hen to pan

My mother never used to care about Christmas or her birthday, much less about mother’s day. She never liked to celebrate anything, much less herself. A few years ago, God only knows why, mother’s day suddenly became a big deal. Suddenly I found myself guilt-tripped into celebrating it with her, or I would feel even guiltier because (clueless it was mother’s day) I had already made other plans.

When you’ve been brought up in a highly conservative and arch-Catholic little town in the deep South of Italy, you’re big on guilt. Or rather, you’re never good enough. This is the way my mother has been raised – this is the way I’ve been raised (even though Catholic was replaced by Tibetan Buddhist when I was about 7 years old and much healing came from that). Still, it’s in your DNA. You know not to show any weaknesses, because the unspoken conditions have been ingrained: “If you don’t act and look impeccable, if you are not the perfect model of a daughter/wife/mother, you are not deserving. If you are not good enough, you will not be loved.”
Although my mother loves showing off her model daughter to friends, I have hardly ever heard a word of praise from her. And I have never heard her admit to an irrational emotion, much less to a weakness. My mother has always believed in tough love. To this day, she sometimes reminds me that we are not equals. No matter how old I am, she still sometimes feels the need to teach and reprimand me. Needless to say, my mother is highly demanding, until she miraculously ceased to be unforgiving.

From this picture I’m painting it is probably easy to infer that we have had a difficult relationship ever since my teenage years. And we have. We have had the ugliest fights and even uglier long periods of complete silence where we wouldn’t talk for months! Of course, my mother hardly ever approved of my first boyfriends. I was always too chubby for her taste while growing up. When I did well, that was normal; when I did something poorly, there was no end to it.

And here we are, thirty years later. We still have an argument occasionally. But little by little we have made our way back into friendship. We have both grown. My mom has softened and is beginning to be fragile with age, physically and emotionally. And here is my chance to give back. I, on the other hand, have become more self-critical and less hysterical. Over the years, especially as I got more and more into yoga, my perception changed. I started to turn the focus on myself. I began to see our relationship in a more differentiated, objective way. Little by little, I started to hear what my mother was actually saying, or what she was saying between the lines. I learned that “Sunday is mother’s day” wasn’t necessarily an accusation, but maybe just the shy wish of someone who wants to know you care. I learned that phone calls were not always to inquire demandingly what I was doing, but simply for the pleasure of hearing how my day was going (although she would never admit to that). I learned that, “Your face looks swollen” doesn’t mean “You’ve gained weight”, but that it can be translated into “You look tired and drawn, I worry about you.” In other words, it stopped being all about me, all about me wanting to be recognized and approved. It started being about us, about the relationship, about my mother, who after all is also just a person with fears and the need for affection. A person, who’s history has turned her into who she is today. Just like all the rest of us.

I also realized that your biggest foe is your greatest teacher. My mother and I have mis-communicated so many times, we’ve hurt each other’s feelings so many times… And yet here we are, getting closer and closer with every year that goes by. I’m not painting an idyllic picture here. My mother will always know how to push my buttons (and I hers), but I am fascinated by how we both have learned to observe and channel our reactions into better directions. I almost fell of my chair when, responding to a bantering criticism of mine, my mother said to me lately “Well, maybe I’m not so perfect either.” Or lately, when I got a job I applied for, she texted me “Brava. Come sempre.” (“Well done. As always.”).

Ten years ago I would have never believed we could get past the impulsive and destructive hostility. Luckily, we have both encountered Eastern philosophies, that have encouraged and reminded us that the work is on yourself. You are the only person you can influence. You won’t be able to change the other. And then, being mother and daughter, we have things in common: If we want to get somewhere, we will get there. And we will not give up on a mother-daughter-relationship, no matter how dark and looming the obstacle. At the end of the day, we are just a couple of sentimental idealists.
So here we are, many years later, in a good place. No other relationship in my life has seen such transformation. No other relationship reflects and proves so strongly the transformation I have gone through. No other person has challenged me and loved me even when she hated me. Which is why, to me, my mother is sacrosanct.

It has now been more than 10 days since I have returned from a blissful month spent in Bali. When I first got back, the biggest shock (surprisingly) was not meteorological but cultural. I could barely get out of the airport before noticing how on edge people are. Coming straight from smiley Bali-paradise, I literally flinched at the abrasive tone Swiss people use with each other – even when they are friends or in a relationship. There is a passive-aggressive vibe you can see unfolding when people have to wait in line, when someone is standing in their way, when the bus is crammed…

At first I was still in my Bali-bubble and on Bali-time: patient, compassionate and balanced. Of course, I knew it wouldn’t last. When I get sucked back into the vortex of hectic every day life, I become my old bitchy and judgmental self again. It’s difficult though not to get attached. I found myself desperately wanting to preserve my gentle Bali-spirit.

So what do we do against the relapse? Like Jon Kabat-Zinn has been advocating for decades now, healing happens through mindfulness. Think of it like our asana practice: If you have a tendency to sink into your lower back and there’s a pinching there, you have two choices: You can (A) become mindfully aware of that pattern. Every time you come to the mat, remind yourself of it and try to support the lower back with healthy alignment and muscular energy. You will still slip, forget from time to time or simply be too lazy some days. From this occasional laxness though, no injury will occur in the long run. Or you can (B) simply decide not to care, to ignore your tendency and just go on practicing at random. Only thus, the tendency will stay the same or even deepen. And then yes, over time, a serious injury may arise.

It is an illusion to believe that the tendency will go away – you won’t be able to change your anatomy – or your personality. But you can decide to mitigate it. BKS Iyengar in his Light on Life speaks of our “ingrained patterns of behavior” (Samskara) like mounds (2005, p. 131). If we repeatedly and unconsciously follow our pattern, we just keep adding to the mounds.

If something provokes us, we all have a signature way to react. E.g. with irritability. It is like a broad, asphalt highway. We spontaneously go there, it’s so easy. Being mindful, watching yourself and maybe softening our natural tendency is like choosing a little narrow path in the woods instead of the big expressway. It takes a lot more effort and time to hack your way through the thicket. However, if you take that path repeatedly, over time the path will become wider and less dark.

Mindfulness will not magically break our pattern, but it creates the space for us to decide: Those counting-to-ten-and-take-a-deep-inhale-seconds in which maybe, we take a moment to observe what just triggered the pattern. Sometimes we remember we have a choice. Or we don’t, but at least we realize: “Oh there it is again…” And maybe next time, we find the little overgrown path.

(Almost exactly a year ago I wrote an entry “Stay or Thoughts about Non-Violent Communication” (see below). In a way, I left my own questions unanswered. So a year later, I seem to have come up with some answers).

Prana flows where focus goes

Yoga teachers use this phrase a lot. For the longest time I didn’t really understand this to its full extent. Then one day, someone said this phrase to me because I was whining about something trivial. In a flash I realized why the connection between mind and energy is the most important tool we have for teaching. And maybe just for life in general.

When I tell my students, “Engage your right thigh” or “Feel your inner heel pulling back”, that part of the body magically becomes alive. It’s a simple trick: The individual’s mind focuses on the very body part that, just seconds ago, they were completely unaware of. Within a microsecond, the area is energized and alert.

Prana is nothing other than the principle of life-energy – what in traditional Chinese medicine is called Qi. The Hatha Yogis created a model of the human being, claiming that we are made up of layers or Koshas – like an onion. Our first and outermost sheath is the physical body, the Annamaya Kosha. Underneath this layer lies the Pranamaya Kosha, what we call the energetic or the subtle body. The yogis believe, that this energetic sheath is pervaded by countless channels, called the Nadis (or meridians in traditional Chinese medicine). The next and third layer is where the mind resides, known as the Manomaya Kosha. (The next two layers are not immediately relevant here, so I will omit them for now).

All Eastern medicines agree on this point: It is the energetic body that causes symptoms in the physical body. Muscle tension, aches, disease – these all result from blockages in the subtle body, places where the energy cannot flow. The deeper layer influences the more superficial one.

So back to my hands-on example of a yoga class, this is exactly what we do in our asana (physical) practice. The breath guides our every movement. We try to permeate our muscle groups with the breath, or life energy, in order to dissolve potential blockages there.

As I was saying, the mind is the third layer going in. Thus it makes sense that the mind, sitting in the third Kosha, guides the prana in the second Kosha. As I mentioned above, the prana follows where the mind tells it to go. It works. I’ve seen proof of it countless times with my yoga students.

Again, we may deduce: When prana flows where the mind directs it, something materializes in the physical world, in the outermost Kosha. So if we took this as a general rule, can you fathom what this means?

It means, for instance, that if we find ourselves in a tricky situation, and we keep an optimistic focus, something positive will materialize. On the other hand, if we choose to see the glass half empty, something less positive will come into being.

In other words, whatever you rest your mind’s eye on, whatever you come to repetitively in your thoughts, it will eventually materialize and become palpable. A powerful tool. Use it wisely and with care.

When I was in my first teacher training, we were told we had to find our „own voice as a teacher.“ Only later we discovered how important this is. The most authentic yoga teachers are usually the ones that really get under your skin – or deeper. However, taking your seat as a teacher and really speaking from your heart is most of all a matter of experience – it takes practice to drop the guard and just come as you are. In other words, I’m still learning.

In that process, I have been trying experimenting with full-blown honesty. I notice that when I begin the class by telling a little story about me – something that happened to me during the day, something that bothered me, something that surprised me – this creates an emotion or thought that everybody can relate to. I become more accessible as a person and it makes us feel that we are all in the same boat. Those are usually the classes when I feel most present and connected. Let’s face it: we all love to hear the real-life stories. The truth is powerful.

So I’ve been trying to be consistent and bring in a personal note whenever I can. But even the job of a yoga teacher comes with its own set of expectations and pressure to perform. After all, we are only human, too. And like everyone else we set our bar quite high, or, as the yogis say, we have a strong and demanding ego. We want to shine. Shining in the yoga teacher’s world means to be charismatic and radiant, to be the picture of health, to be smiling and giving, to make every single student feel like they have your attention and care. In other words, what people expect of a yoga teacher by the book.

Are you beginning to notice the conflict? We have our bad days, too. And – since I’m advocating honesty here – let me say, I’ve had a bad couple of months. So I was not radiant and definitely not the picture of health. On those days, it is difficult to give, which makes us feel like we’re not doing our job. I don’t think a lot of people noticed. But our harshest judge is usually enthroned in our snide-commenting mind. And before we know it, we become convinced that if we are not performing to satisfaction, we don’t deserve to be loved. And the whole nice concept of “the truth is powerful” collapses like a house of cards.

It takes courage to come as you are when you feel happy and healthy. But what do we do when we don’t feel like anyone should see us in this state? Do we force ourselves to still open up and hope for relief? An attempt also known as, “the truth shall set you free”. Let me tell you, though, our fears sit a lot deeper than that. And the conviction that we will not be loved if we show people our imperfections sits perfidiously deep. It’s almost impossible to eradicate.

It is easy to trust that you will be loved when you feel all preppy and joyful. It is hard to bring yourself to trust when you feel deeply unattractive and sluggish. But if the truth really is powerful, maybe we should give it a try? Maybe we should just close our eyes and jump? Hoping that being brave and trusting, without guarantees, will attract sympathy and affection.

So this is my attempt at trust without secure ground underneath my feet: Showing my true colors, which these days are rather dark and lifeless. And maybe this can be like telling a personal story at the beginning of class: We have all been here, we have all felt low and non-lovable. Maybe we can trust into this common ground.

And to prove my point, I am not even going to edit this text until I’m satisfied – but I will just publish it.

Yesterday I had a bad day. And yes, that happens even to us yoga teachers, especially when, a few months ago, you decided to do this full- time. Now every few weeks you have a little existential crisis where you start worrying about money. And yes, I know, I’m lucky to do what I love – but even yoga teachers are not exempt from paying bills.

So yesterday my existential fears got the better of me. The reality of living alone is probably kicking in. Translation: If something goes wrong, I’m on my own.

This morning I got up before dawn to make it to the Pranayama practice at 7.15am, which for me is the equivalent of sacrifice. As I shut the door behind me, my upstairs neighbor comes running down barefoot and in her nightgown, and starts telling me off like I’m five years old. Apparently I bang things around in the kitchen early in the morning and late at night, so she can’t sleep. Let it be said: I’m the easiest neighbor in the world. I don’t own a TV and all I do at home is eating, sleeping and some yoga. On any other day I could have handled this gracefully, but this morning, still shaky from yesterday, I stepped out into the cold morning air and broke into tears.

The pranayama and yoga that followed this early morning interaction helped some. Still I got home feeling low. In the attempt to find at least something I could improve I decided to clean the apartment.

So I dragged out the vacuum cleaner I had just bought for the new apartment. After ten seconds, the bloody thing stops dead. I tried everything but couldn’t get it to work again. I thought “Great, now I’m going to have to schlep the stupid thing all the way back to the store to get it exchanged!” And my next association was: “Why is everything going wrong? Why is the world turning against me?” So easy to give in to self-commiseration sometimes, isn’t it?

A little later I noticed that the fridge wasn’t working. I was just about to start cursing out loud in Italian, when I realized that the fridge is plugged to the same power outlet as the vacuum cleaner. In my shortsighted pessimism, I thought, the outlet must be “broken”. You must know – I’m a girl, not a handyman. I was just trying to figure out who to call first: the super, the previous tenant or my ex. But then it started dawning on me (in spite of my X-chromosomes): Isn’t there something called a fuse? And isn’t the fuse box in the hall cupboard? And aren’t they supposed to sometimes “fall out” and you can click them back in? Again, for a moment, I considered calling my ex for advice, but then I felt a sudden surge of optimism! And I told myself: “Come on, Elisa, you can do this!” So up I climbed onto a chair and opened the little fuse box and there it was: Where it said “kitchen” the little valve had sprung to off instead of on. I clicked it up and immediately heard the fridge starting to buzz again. I had done it. And even the girl in me could somehow figure out: The fridge and the vacuum are just too much for the one power source. Nothing was wrong, nothing was broken.

This little story might seem silly, but I’m trying to make a point. Sometimes it’s just the easy way out to complain that everything is going wrong. However, often you just need to pause long enough to look closer and give yourself a chance to find out what you can fix. And even when sometimes, you doubt yourself and think you can’t do it alone, something very small proves that, in fact, you can.

It is not uncommon for people to cry in yoga. Physical muscle tension releases and so does the emotional build-up. I always thought there was something wrong with me. In spite of the myriad yoga classes I’ve taken, this had never happened to me…until today.

Chris Chavez is a much raved-about Anusara teacher who spends a lot of time in Zurich. He’s also my friend Stefanie’s root teacher, but for some reason, I had never taken his class until tonight.

After this weekend, which I spent on unfamiliar walks of life, I really needed a yoga class to reconnect with myself. And maybe it hasn’t only been this weekend. The last few weeks have slowly drawn me away from my center. Like my good friend put it: “You don’t even sound like yourself.”

It is only natural that after a break-up, after changing jobs and apartments, you lose your home, literally and figuratively. Ironically, it’s usually after the dramatic changes, that the weather grows rough. Just as you were reorganizing your life and refurbishing that feeling of safety. When you need it the most, your shelter is gone. You need to rebuild your own little cottage. But that takes time and, when the next storm comes, the walls aren’t up yet. So you lose your patience and instead of persisting in the construction work, you just take the fast way out. You just harden within your own skin, from the inside out.

This relates to life in general. It’s ingrained in our DNA: When we are most afraid, we want to appear strong and unbreakable. It’s the most natural survival mechanism in the world. But is it efficient? We tend to put up a guard and hide behind a very polished shield of appearance. Instead of sitting on our strong foundation and presenting ourselves honestly, just as we are. Holding up the shield requires a lot of muscular tension. Sitting is so much easier.

So today, we were lying on our backs in a very simple stretch. And Chris was saying how the supporting side doesn’t need to be hard. It just needs to be solid and heavy to provide enough grounding into the earth. He said right alignment should not create extra tension, just better awareness. Then he knelt down beside me and placed his hand firmly on my supporting thigh. Slowly, slowly the tension in the leg muscles started releasing. Then he said: “We don’t always need to harden. There is an amazing power in softness.” Then the tears came. And they didn’t stop until the end of the class.

Have you ever in an argument tried to say to your “opponent”: “What you just said really hurts me”? Usually that kind of honesty knocks the wind right out of them. There is an amazing power in such vulnerability. Just like a relaxed muscle, it makes you heavy and grounded, but still soft to touch. Suddenly you have stated your case, but without aggression. It’s so much easier to hold your ground then. The stress of hiding, of playing a part, suddenly ceases. And in most cases, so does the argument.

In the end, hardening will only make the fear or the stress worse. This is the basis of contemporary dance floor-work: You need to learn how to fall. You have to trust the floor and let yourself melt into it. If you harden against it, the fall will only hurt more. And with every fall, the fear will harden as well.

It’s against all our instincts to soften when we are afraid. To be open when we feel under attack. But when you soften, whatever hits you, won’t violently bounce off you. Maybe it will connect into you. Or even slither off you because you are such a soft, smooth surface. It is the most courageous not to harden in situations where we feel threatened. However, if you do manage to stay soft, to use simple words and come as you are – the release, or the relief, is immense. There’s an amazing power in softness…

Due to my overly packed schedule, my teaching has been a little slow lately. I was always a little sleep-deprived, under pressure and not exactly top of my game. So today’s workshop with Stephen Thomas and Patrick Creelman seemed to come at exactly the right time. I was excited to get some food for thought and new inspiration.
During the asana section, we were asked to partner up for handstand, which i don’t like to do because I trust very few people to spot me. A girl right next me held up her hand and said she wasn’t sure she would be able to do it. She was worried she wouldn’t be able to come up at all. I asked her whether she would trust me to be her partner. We tried for her to manage handstand for some time. I pointed out different points of alignment, but nothing seemed to work.
Then all of a sudden I mentioned something really trivial to her, as i noticed that she wasn’t really jumping off her standing leg. And up she came flying like a butterfly! And she stood. When she came down, eyes blazing, I saw the happy relief in her face… And in a flash I realized: This is why I love what I do so so much. Who needs new asana variations? Her face made my day.
I’m usually not one to parade the cheesy yoga statements, so please bear with me as I say: To give with an open heart is the greatest gift you can give to yourself.

The way we teach yoga is said to have changed a great deal over the last few years. The tendency to talk about anatomy and alignment has become prominent. We tell our students how to correctly stack their bones and engage their muscles, so that the joints, tendons, muscles will stay healthy over time. We give students the tools to stay injury-free and prevent wear-and-tear in the body. In itself, that’s a very positive development. However, we also end up giving a lot of technical information. As students, we hold the pose and very often we just can’t stop fixing things all the time. This rather intellectual approach to yoga encourages us to attempt to control everything.

You will notice that this is mostly repeating the same pattern that we apply ever so often in life: We are used to handling every minute detail of the situation. Mostly because we are afraid – afraid of loss, of not being enough, of getting hurt, of experiencing pain. One thing has to be said, fear is an excellent and necessary protective mechanism. It causes us to be cautious and prevents us from doing permanent damage by repeating the same harmful pattern over and over again. But just like alignment can make you feel caged within your own body, fear can limit the space in which life can just flow.

But who can blame us? This is all we have been taught: We are raised and asked to be proactive, to take charge, to keep it together and to be responsible. We have not been taught to lean back and keep the space open. We all have been burned and bruised. It is only natural that we put all our effort into avoiding more injuries. It is the only sane thing to do.

However, if you have ever been in an asana you’ll know that no matter how hard you think of all the little details, you can never think of everything at the same time. No matter how much you keep fixing things, there is always something that escapes your attention. At the end of the day, we can tame the body, sharpen our awareness, but nature is fickle and will just do what she wants. And the thing we like least might just be what’s good for us at that particular time.
Now you can either keep banging your head against the wall and still desperately try to control everything. Or you can leave that space open and trust that all the little puzzle pieces will fall into place. And that’s what it takes: trust, the opposite of fear.

There is no rational explanation, but I think we all know from experience, that the minute you let go or even give up, something shifts and life rushes in to save the day. Trust that life knows exactly what you need and will provide the right portion of it for you to grow. Trust that even if you are not being proactive, that if you are not planning everything through, things always turn out in the best possible way. It sounds like jumping off a cliff without a parachute. But if you trust that life will catch you, then that’s your safety net.

In most types of Yoga we use the traditional Ujjayi breathing (ocean breath) for our practice on the sticky mat. I would say, it is the most commonly used traditional Pranayama. When taught, people always say that it is a very efficient way to breathe. It is easier to fill the lungs and the breath is deeper and smoother. They also say it generates heat, also known as the transformative element of fire.

Although I have been using Ujjayi breath ever since I started to have a regular yoga practice, I never really understood what exactly makes the breath deeper and more efficient. But today I finally found out.

The Ujjayi technique consists in a tightening of the glottis. A bit like when you breathe on a mirror surface to clean it, but you keep your lips closed. Thus, the air of the inhalation and exhalation runs through a smaller channel and that creates friction, which in turn creates the sound. It is precisely this friction, this resistance that deepens the breath. Because you have to go against a counter-force, you invest more energy and that does the trick. Similarly to how pursed lip breathing improves shortness of breath in asthma patients. Somehow when there is a little obstacle to occupy your mind with, you forget what was causing trouble in the first place and the original problem takes care of itself.

So, in other words, we actually need a resistance to overcome the obstacle. The same is true in asana practice. For me, it is impossible to balance in handstand. But if someone places their fingers on my heels and I have something to push against, I can magically hold the pose. So again, a slight resistance does the trick. The same is true for the mind. Sometimes when a yoga class is really packed and you really have to concentrate to avoid distraction, it is almost easier to find your focus.

In every day life, whenever things don’t go our way, we usually get upset. We don’t like resistance. But if you look back on your life: Would you ever have gotten anything done without there having been an obstacle in the first place? Like a child needs rules and maybe even conflict with its parents, we need friction in our lives to develop and to grow. If there’s nothing that scares you, how will you ever learn to be brave? If there is nothing to test your patience, how will you ever decide to be more tolerant? As my teacher says: “Trust that the obstacle you see in front of you is the very thing that can liberate you.”

Maybe you need that friction to trigger the combative spirit. Similarly to how for instance living with roommates teaches you to communicate openly. If the dirty dishes in the sink wouldn’t push your buttons, would you ever try to sort it out? That is why close relationships teach us the most. Proximity automatically creates friction. And then you have two options: Either you begin to ignore the obstacle (and it will keep bugging you) or you understand that the obstacle is not the enemy. It is the necessary challenge. Without that resistance, you would never muster the fire to face it head-on.

And once you do get up the courage to use the friction for something productive – the feeling is priceless!

For a long time, I have heard so many yogis raving about how well rock climbing and yoga go together. So I’d been wanting to try it for quite some time. Let it be said, I’m not exactly the outdoorsy type. Nevertheless, I asked my friend Britton – hard core climber, or actually hard core everything – to take me. Britton is one of those people who are total yogis without ever having seen a yoga mat up close (ok, he says he’s seen one twice). And he said, outside is the only was to do it.

Your first time climbing is a little bit like getting your first tattoo. You never for a second think that it might hurt, until you are actually being tattooed. So it wasn’t until Britton placed me against the solid face of the rock, that I actually realized: I’m terrified!

And this is also what I kept shouting down for about the first 10 meters: “I’m terrified!” Britton claims to be “not such a good teacher”. For someone like me, Britton is the perfect teacher. He gave me so little information that he completely took me out of my head. He gave me nothing to over-analyze. It was more like “Ok…up you go!”

Isn’t it interesting what happens when we get scared? The ego spikes up like malaria fever! In your head it goes something like this: “There is no way I can move in these tight shoes, I’m gonna break my toes! And the rock is way too slippery anyway! Why did I even come here?” You find a million excuses not to expose yourself to risk. But the truth is, you had your mind made up, long before you gripped the rock with your bare hands. You showed up, didn’t you?

After a few failed attempts to lift my yogini butt off the ground, Britton mercifully told me to use my legs and not my arms. Now there’s something I understand: Root to rise, just like in yoga! You push off into the rock with your feet to lift up from your core. And all of a sudden, I WAS climbing! (And yes, still terrified and screaming at the top of my lungs).

In yoga, as in life, sometimes you’re on a roll and everything comes easy. Then invariably at some point, you get stuck and you feel there’s nowhere to go. It’s the same for climbing. Only when hanging from a rock, the panic is slightly more tangible. You look up, you look back, and it seems like both ways are blocked.
Luckily, Britton shouted up the perfect wisdom: “If you are stuck, don’t think about what’s ahead of you, don’t look down. Just take a breath, take a look around, see the beautiful trees. And then just find a spot where to put your foot next.”
So you lean into the rock aka Mother Nature, panting, and all of a sudden, you see it – the next foothold. It has been there all the time, only you were so obsessed with feeling stuck that you missed it.

The longer you move upward, the more you realize you can trust your body, your grippy shoes, your coordination, yourself. But more importantly, it forces you to trust your climbing buddy. You feel the rope slackening as you move, to give you space, and then you feel it tighten, once you’ve found your new position. It’s as if somebody was right up there with you. You have enough room to make your way up, but the other person is not going to let you fall.

Eventually, I made it up to the top. After a few seconds it occurred to me that I also had to get back down! Another surge of panic. How on earth can you lean into the void, back first? It was good there was no way around it. Because really, all you can do is trust your partner. The same way we trust life, otherwise we’d never even leave the house. And once you do, everything becomes easy.

The moment you’re back on solid ground, all the fear and the pain is instantly forgotten. All you remember is that you made it up and back down. You wonder why you ever doubted yourself. And you know you were always going to go up and come back down, safe and sound.

And PS: May I just say? I never asked to be let down once.