How Yoga Teacher Training Taught Me to Trust the Process

“I didn’t grow up with access to the mat, but the mat taught me this: I’m allowed to arrive exactly as I am and still be worthy of the journey.”

Hey Love,

Remember a couple of posts ago, where I casually mentioned that I was on my way towards becoming a yoga instructor? And that I couldn’t wait to share it with you? Well, here is where I break down what I took from that experience and how it will forever shape my approach to life. 

Becoming a yoga teacher has been a dream of mine ever since I first stepped foot on a mat in January of 2007. I was in my last semester of college and needed to fulfill my physical education requirement in order to graduate. Being that I am a classically trained ballerina, my first option was ballet. However, that class was at capacity before I could even register. Leaving me with yoga, in addition to a few other options that I had zero interest in. 

I had always been curious about yoga. But as a little Black girl, growing up on the South Side of Chicago, I didn’t have access to it. I didn't know where it was offered, how to sign up, or even how to begin the process of finding a class. So, I took this as a sign (because y’all know I don’t believe in coincidences) to sign up and explore a physical activity that, up until that point, had been a total mystery to me. 

And to make it even better, the class was only offered at the end of a neighboring school’s campus and was my last class of the day. That gave me an opportunity to not only wind down from a long day of classes, but a chance to reflect on the practice as I walked 30 minutes back to my apartment. 

At the end of the semester, I discovered a love for yoga in more ways than one. It brought me peace, taught me acceptance, reminded me the importance of just showing up, and stretched my mind, my body, and my spirit. And I knew that I wanted to continue with my practice long after crossing the stage.

Throughout my adult years, although I didn’t maintain as consistent of a practice as I thought I would, my love for yoga remained the same, and I still imagined myself as a teacher. While my reasons for it have changed many times over the years, my main goal was always to share the practice with all who may need it in hopes that they, too, would take something from it. 

And after my lover’s generous investment into my dreams (he really is a GOODT man, Savannah) and CorePower Yoga’s BIPOC Teacher Training Scholarship, I was finally closer to making that dream a reality. I was going to not only deepen my practice and knowledge of yoga, but I was also going to learn how educate others on how to accurately move through the poses, help them get better connected with their bodies, and help them to discover peace. 

In my head, it was quite simple: I’d memorize sequences, get my cueing together, learn how to offer customizations when needed, become more zen, and walk away feeling a little more flexible, a little more centered, and a lot more confident to go out into the world and teach.

What I didn’t expect was how much it would confront my relationship with control, timing, and trust (I know we just covered trust in an earlier post, but this kind of trust is different).

Because in full transparency, I am someone who likes to organize their way into safety. I want to plan far enough ahead, think through every possible outcome, and “fix” whatever feels broken in me, before I’m finally ready. Ready to be seen. Ready to take up space. Ready to fully become whoever it is I’m supposed to be.

But yoga teacher training has been a consistent reminder that life doesn’t work like that. Growth doesn’t work like that. And if we’re being honest, the body doesn’t work like that either (especially mine).

On the first day of training, I showed up with my mat, my blocks, a towel, a notebook, and with my own set of benchmarks to hit: have my cueing down, master the art of sequencing, and at the end of the nine weeks, know exactly what I’m doing. 

But on that day, one of the first things we were told was to, “Trust the process.”

As a mother, as a writer, and as a woman constantly trying to navigate her own becoming, I’m always subconsciously thinking, “Once you finally get it together, then you can relax,” “Once you’re more polished, then you can show up,” “Once you’re further along, then you can trust that you’re actually called to this.”

I was in class, sitting on my mat, listening to my teacher talk about trusting the process, while the whole time, my brain was trying to sprint ahead to some imaginary finish line where I would finally feel “ready.”

But, see, yoga doesn’t let you live in the future like that. It always brings you back to where you are at present. Into this inhale, this exhale, this seemingly unstable pose that you’re still trying to master. And slowly, week after week, chaturanga after chaturanga, it started to chip away at my obsession with certainty.

That part of the training has been humbling to say the least.

There have been practice teaches where I forgot the breath, posture, cue, in addition to the next pose. Times when I knew exactly how the sequence flowed in my head, but the words didn’t quite match that as they made their way out of my mouth. Days when my body felt heavy and tired, and I had to admit that rest was not just a cute suggestion, but a real need.

There were moments when tears came that I couldn’t give an explanation for. Not dramatic tears, but quiet ones. The ones that slide down the side of your face forcing you to tell the truth about what you’ve been carrying.

And then there were the comparisons.

The body that I’m living in today looks a lot different than I imagined as a yoga teacher (thanks, postpartum weight gain, smh). There are parts more jiggly, softer, fluffier, tighter, and a little weaker than they once were. And looking around the room and seeing the different bodies and noticing who was falling into their crow pose effortlessly made those comparisons stronger. Not to mention who sounded more confident and who seemed to “get it” faster than I did. I watched my mind attempt to turn this deeply personal journey into a competition I never signed up for, and it brought me face-to-face with a question I didn’t know I was still asking: 

“Is it okay to be here if I’m not the most polished, the most flexible, the most ‘together’ one in the room?”

Yoga teacher training didn’t answer that question with a quote or a lecture. It answered with repetition: Show up, Racquel. Keep breathing. Keep trying. Rest. Be a beginner. The more I did that, the more I realized that trusting the process wasn’t about being certain of what comes next. It was about being committed to the journey.

And I’m not sure when or why or how it happened, but somewhere along the way, “trust the process” started looking like real, everyday choices:

Trusting the process looked like showing up on the days when my self-doubt was loud, instead of waiting until I felt perfectly confident. 

Trusting the process looked like allowing myself to be a student again. Not the one with all the answers, not the one holding everything together, but the one taking frequent breaks, wobbling, learning, and taking notes.

Trusting the process looked like being kinder to my body by not rushing it into poses it wasn’t ready for. It was accepting that some days, I just didn’t want to “feel it in my body,” that child’s pose IS the practice, and that a table top position will just have to do when I am all chaturanga’d out. And reminding myself that forcing my body into a shape that it could not safely hold was not a failure, it was wisdom.  

Trusting the process looked like accepting feedback as guidance and not judgement. 

Trusting the process looked like accepting that I don’t have to sound like everyone else in order to still be powerful. That the same softness I bring to my writing, my mothering, and my relationships can belong in a yoga space, too.

And the hardest part? Trusting the process looked like loosening my grip on outcomes.

Listen, I don’t know exactly where this training will lead. I have some ideas, but I don’t have a fully fleshed out plan with bullet points, milestones, and KPIs (key performance indicators). I just know that I needed this. I needed to slow down, listen to my body, and practice the art of showing up right where I am, and not after I reach some nonexistent deadline. 

I’ve even seen how trusting the process has shown up outside of class. In motherhood, I’m seeing how much I’ve tried to rush myself into being the “perfect” mom who always says and does the right thing without losing her patience. But yoga has reminded me that breaking points, imperfections, and the occasional sink full of dirty dishes are just as much a part of the process as being a poised, put together mother, who barely raises her voice above a whisper.

On my blog and at work, it’s shifting how I think about timelines and success. Every blog post, every deadline, every break between projects, every moment I spend being honest about what I actually want… it’s all part of the flow. I don’t have to have the full picture before I honor the step right in front of me.

And in my relationship with myself, I’m learning that it’s okay to be in progress and still be worthy of gentleness. I used to believe that once I became more disciplined, more healed, more organized, more "together," then I would finally be in a space where I could trust the process. But Yoga teacher training flipped that on its head. Forcing me to wonder: 

“What if trusting the process IS how I become that version of myself?”

I’m now realizing that I don’t have to micromanage my becoming. I don’t have to see ten steps ahead to take the next one. I don’t have to force my voice or my body into something it’s not ready for before I deserve to be seen. Because it all counts. 

No matter where you are in your journey, I want you to know that you are allowed to be in process and still be proud of yourself. You’re allowed to not have the full picture and still trust that something beautiful is being built inside of you. You’re allowed to adjust, to pause, to breathe, and to start again without calling it a failure. 

You don’t have to rush your way into the person you’re becoming. You can ask for a gentle assist. You can use props if you need to. You can flow right where you are. Whether it’s one slow, two flow, or one flow, two slow (IYKYK). Or any other variation of it. Breath by breath. Breath to movement. Moment by moment.

I may still be finding my voice as a student and teacher, but for the first time in a long time, I’m no longer waiting until I’m ready to trust that I belong here. I’m learning to trust the process. Not just in theory, but in the way I show up for my own life, one deep, community inhale and one audible, cleansing exhale at a time.

With Love,

Racquel