my headstand makes me nervous.

Going into the new year, I learned how to do a handstand. As in straight arms, gaze out, kick up. Bucket list victory, check! Against a wall, yes, but still.I feel as if I've become addicted. I'm addicted to the strength I feel in my arms, the length I feel in my body, the slight bit of weight the wall takes on. And, I'm addicted to the swift kick up. The little thrill of my heels grazing the wall behind me (in front of me?), knowing it's there and I'm supported and safe. Knowing that I can hold myself up and trust the wall to be my guard. Knowing that in two seconds, I have literally turned my world upside down.But here is the problem: it's affected my true love, my headstand. I feel the weight on my head and where it used to give me power, I feel scared of it. Like I am a little baby with a soft skull, like I will break.In the last month, I'm ashamed to admit that I haven't been as present in my body and self-loving. I was on such a roll there; months on end of feeling my bones under my collection of muscle and fat and veins and arteries and skin. And then I got lost.Here I am again, disconnected from the strength in my gut, the stability in my back, feeling obtrusive and disjointed and just plain off.It's different than before. I love my body. I love what it can do, I love who it helps me be. But my body and I, we've had a bit less quality time together lately. Why? Beats me. Wait. That is a lie. I know why. I've been doing less yoga, I've been practicing less. I've been getting swept up in the world and that is ok, but I've maybe started to believe that my internal work is less important than the work I do externally - for my career, for my professional development, for the care and keeping of others.When I look back on the days I feel happiest and most accomplished, they're not the ones with the long to-do lists checked off. The days I feel MOST accomplished are the ones that involve the intricate thoughts, the lightbulb ideas, the deep conversations and belly laughter and honestly, the complete silence. The days I am able to be with myself, hugging from the inside, are when I truly feel whole.And so I'm surprised as I type this, as my thoughts dart out (if you've ever seen me type, you know this is an accurate description), to realize that my headstand fear has nothing to do with the headstand at all. It's the slow-motion controlled lift of the wet sand beneath my toes, the poles in the tar at the La Brea Tar Pits. It's the sustained hold at the pinnacle. It's the love of feeling every inch of myself roll languidly to the peak, elbows over hands, shoulders beside head, hips above waist, shins above thighs, toes at the top. The fear is in the gradual lift and how heartbroken I know going into it I'll be if I fall.It's described as floating, but what I love so much about my headstand is the grounding. I think I have gotten too wrapped up in how others see it, and the rush of "floating." For me, it's a grounding force. Feeling the floor, feeling the earth, feeling your hands and shoulders and head and sink down and using your heart and lift up.Go forward. Let the ground cup you; the weight is not too much to bear. Feel it in your head and hands and heart. Sink in. You are alive.image via lululemon