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Once upon a time I was not Mama.

I remembered this on a recent solo trip to New York City, the place I lived during the height of my maiden years. There I was, walking at a rapid pace to the subway, headphones filling my ears with the songs of my own personal soundtrack. I hurried through my old neighborhood in Brooklyn, old things now mixed with new things. And though I have now been away for more time than I was there, I suddenly felt a deep longing for the past.

This morning, before anyone woke up, I did a few really important things.

First, I brushed my teeth, showered, and warmed up some tea (shatavari root, cardamom, and rose).

Then, I went downstairs to spend almost two uninterrupted hours completely to myself. I meditated with the spring equinox full moon pouring silver light onto my back. I journaled a bit, and then practiced asana as the sun filled the sky.

And then I went upstairs, when the real part of my Self-care practice began.

After my daughter wakes, my time is no longer uninterrupted. She is tossing toys around the house. Asking unanswerable questions (“Mama, but why can’t we touch the ceiling?”). Refusing a sweater, only to run around the house screaming, “I’m coooold!”

All of that is before we sit down to breakfast.

If I didn’t have the understanding that she is offering me a million opportunities to meet my higher Self, I would lose my mind every single day.

I used to belong to a very fancy gym. I joined not only because of the fancy hot tub and steam room, but because it was where some of the best yoga teachers in Denver taught.

The classes were labeled with catchy phrases like “Power Flow” or “Kick-it” that told you very little about the ethos of the teacher. I knew enough to know that I should research the bios of the teachers before signing up — it matters greatly who teaches us.