Closing and Opening
I had a fresh composition book that I’d bought more than a year ago in anticipation. The night before, I wrote on its cover, ‘Tomorrow is day one’, not as a title but as an invitation without an expiration date.
I worked my final day as a full-time neuroscience researcher at a drug discovery company. The idea of stepping away from this role had been calling to me for nearly two years. In that time, it was a possibility I continually revisited, picking it up, turning it over, carefully considering every facet. So many avenues for moving forward in other areas of my life — things I wanted to teach, places I wanted to visit, friends to reconnect with — became gated on this, waiting just on the other side. More than a few times I had set the departure date and then found a reason to postpone. But eventually the reasons to leave accumulated, the voices of doubt grew softer, and I knew the time had come.
In the moment after giving my notice, my shoulders softened and I felt the full body exhale that let me know this had been the right decision at the right time.
I am a scientist, raised by two scientists, married to a scientist who was also raised by two scientists. If you’re counting, that’s all four of our daughters’ grandparents. Science is our blood, our birthright, our genotype. Leaving science, at least as a full time career, is an act of heretical rebellion. There is no blueprint for this.
I’m also a yoga practitioner, and yoga has been my life’s rudder. My practice has been both constant and evolving over the years, but it's a key ingredient in the recipe of who I am. During the stress of graduate school and later juggling early motherhood and building my scientific career, a powerful and sweaty practice provided the physical exhaustion necessary to quiet my thoughts and to allow for rest. Now, a strong and gentle practice combined with mindfulness and pranayama, or breath work, meets my changing body exactly as it is, welcoming the most current version of myself into each new day, with grace and acceptance.
I am a scientist, by birthright, and by every degree, publication and award that followed. And yet imposter syndrome shadowed much of my scientific career. Biomedical research, like most other fields, is still dominated by highly educated white men, and even approaching my thirtieth year in the field and as an accomplished scientific thought leader, I regularly question the value of my input. My voice shakes when asking questions in a crowded room.
Years ago, when I first began to teach yoga, I soon understood that I didn’t need to question my value or my credentials. I was simply a conduit for this ancient and elemental teaching. As long as I could keep my ego out of the way, there was no question that the yoga I was here to share could be of value to those ready to practice. Standing on my mat and beside the altar, I found that my voice was steady, no matter how crowded the room. This was a room I needed no blueprint for.
"What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from." — T.S. Eliot
This is a closing and an opening. It’s a stepping between worlds, and while I'll continue to have a place in both, I'm also excited to scout the overlaps, the grey zones and the borderlands.
Our lives are in constant flux, and over the course of a lifetime there are few times when the doors between the chapters of our lives close and open so definitively. Change is rarely perceptible in real time, and to intentionally choose change for ourselves is a gift, one I'm very grateful for in this moment.
While I'll keep my connection to the science I love in various ways, I'm also looking forward to stepping onto the path of sharing yoga with both feet. So many grand adventures yet to come. The composition book is open. Page one is blank. That feels exactly right.
