Road

 Reflection

I woke before the world remembered itself.

The moon was still holding the sky, and the sun was already on its way.

My body knew what to do before my thoughts did.

I stepped onto the mat and the first message arrived without effort:

Be grateful. You are awake.

As I moved, I noticed the old urge to rush—

to arrive somewhere instead of being here.

And then the body answered me clearly:

this is not a race, it is a road.

The places I want to reach are not blocked.

They are asking for patience.

Every morning the body speaks.

Not in words, but in sensation.

Tightness. Ease. Resistance. Permission.

I’m learning to listen instead of argue.

Today I stayed with the hardest part—

breathing into the place that once went quiet inside me.

The place that learned fear.

The place that learned to hold on.

Breathing there is not heroic.

It is simply honest.

It still feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

And yet, something is loosening—not just muscle, but memory.

The sequence is changing because I am changing.

Right now, this is what makes sense.

I don’t need to explain it.

I don’t need to fully understand it.

My nervous system recognizes truth before my mind does.

Later, moving through the day, I noticed how often we move toward what feels familiar, even when it keeps us small.

How comfort can disguise itself as care.

How help sometimes soothes the giver more than the receiver.

I noticed how discipline can confuse people.

How quiet consistency doesn’t fit into easy stories.

How presence can feel threatening when someone is used to noise.

And I noticed something else:

respect doesn’t always announce itself.

Sometimes it just holds the door open.

I don’t know what my life looks like from the outside.

Sometimes I don’t even know what it looks like to me.

But I know what it feels like to wake up and move my body.

To breathe.

To stretch.

To walk, jog, and run slowly.

To give the nervous system a reason to trust the day.

This practice has become my orientation.

Not escape.

Not avoidance.

Orientation.

I listen now.

To the body.

To the quiet.

To the moon when it’s still watching.

To the sun when it rises without asking permission.

I don’t need to be pulled in any direction anymore.

I will keep walking this road.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

With respect for the body that carried me here.

And that is enough.

Yoruba Yogi.