I was capable in that moment because the only other option was to admit failure {which I don’t love to do}.

Rather than “quitting” I looked to my North Star.

To my left was that yoga student we all know. The kind we’re all are curious about. An older man, at least seventy-five. His body, slender and toned like a marathon runner. His face, always home to an expression of enlightenment. His head stands, sturdy as a rock.

Whenever we end up in the same class, he’s my North Star. I mean the discipline. The strength. My admiration is entirely his.

So, here we are. Burning legs from holding this damn twisted chair and now the teacher is brave enough to encourage the entire class to contort further and “hop” into an arm balance”. 50% of the class was already in child’s pose or taking a moment to recalibrate their yogi look. But, not me and my North Star. We were there for it.

So much was going on for me. I was frustrated with my body for not doing this incredibly ridiculous thing. I was contemplating what it was about me that couldn’t just STOP trying. I was dreading my next attempt at launching myself forward, most likely onto my face.

And then my North Star fell out of his pose and just before he caught himself he whispered under his breath, “Jesus”.

I don’t think a single other person heard it. It was a gift to me.

Permission to stop.

And you better believe I took it. Because I was BEAT. And, when you’re beat it’s okay to bow out. To take child’s. To quit that job. To lock yourself in the bathroom while your kids throw blueberries around the living room. To just stop.

So, here’s my permission to you on this Monday. Recognize if you’re beat. Stop doing that thing that is completely counterproductive for you in this moment. Revisit it later. Or, don’t.

Are you going to take it?