The other day, I took Mila to her first yoga therapy session. She lit up as we worked to open up her chest, stretch her arms, and suspend her upper body with the help of ropes. I can only imagine how good it felt to bring feeling to areas of her body she wasn't normally using, to relax in positions that gave her organs and muscles a rest. As always, her smile let us know she agreed!
There’s a tiny studio in town that’s been around forever, which offers restorative yoga, demanding of its teachers years of studying anatomy. In the last few months, a number of friends have mentioned that the teacher there works with children with neuromuscular diseases. So I reached out, and we agreed I should stop by and sit through a session with these children.
I arrived a little early and sat on the curb just outside the door. I noticed out of the corner of my eye a couple moving slowly my way from the parking lot. I looked up only to see that it was a mother perhaps 10 years older than I am right behind her teenage daughter, pushed up against her body to help her move forward. She was holding her hands with a strong, yet loving grasp. They stepped in sync in a way that was so familiar to me. The girl reminded me of Mila with brown hair and bright shiny eyes, but with an open mouth and a seemingly emotionless stare. Her arms were locked in a bent position and her hands were in tight fists. The mother and her daughter stopped right in front of me for a break and the mother looked up at me with a tired, but genuine smile. I felt as if I was looking into my own eyes years down the road—the eyes of a strong, worn out, yet incredibly loving and dedicated mother. I could see the muscles in her arms built up over years of holding her daughter as she could no longer hold herself.
She introduced me to her daughter and said she had heard about Mila. I looked into their eyes and couldn’t hold it in, I didn’t want to. I bowed my head and cried in honesty and pain. At first it came from a place of sadness and fear, that this was my future. But it quickly turned to admiration for this amazing mother, so strong and radiant, her feet standing so firmly on the ground. She looked at me, and tears filled her eyes. She knew my pain and joy, and I knew hers. Her tears seemed to say, “I know what your life is like; I’m sorry. But this life can also bring such joy.” She hobbled behind her daughter through the door of the studio where the teacher’s voice lit up the room in excitement to see her. This girl had been coming for five years now and was welcomed as if coming from her own mother. I was overcome by emotions as I stepped into the room.
Up against the back wall was another mother, her son by her side lying on his back across a raised cushion. She applauded her son, and he smiled back up at her. More tears poured down my face. I was immediately taken aback by how spirited and upbeat she was despite the road she had traveled and the prognosis of her son. She spoke in a tone of pure acceptance and optimism. This was her life, and it was OK.
I didn’t know any details of these mothers' lives, but yet I felt I knew them so well. I knew the sharp turn their lives had taken, the tears they had shed, the strength they had to find in themselves to keep moving forward, and the immense never-ending love they had for their children. I knew the adjustment they eventually made to accept their new norm. And the ups and downs their road had taken them on.
For the next hour I sat cross-legged on the wood floor and watched as these mothers kneeled and bent over and lifted their children to help them into poses. Their encouraging words and love lifted my spirits higher and higher as the time passed. What one might have interpreted as a room full of sadness to me became a room full of radiant energy.
Despite the pain, I walked out of the studio that morning feeling fortunate to be part of this raw and honest side of life—a beauty most people would never know existed. We are parents who must stand tall like trees, whose roots extend from our bodies and wrap around our children’s eyes, their legs, their bodies, and their minds.
- Julia, Mila's Mommy