2 arrows. 1 aim.

"I have some pain."

"Can you go softer please?"

"Ok."

"You'll need to go softer than that."

"That's better."

An older woman was directing the masseuse at a well-known massage chain. Her mandarin speaking masseuse was thrown by the woman's repeated direction for reduced pressure. Less discomfort. And pain.

I'm two chairs away, 75 minutes into a Chinese acupressure massage. Two thoughts passed through my quietened mind: "how did she do that?" and "I want to be like her when I grow up.

One of my favourite yoga teachers Noelle, taught me the practice of asking my body what it needs. Listening deeply. Before taking the next asana (Sanskrit for posture). Being similar in character, she often ribs me for 9.9 times out of 10 choosing the hardest or most advanced version of the pose possible.

Recently, she taught a handstand workshop resulting in burning shoulders, weakened wrists. Fear of falling. My body simply didn't enjoy it. Listening. I declined the challenge. And walked away. For the first time in my 7-year yoga career.

Today, handstands aren't in my practice. But according to my wise yogic teacher, I finally found wisdom.

Wisdom to not have to do everything. Wisdom to not have to be the best at everything. Wisdom to know the difference between them. And wisdom to put prudence over pain.

I recently discovered a deep-rooted belief that nothing is worth having unless it comes with insane amounts of pain. That I am worth nothing and life lacks meaning and depth unless I experience gut-wrenching, heart-breaking pain. Agony preferably. That if it doesn't come with a sacrifice the size of Alaska, or the sickened suffering of a handmaid in Gilead, it's simply not meant to be. For me.

 Buddhism teaches the "two arrows" - physical pain (first arrow) is unavoidable, but mental suffering (second arrow) is an option.

I've spent my life choosing to be a target for both.

The Buddha's teaching, like it's very own arrow, struck differently this time. Not as philosophy but as permission. Permission to ask for softer. To choose easier. To believe that depth doesn't require drowning. That meaning doesn't demand martyrdom. That worth isn't measured in blood, guts. Or wounds.

Gabor Maté writes that we mistake familiar pain for necessary pain, and we choose it because we know this devilish dance. But what if lightness doesn't make us shallow? What if ease doesn't make us undeserving? What if softer isn't giving up. But, growing up?

 That woman wasn't weak. She was revolutionary.

 Before choosing harder, I now ask why. Before accepting suffering as currency, I query the exchange rate. Before reaching for that second arrow, I remember her radical words:

"Softer please."

And the arrow you're holding right now? The one you aim at yourself daily. The one that serves no purpose but proving you're tough enough to be cut deep.

It's time: to put it down. And walk away.

Knowing the true revolution isn't in how much pain you can endure. It's in finally asking for what you need.

Without having to bleed.

H2BH 019/365