The instructor, while walking around the room, announces loudly, “An audible sigh is a signal to the nervous system that all is well.”

The person next to me sighs out loud. Then the woman in front, one on the other side of the room, the whole back row. Multiple audible sighs.

I don’t even try. My insides are screaming, “But all is NOT well.” My mind is racing through what might happen if I were to trick my nervous system into relaxing when it needs to be awake, aware. Why are all these people so ready to trick their own bodies into relaxing when it’s not safe? 

My breath quickens, in and out, in, out. I try not to pant. I try instead to return to the long, slow, ujjayi breath we started in the seated meditation at the beginning of this yoga class. We’ve been encouraged to maintain closed mouth, deep, slow breathing throughout the postures, and I was doing quite well at it until I heard that.

I hold my downward dog, and force my breathing to slow again, counting as I inhale, hold, exhale, hold some more. It helps to push away the rising panic. 

I get it. I’m pretty sure no one else in this class is adopted. Or at least none of the ones who audibly sighed are. I understand that having a nervous system that thinks everything is ok might be nice. I’m a fan of body-brain hacks, using our imagination to morph memories, blurring our stories with hope, healing. But telling my nervous system that all is well? That seems like a thousand steps too far.

All is NOT well. All is NOT well. All is NOT well.

Ah, there it is. I feel better just allowing the truth to enter my conscious thought. The mantra relaxes my nervous system. Now I can breathe deeply, expansively. An almost audible sigh escapes my closed lips. I’m home. 

It’s not that I can only relax in chaos. I’m learning my way out of that. But the truth eases my nervous system. Acknowledging what is not right, what has not been ok. And right now? All is not well.

I’ve been exploring the parts of me that sabotage. That don’t let me fulfill my potential. Yes, I was that kid. Good grades with no effort—imagine what she might achieve if she applied herself. But I never did. Still don’t. There is something perpetually holding me back from giving my all. In therapy recently, I got to hear from that part of me, and she is a tiny version of me screaming, “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want this. Any of it.”

It made total sense immediately. I’ve carried her with me forever, the me who doesn’t want to be here. She’s often small, past baby-me, but she also looms large over me, from the future looking back. If I really don’t want to be here, maybe I’m not? A more macabre version of “if I can’t see you, you can’t see me.” And if I’m not really here, then why bother? Why do any of the hard stuff? 

So, I’m spending some time with that part of me. She didn’t want to be displaced; she didn’t want to be returned either. I’m doing my best to explore what it is that she might want. I realize quickly that she is the part of me that had tantrums, screaming and crying when the frustration became too much. My parents didn’t respond to such behavior; they would drag me by the ankles out of the room, closing the door behind me. Alone, I would eventually quieten, take myself up to my bedroom, hiccupping as I cried softly there. It was my job to wash my face and come back downstairs to prove that the bad behavior was over—bad-me had left, good-me was back. They even had a different name for bad-me.

Nobody taught me self-regulation. There was no real me in between all this. No internal me. All of it was external—screaming, flailing, crying. Or back to sweet, compliant. The inside piece of me missing, not addressed by them. Nor by me. That’s why she doesn’t want to be here. She’s never been welcomed anywhere. 

It’s up to me to accept her. Let her know she belongs, she’s loved. She’s safe. As I realize I need to pay attention to the small me that has never wanted to be here, I remember a spherical zoisite crystal I have in a bowl next to my bed. Some years ago I rejected all the names I’d previously been given—the good-me and bad-me names, as well as the birth name I discovered in my search. Instead I chose a new one of my own: Ruby. Soon after deciding on my name, I was in a crystal shop. The energies in those places are usually too much for me, so I don’t go in often. I don’t know if it’s my blood pressure or blood sugar, but something drops dangerously low, so much so that I find myself staggering, almost blinded, unable to breathe. This time, I was drawn to a small orb, green and white with deep red blots. A raw green ruby zoisite that I had to take home with me. 

I decide now that the sphere will be her. I hold her in both hands, and circle her around before putting her in my pocket. I’m going to keep her with me, for as long as she needs. I take her to a yoga class and find myself taking better care of my back during the postures than I ever have before. She’s a good influence. She and I will look after each other well.