The Scar On My Chin
If I look up and you’re staring at my face, you could probably distinguish a tiny mark on my chin that resembles a very crooked line of embossed skin. That’s my chin scar. 14 stitches and fortunately very unnoticeable. Every once in a while, a pimple would pop up there - on the scar - for no particular reason.
In an effort to reach the ultimate sanctuary of zen - the crane pose in yoga - I managed to smash my chin into concrete. But first, a yoga lesson:
- Crow pose and crane pose are very different. The Crane pose is reached when the arms are straight, unlike the photo of me shown here.
- A lot of effort goes into it
- You’ve got to focus on this tiny little dot 5 inches in front of your line-of-sight
- Tighten your core
- …and lift your knees into your armpit.
- Then, you just gotta trust your gut.
I trusted my gut a little too much. I was also not trying to reach the ’the ultimate sanctuary of zen’. The photo above is the exact one I bled endlessly for on my way to the emergency room.
There’s this community on Instagram, where yogis everywhere post photos of ourselves in beautiful and effortless poses. If you search #IGYOGA you’ll find that community. Needless to say, it takes a lot of effort to create a beautiful photo, and I lost my balance one day in July to learn that I was doing yoga for all the wrong reasons.
But why would you do yoga on concrete?
Do you see the view in that photo? Do you? Yeah. Wrong reasons.
A yoga mat on top of concrete doesn’t make it carpet. When my chin crashed into the ground, I felt a pang go straight to the top of my head and my right hand reached for my chin. Oh.. I looked at my hand and it was covered in blood. I reached for my chin again because I thought that the mushy feeling of where my chin used to be was really strange. I immediately took my shirt, covered my chin, and asked my boyfriend at the time to get me to the ER. It felt mushy because I’m pretty sure I broke enough skin to reach bone.
Was that too graphic? Sorry. I sat for 3 hours in the ER as a doctor patched me up. 14 stitches, and I laid in a bed next to a girl on Xanax crying about her haircut. That’s when I thought that this wasn’t what yoga is supposed to be.
Sure, it’s trendy and posting photos of myself on Instagram let me feel totally badass, but I’m not sure “trendy bad ass” and “peaceful yogi” are actually synonyms…
From there, my yoga posts slowly diminished and were replaced by photos of food. I am no longer the star of my Instagram, and I’m totally okay with that. Now I squeeze in some yoga right after I wake up at the food of the bed - on carpet - and sometimes before I go to sleep. It supercharges my day, straightens out my posture, cracks all the necessary bones, and sorts my mind. My sanctuary of zen happens moments after my alarm goes off in the morning and Crispee, our yorkie, snores ever so slightly.
So scars are never that pretty, and I am so so so happy that you can’t really see it. If you ask me about it, I might show you. But now, forever and always, it will always be a patch of skin a little thicker than all the rest.