Warm dog poop and glimmers of hope.

The last 3 months and 18 days have been unpredictable, grey and turbulent in some parts but enough about the UK weather.

I have made it past the 3-month hump, unscathed and there are even a few glimmers. I still cannot do a self-checkout without human assistance nor get my card to scan the first time at any train station, but I did place my EarPods into the correct ears this morning and not in my nostrils, progress.

What I can unequivocally tell you without sounding like a rainbow preacher or radical hippie is that two things are quite literally sustaining me. Hot yoga, and our little doggy Tjoepie.

I have always been into yoga, and I have practiced it for a few years on and off, but I have never taken it seriously. I’ve never taken anything recreational too seriously to be fair, other than my choice of biscuits.

When I first made this move, I was quite realistic about knowing my own limitations being away from my husband in a new country for the first few months, which could lead me to feel lonely and sad and the idea of this terrified me more than any map of the underground ever could.

So as any A type lunatic would, I found a yoga studio and it turned out to be a hot one. I have tried warm-ish yoga before, but I had only ever tried hot yoga once with my mom about 10 years ago, it ended in disaster with my mom feeling as though she was going to have a heart attack, we both walked out of the studio 3 minutes in, my mother shouting profanity at me in front of the rest of the yogis, like a delirious stumbling hot drunk in gym pants. The car ride home was more heated in conversation than the studio was. So, as you can imagine my hesitancy to join another hot yoga class was deep rooted, but this time I had at least shed some extra baggage. Love you mom.

Cut a long story short, I joined the hot yoga class and in London they of course do not do anything in half measure. My fellow yogis were in full piece Lycra suits that looked quite literally waterproof and ready for a bomb disposal job, there were so many different incense burners, humidifiers and types of lighting that I felt like I had walked into a psychedelic tent at Glastonbury. It was hotter than a sauna on the sun.

I struggled through to not loose face, I felt like someone would see through me and know my 3-minute failure of Christmas yoga past, and the PTSD kicked in. Fortunately, I couldn’t tell if the tsunamic nature of sweat dripping over me was from anxiety or the heat, so I just kept cracking on. Before I knew it, an hour was up. I had done a complete HOT Yoga flow class and I felt amazing. I felt lighter (probably the loss of water), easier and just more peaceful within myself. NAMASTE! Also, it was very funny when the class finished, and someone slipped on their own human sweat puddle. They were fine, they landed back on a pile of mats and a puff of essential oils enveloped them.

A few weeks after my sweaty victory that is hot yoga and subsequently joining many many more, our doggy Tjoepie arrived, and of course he has just brightened even the dullest of days. He isn’t the best conversationalist, but he does make me laugh. On one of our walks this week I grabbed a bite to eat on the way out of the door, I was holding a leash in one hand with a poop bag (a full one) – with said snack in the other hand. It was also raining. I could tell people were looking at me with pity. I reminded myself that I am now comfortable with warmth, and I found a glimmer of hope just there, in a warm bag of dog poo.

Anyway, through the hot poop and warm yoga I am muddling through.

London hasn’t been bad to me, and I am forever grateful for all the kindness and laughs I am experiencing along the way.

#Laughthrougit #warmyoga #hotpoop #glimmers #london