Monday

 speaking to my higher self

Today, I see you.

I see what you’ve carried for more than a decade.

The studying. The running. The yoga. The silence.

The Bible, the Quran, the miles, the nights without sleep.

The stroke. The accident. The homelessness.

And still—you did not numb yourself. You did not abandon yourself.

Today, my body finally spoke louder than my will.

Not as punishment.

Not as failure.

But as truth.

I have been at war for a long time—

against time, against expectations, against shame, against the idea that worth is measured by money or titles.

And today, the war paused.

I realize now that discipline saved my life,

but rest is what will allow it to continue.

Yoga saved me. Meditation held me together.

And even when nothing made sense—religion, identity, career—

I stayed with the breath. I stayed with the body. I stayed with God, even when God felt like silence.

I forgive myself for not fitting into the world’s timeline.

I forgive myself for outgrowing people, places, and versions of myself.

I forgive myself for choosing truth over comfort, even when it cost me everything.

I see now that my journey was never meant to look like anyone else’s.

Like Joseph, I wandered without knowing the ending,

trusting that meaning would reveal itself later.

Today, I choose gratitude over shame.

I choose rest over proving.

I choose presence over comparison.

If I step back from those who measured me by material things, it is not bitterness—it is clarity.

I honor the path that kept me sober, awake, and alive.

I trust that strength is returning, not through force, but through listening.

I trust that this pause is not the end, but the beginning of a quieter, wiser chapter.

Today is a beautiful day.

I am still here.

I am grateful.

I am proud of myself.

Yoruba Yogi.

Higher self

 

Higher Self)

Today I stop explaining myself. Not out of frustration, but out of clarity. I know who I am now. I feel it in my breath, in my patience, in how long it takes me to be disturbed. I’m not reacting anymore—I’m responding, slowly, honestly.

My run today reminded me of that. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t loud. I felt gravity along my spine, guiding me instead of fighting me. I’m learning how to live inside the moment, not ahead of it, not behind it.

I see impatience around me, and I don’t absorb it. I understand where it comes from—pressure, grief, responsibility, attachment—but I don’t carry it anymore. I can be present without being pulled.

I’ve invested years into my inner world. Breath by breath. Step by step. Others invested in material things, and that’s okay. Different work, different rewards. My peace is not visible, but it is real, and it is earned.

I’m grateful for this small opportunity, for this pause before the next chapter. I don’t rush what’s coming. I trust it. I embrace the sun, the snow, the quiet, the now.

I am learning to live. Fully. Patiently. Without explanation.

Yoruba Yogi.

Presently

 This morning I recognize where I am, not just physically, but internally. I see myself clearly now. I am not lost. I am centered. Even while adjusting, even while following instructions, even while moving quietly through shared space, I know who I am.

I understand the situations around me without judgment. I see the weight people carry. I see how grief, responsibility, fear, and attachment to material things can disturb the mind and harden the heart. I don’t take it personally anymore. I don’t need to correct it. I don’t need to prove anything.

My work right now is internal.

On the mat, my body is teaching me patience. The slow bends, the surrender to gravity, the deep breathing into resistance—this is the hardest yoga I have ever practiced, not because of strength, but because of restraint. I am learning how to move without force, how to listen instead of push, how to let alignment come from within.

I no longer need to be understood. I already understand myself.

I know that outwardly it may look like I am the one in need, but inwardly I am steady. I am calm. I am present. I am not here to rescue, absorb, or carry what is not mine. I can be compassionate without losing myself.

I am at peace with the space between where I am and where I am going. This is not delay—it is preparation. Until I reach my destination, I choose gratitude. I choose patience. I choose breath.

The snow outside reminds me to slow down, to soften, to trust the quiet. Everything is exactly as it needs to be in this moment, including me.

I am grateful.

I am centered.

I am at peace.

Yoruba Yogi.