When I went through my yoga teacher training about eight years ago, I learned something very valuable about the way we encounter other people’s emotions and how we typically handle them. I think it’s safe to say that for most people, when someone we know and care about is in pain, or frustrated, or confused, we do our best to comfort them by reassuring that everything will work out. The intention is to uplift and make them feel better. But what I learned in teacher training has changed my approach to handling emotions, both my own and those of others.

As we shared with the group intimate details of our past history, or things that were holding us back from showing up in both teaching yoga and in our everyday lives, we were told to resist the urge to reach out and touch the person who was sharing if they got emotional. The reason for this, our teacher said, is that it takes away from their experience of the emotion. It’s almost as if we’re sending a message that says, “it’s ok; you’re ok; you should overcome this emotion and be happy.” At first, as you’re reading this now, you’re probably thinking, Reaching out to someone when they’re crying just shows that you care. What’s wrong with that? You could very well be right. For some people, that physical connection could be the only touch they’ve received that day, and it could be vital to their healing. But let me explain it in another way…

I have never been in a romantic relationship...ever. Not even for a short couple months. At most I’ve gone on three dates with a guy. I am 29 & ½ and have never walked this road with an intimate, romantic partner, and I have so many feelings and emotions about that.

Sometimes I’m thankful to have lived my life without settling, just so that I could have a boyfriend. Sometimes I’m thankful I haven’t had a partner yet because it has allowed me to focus on school, on developing a strong sense of self, and it’s allowed me to make my own decisions without consulting the needs and desires of someone else.

Other times, I feel so overwhelmed with sadness and loneliness. I get into a spiral of negative thoughts: something is wrong with me that I haven’t ever dated someone seriously at almost 30; am I not enough - beautiful, intriguing, smart, funny - for someone to pursue me; am I so socially awkward that I’ll never meet someone that I can build a relationship with…

Typically, when I share with someone that I’ve never been in a relationship, they’ll ask me if I go out, or if I’ve tried the dating apps. They’ll ask me what I’m doing to “put myself out there.” As well meaning as those lines of inquiry are, I can’t tell you how much I hate them. I’m a millenial, of course I’ve done the dating apps and gone out on dates. I don’t feel comfortable out at bars, so no, I don’t go out at night time to meet people. I know, there are other ways to meet people, like maybe at a coffee shop. I love coffee shops! The only problem is that, in my experience, everyone is so into their phones and laptops and selves, that they rarely pick their heads up to look around.

There are a select few confidants I will share my more intimate fears and anxiety about dating and finding a life partner with. Recently, while getting back onto a dating app after deleting it from my phone for a couple months, I sent a couple screenshots of profiles to my best friend (as we do), and got myself spiraling out of control into a pity party. Like the beautiful human being she is, she reassured me that I am beautiful and wonderful and I will meet someone (or a few someones) one day. And in this exchange of texts with my best friend, I realized something: I know in my core that I’m beautiful, that I am interesting, that I am a good person, and that I will find someone.

But in that moment, I wanted simply to be heard and seen. I needed her to hear my sadness, to see my vulnerabilities, and to let me be in those emotions and in that moment of panic and sadness. Her reassuring words that I will find someone one day is like that hand reaching out in teacher training. It’s a well-meaning gesture, but it takes away from the feelings I’m moving through in the moment.

It takes a lot of courage for someone to share that they were abused as a child; that they’re an addict; that they have an eating disorder; that they are estranged from a family member; that they’re getting a divorce. That real, raw emotion and vulnerability should be met with space. I believe that it is our job to show up for the ones we love and care about and simply hold space for them to share, to vent, to begin to unpackage whatever it is that has them feeling their way through life.

There is a lot of shame and guilt wrapped up in what we identify as negative emotions. It takes a lot of courage for me to share with people that I’ve never been in a relationship. There is a huge fear that when I do, people will think there is something wrong with me, or undesirable about me. As I grow and mature I can more easily identify that these are lies I’ve been telling myself. And the more I share my story with others, the more it loses its power of shame over me. I so value the people in my life that hold space, that allow me to sift through the lies and find the truth. The truth is that I am beautiful, and fun, and desirable. We need more people in our lives to show up, hold space, and offer compassion and support simply by listening. And we need to find the courage to ask for it.

xxo