I spent many years not liking my body. It was never quite right: it weighed too much, wasn’t fit enough, didn’t look good enough in clothes. I was a gym regular, terrified that I would develop the curses of flab or cellulite. I floated in and out of an obsession with weight. While I never had an eating disorder, my eating was on-and-off disordered. Many a day I scarfed down an entire bag of Reese’s Minis, then the next day felt sickened with guilt – terrified to get on the scale for evidence of my weak and paltry will. And for many years I did all of this while talking the good talk in front of my daughters – worried that they would develop eating disorders. I rarely talked about diets, weight, or the scale – they were my guilty secret.

Enter yoga. A slow starter, I eventually arrived to a point of near-obsession (my husband would probably remove the “near” from that statement), and not just with practicing every day, but also with accomplishing certain benchmark poses. These become another way for me to prove my worth and value. I envied the strong and bendy yogis – I coveted their graceful poses. All of my teachers emphasized staying away from this kind of ego-driven “pursuit of the pose.” Enjoy the journey! It’s not about the final destination! I heard these words. Nodded. Did not listen.

Then I attended my teacher training. Wow. There was a lot of self-exploration there. And my training class contained a few young, uber-flexible, super-strong yogis. Humbling this was, in the best possible way. I was beginning to get the idea that, as a favorite teacher often says, “yoga is not a competition or a performance.” Then I injured myself. I had gone through injuries before, but this one came to stay. It nagged and tugged in almost every pose. I couldn’t will it away. Thus my true journey into yoga began. I finally began to genuinely live the concept of loving kindness – that my body will give back what I send its way.

People far more enlightened than I have said that our wounds can become places of wisdom and strength. This idea can only be understood by the wounded – but not all of the wounded understand. Many of us spend what seems like an eternity covering up our wounds, pretending they don’t exist, feigning a life unscathed. Some of us never get past the “putting on a good face,” and behaving as though our lives are “Christmas letter” perfect. If only.

But coming to terms with a wound that cannot be willed away, or hidden, or ignored – that is where wisdom can find a foothold. In my case, my tender, tweaky back has allowed me to see my myriad wounds for what they are – not weaknesses, not flaws, not failings – but life. A life lived. Owning of our wounds means being authentic. And maybe, if we work at it, we can reach accord with ourselves. So here I am – nearing fifty, with an achy back, a neck that is starting to wrinkle ever-so-slightly like a turkey wattle, a belly covered with the stretch marks of pregnancies past, and a propensity for feeling a bit “blue” at times – and it’s all me. My wounds aren’t pieces of me to be denied or hidden. They form me: stitched together, scar by scar by scar by scar. What a relief to let them show.