April 4th marked fifty-three years since my mother died by suicide, which means she’s been gone for as long as she lived. I was seventeen when she died and, even though it’s been the equivalent of a lifetime — her lifetime — and the pain has subsided, I still experience waves of grief. But I have also found peace. More importantly, I have cultivated compassion for her suffering and mine.
My mother’s suicide left an indelible scar. In those early years, I felt as if I were branded with the mark of Cain, as if I had killed her (even though I knew I hadn’t) or didn’t do enough to save her (even though I knew I couldn’t). Decades later when I read the Harry Potter books, I could relate to the young boy who had a visible, frequently painful scar on his forehead that made him a target for some people’s derision. That’s how I’d felt as a teenager: as if I were marked as the kid whose mother took her own life. I knew my peers didn’t judge me, but I also knew they couldn’t understand my pain. I never discussed it, not even with my closest friends. Instead, I suppressed and carried it as a silent burden in the belief that it made me brave.
How wrong I was.
As that load grew, so did my suffering. It became so intense that my only recourse was to harden and armor myself so that nothing outside myself could harm me. I retreated into that shell whenever life’s vicissitudes came my way. Some were the usual experiences — being turned down for a job, not getting a raise, not being invited to a social event — while others were more singular, like being told in court that I was too young to testify on my own behalf when I sought to become an emancipated minor. Whenever something wounded me, I assured myself that it didn’t matter, that I could carry it within my own inner recesses.
At some point, though, all that emotional baggage became an encumbrance. I had a couple of close long-time friends, but I was largely unable to bond with new people on a personal level because I was afraid of losing them. And that hard outer shell I’d developed as a defense mechanism? Well, it began to harden me on the inside too.
Then, as the emotional fortress I’d walled myself into began to crumble, I developed my own suicidal thoughts. Eventually, they frightened me enough to get professional help.
I have always been a seeker. I chanted with Sufis and meditated with Buddhist monks. I ran six miles a day for years and trained with weights to the point of becoming a competitive bodybuilder. I had also taken yoga classes, initially periodically then later consistently twice a week with the same teacher. But it wasn’t until I decided to become a yoga teacher that I really learned what it means to “practice” the discipline, to have an intentional, daily, embodied experience that exceeds doing a series of physical poses.
I immersed myself in the philosophy, in studying the mind-body connection, and discovered how the breath that I’d been practicing all those years is actually a bridge between the two, each influencing the other in profound ways that gently open us up. As I delved deeper into the practice, something startling occurred.
Bit by bit, the armor I had built up over the decades began to fall away. As my outer shell softened, so too did my inner heart. I began to open up to the possibility of becoming the person I was always meant to be — open, engaged, curious. Tender-hearted and kind. Compassionate and loving. I learned that my softness is actually my strength because it allows me to be compassionate, kind, and loving.
I still experience twinges of grief, but they no longer pull me toward darkness or cause me to turn away. I am able to face and embrace that sorrow, not only as part of what makes me human, but also as part of what makes me the person I am today — free, and continuing my journey towards even greater liberation and peace of mind.
About the author
Michelle Solotar is a writer and yoga teacher. Her fiction and journalism have been published in eZines and periodicals, including Bo_FG, Steps for Recovery, IDEA Personal Trainer, and others. She is currently working on a mental health memoir about trauma, depression, and the healing power of yoga. She lives in Los Angeles with her dog.
