When life hurts, we reach backwards.

Yesterday was a tender day.

Not catastrophic. Not dramatic.

Just tender.

The kind where you can feel yourself moving through the world differently. A little quieter. A little heavier. Like you’re carrying something fragile in your hands.

I had to have a difficult conversation. One of those conversations where nobody did anything wrong. No villain. No explosion. Just the painful reality that two truths can exist simultaneously. To care deeply for somebody and to choose myself.

And afterwards, I found myself r e a c h i n g.

Not consciously (of course).

I couldn’t stop thinking about tonkatsu donburi. A craving I just couldn’t shake. So I looked up the operating hours of Kim’s Katsu and started to make my way

As I was about to open the door to leave, I had this thought… grab a book!

So I kicked my birks off, turned back to my apartment bookshelf and thumbed thru a few.

And there it was, The Alchemist. I haven’t read that book in almost twenty years.

While I ate my meal, I re-started the book.

And it wasn’t until I was walking home during this tender and quiet day that it all dawned on me

The first time I read The Alchemist was when I was living in Japan. In fact, the very copy I held in my hands still had the free bookmark the Kumazawa bookstore gave out with every purchase.

And tonkatsu?

Always my order.

Always.

If I saw it on a menu, that’s what I would get. I even remember going to Manyo Spa and genuinely looking forward to eating their super yummy tonkatsu.

So yesterday, wasn’t really about tonkatsu. And it wasn’t really about The Alchemist either.

I was reaching for a storyline.

I think I was reaching for a version of me.

Because isn’t it interesting what we do when we’re hurting?

• We return to songs we haven’t listened to in years.

• Books we once loved.

• Foods that taste like another season of life.

• Places that once felt like home.

And I don’t think it’s because we necessarily want to go backwards.

I think maybe we’re reminding ourselves of ourselves.

In yoga, there’s the idea of samskaras. The impressions and grooves left behind by our experiences. We often talk about them as patterns to become aware of or patterns to break.

But yesterday made me wonder if some of them are softer than that.

What if some are little breadcrumbs? 🥐

Tiny love notes 💌 left behind by previous versions of ourselves.

As if she’s tapping us on the shoulder saying:

Hey KM. I know this part feels hard. But remember me? Remember how much life was still waiting for us? Remember how we learned so much thru the toughest chapters?

Yesterday I thought I was grieving the letting go of somebody I cared about.

Maybe I was.

But maybe I was also remembering myself.

That younger version of me sitting in Japan, reading The Alchemist, eating tonkatsu, having absolutely no idea what life would become.

No idea about heartbreak.

No idea about all the people I’d meet and lose and love.

No idea that one day I’d be teaching yoga and writing these words.

No idea that I’d survive every hard thing that felt impossible at the time.

And somehow I find comfort in that.

Because maybe reaching back isn’t always about longing.

Sometimes it’s remembering that we’ve been finding our way home to ourselves all along.

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