March arrived once again, a whole year now since this all began; bringing with it, as it always does, signs of spring – buds emerging and flowers blooming. Each day grows longer, the light extending with the promise of a new, lighter season ahead.

And yet here we are. A new season greets us still in the same place. Somehow, it is March again, and we are still in a pandemic. We are still. in. a. pandemic. In Canada, we are experiencing a third wave with numbers increasing and new restrictions imposed. The optimism of vaccines waning. Even as I write this, we are preparing to spend our second Easter in lockdown, an experience that remains both surreal and yet also edging towards normalcy, a now repetitive occurrence. I dare to dream ahead of what spring 2022 might look like. Surely, we’ll be out of this by then – but so we’ve thought before.

As we began this new year, like many others I felt a kind of hopefulness. The energetic clearing of turning the calendar over to a new year, going into 2021 this time knowing that we are in a pandemic rather than being abruptly and completely sidelined by one. The promise of a post-pandemic world now in sight, just beyond the reach of our outstretched hands. But as the new year began, any collective feeling of hopefulness seemed to swiftly diminish. Instead, a heaviness permeated. The weight of this never-ending Groundhog Day repeating. Stories of exhaustion and depletion. Resiliency pushed beyond its limits. Mental wellbeing at its lowest.

It’s no wonder really, when we look back on 2020, that so many are feeling this way. An overwhelming sense of both loss and stagnancy. A grief for all the people we lost and the moments we missed out on. This feeling of being stuck in an endless loop; each day the same, the scenery unchanging. And when I look back and try to reconcile the year that was, there are things I wish I had done differently. Different projects or purposes I wished I had given my energy to; time I wish I had spent in other ways. But the reality is, we managed through a pandemic. A global pandemic. A total shutdown of life as we knew it. Perhaps I can give myself a pass for not having written my novel, or mastered new cooking skills, or for having tucked away a few extra pounds.

But the truth is, there was – and remains – a heavy weight to all of it. A steep price we paid both with our energy and mental health. I can give myself grace for not having come out of last year all the better for it, for not having accomplished more than just having survived it. Of course, nothing is that simple. I worked endlessly and exhaustively, I grew in new ways, I did my part. But as the new year approached, I decided at least this time I had the capacity to chose, to do things differently.

And for me, that all starts with health.

Health, this thing I once saw as a pinnacle to reach, but instead learned all the ways that I need to build and care for it every day. In walks along the seawall and by slowly increasing my running time. To making meals at home with real, whole foods instead of ordering out (again). By having better boundaries and creating more space in my life. To taking time away from the laptop and pausing the endless social media scroll. To my daily practice of meditation. To journaling. To movement.

The thing about health is that it is a practice. It is a constant flow of actions. It is not static – there is no peak to reach and stand still upon. And through my health journey, I’ve experimented, and tested, and faltered, and discovered the myriad of things that best support my wellness. One of the most important of which is arriving at the mat.

Laying it out, settling in and moving through asanas. Forward-folding until the tension is released.

Because I hope that this year will look different than the last, but I also want to feel differently as I move through it. To be aligned. To move with ease. To have more energy and strength. In our new pandemic world, there are few things that we can control, but the small acts we do each day might be one of them. And so, when March arrived, again, and the same tableau remained, I decided to do things differently. I took up a month-long yoga challenge and laid out my mat instead.

The YYOGA 30-day challenge was a chance to reconnect through mindful movement. As with most activities these days, I took part virtually, arriving at the mat to practice everything from side-yoga to fiery flow, from hatha to power. Each day I practiced, even when I didn’t want to. Each day I committed to my health.

In looking at my now completed 30-day graph, I feel a kind of pride for each different coloured heart. Each one representing a commitment that I made to myself, and kept. Each one that I honoured. There were days that I looked forward to the practice, but many others when I just didn’t want to do it. But I would lay out my mat anyways, each day, begrudgingly or welcoming. I laid out the mat and put forehead to earth, hands to sky, legs in the air. I moved through from Table Top to Plank Pose, through Chaturanga (mostly), to Cobra, and back to Downward-Facing Dog. I moved through inversions and back bends. I forward folded again and again and again. And each time – every single time – I felt better for it. Each time I felt my strength growing from having challenged myself. I moved with more ease, my body responding, changing, and adapting. But more than anything was a centeredness I felt, a calmness. My parasympathetic nervous system activated. The structure of my face changed after each session, notably different, eased in some way. My scattered thoughts soothed, at least for the moment. My mind and body aligned. It wasn’t perfect, but nothing is. The pandemic, with all of its challenges and hardships, remains. But this was one thing that I could do differently.

I made a commitment to myself and I kept it. I did the thing that I knew would make me feel better, even though I didn’t want to do it. Even when I went kicking and screaming into it, rationalising why instead another episode of The Office and an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie was really what I needed. And sometimes it is – rest and self-care are not things we need to earn, but are instead fundamentals that we must make room for. But I knew this is what I had to do for myself in order to help myself move out of this sticky, stuck place. So I did it. Even sometimes late into the evening, even when the class was so challenging that I fumbled through it and needed lots of modifications, even on the day I said goodbye to my sister as she flew away to start a new life in a new country (a slow hatha practice I did through heavy tears). I still did it. I made it through.

So it isn’t just that my body feels better, and stronger – it does. And it isn’t just that my mental health feels cared for – because it does, too. But there was something about making and keeping that commitment to myself that made me feel stronger. A commitment to myself that I didn’t allow to slip aside in order to first meet all the obligations to others. A practice built through a daily act – and with it a reminder that this is how all things are built.

The pandemic, of course, continued on. Never quietly in the background, but as this non-negotiable existence we now live with every day, a word we can’t seem to expunge from our mouths. In the final days of the challenge, COVID-19 cases in British Columbia spiked and lockdowns were imposed again. This meant that some of the communities hit hardest had to once again shutter their businesses. It means that these virtual sessions continue, with each one of us forced to practice from a screen on our living room floor. It means that the many hard things we can’t control remain. And yet, there are still things to be grateful for, there is still connection. There is still the commitment we make to ourselves. And while I can’t wait until we live in a post-pandemic world, where I can once again lay my mat out in community with others, and practice in a wide-open space that is shut away from a phone that is never quiet and work that is never further than a few feet away, even still, I can lay out my mat. I can continue to forward fold. And as each class comes to a close, and the teacher ends with ‘namaste’, I say it back. Out loud and alone in my room. Because we’re honouring the light in ourselves and the light in each other, even if the setting isn’t what we had imagined.

And besides, namaste is actually a non-contact way to acknowledge one another – really kind of perfect for a pandemic.