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“It’s okay if your mind wanders,” she says, and it feels like she’s whispering directly in my ear. A shiver rolls down my spine. “Invite it back. Find your breath.”
Finally, we end on our backs, palms facing the ceiling. My body is relaxed, and my mind hums with content stillness as I listen to her soft voice.
“To close today’s practice, I want you to think about what makes you feel worthy.”
Confusion rises inside me. Worthy. I repeat the word in my head. Worthy of what?
“For me,” she says, smiling to herself, “I love hanging out with my sister. Pippa brings out all the best parts of me and I always go home feeling so happy and grateful.”
I’m mesmerized. She’s so beautiful. I wish I could record this so I could listen to it again and again.
“I love running,” she goes on. “Even when I’m huffing and puffing, there’s sweat in my eyes, and my face is red like a tomato, I love feeling strong in my body. I love what my body can do for me.
“And lastly, my work makes me feel worthy. I love seeing what the human body can do. We’re all capable of incredible things, no matter what type of body we’re moving in. I love playing a part in that.” She pauses. “Now, your turn. Where do you find your purpose? What makes you smile? What makes you feel loved?”
Worthy. The word flings itself around in my head, searching for a place to land. My purpose is to be the best hockey player possible, and anything less is failure.
What makes you feel loved?
A memory flits into my head. I was eleven, and it was the summer before my mom left. We were walking through the trails near our home in North Vancouver. We stopped at a creek, and she bent down to flick a few droplets of water at me, grinning. Her deep blue eyes, the same as mine, glowed in the forest light. I laughed and flicked the water right back at her.
“I love you. I hope you know that.”
A longing ache fills my chest. I haven’t heard those words since I was a kid, since she lived with us.
And I was the one who didn’t want to live with her. I was the one who wanted to stay with Dad full time because I’m always chasing his approval.
When class is over, there’s a chorus of farewells as people sign out.
“Miller,” she says. The others have left the virtual meeting room and we’re the only ones here. There’s something different in her voice as she studies me through the camera. “Are you okay?”
I force a wry smile. “You think I’m so out of shape that I couldn’t endure a little stretching, Hartley?”
She doesn’t answer right away, and panic spikes inside me that she’s not taking my bait.
“I don’t think that at all. I just think for someone from the world of macho jocks and push-ups, my class can be jarring.”
“Macho jocks and push-ups?” I repeat, starting to smile.
She grins. “I’m not wrong.”
“You’re not wrong.” Her smile makes the tight, ugly feeling in my throat dissipate. “Thanks for letting me join.”
She nods. “Good night.”
“Good night, Hartley.”
She ends the meeting, and I sit there, absentmindedly swiveling.
My dad’s approach to discomfort is practice. Practice until you can’t anymore. Tackle it head-on. Beat it out of yourself. Don’t run from it; conquer it. Crush it. Be the strongest and the fastest. Anything but the best is failure.
I pull up Hartley’s website and sign up for all ten classes in this session.
* * *
We’re walking through the terminal to board our flight home when something sparkly in a shop window catches my eye.
I lean down to study the tiny crystal dragon. It’s a pale blue, so cute and chubby like a cartoon, but with red eyes that glow under the lights.
