The fact that there are three entirely different popular songs entitled “Beautiful Disaster,” two called “Beautiful Mess,” and one “Beauty in the Breakdown” makes me think that pop culture is into the concept of capturing the power and beauty in moments of messy despair.

These are times we wouldn't necessarily want to relive, wouldn't speak of in a job interview, or think of as role model moments. But I have discovered that they are pivotal parts of life, as in something is different and better in the moments or phases after. Presenting to graduate students in the very same counseling program I attended a few days ago reminded me of one of my beautiful disasters, an honest, messy moment in Tulum, Mexico several years ago.

I had just finished graduate school, ending two of the most emotionally taxing years of my life. For those who don't know, a large part of graduate training in counseling/psychology involves thinking about, processing, and writing about your individual, family, and relationship experiences. For those of us who choose to do this full time in public institutions, this means sitting with clients very shortly after opening your first “How To Be A Counselor” book and starting your first of many personal reflections.

Now, being a human being, and arguably one who comfortably hangs out in my head, and even one who had several years of therapy under my belt, I, like most people who want to feel normal and okay more often than not, tried not to think about family dynamics on a regular basis, nor traumas, nor relationship issues. 

Graduate school got in the way of that. 

Conjuring up these subjects was an absolute requirement. From Group Work to Human Sexuality, every subject was subjected to personal scrutiny. And just to remove any semblance of subtlety from the experience, I, in true San Francisco form, lived in my parents' in-law during this two year trek. In any given week, it wouldn't be a stretch to delve into an old wound with my mother and then split an omelette the next morning.

When I wasn't in the swampland of reflection, I was sitting with clients, trying to plug skills from professors and books into human relationships. I had to listen to recordings of sessions and code my interventions, hear my own voice (which, all self-love aside, I don't even like the sound of in a voicemail), and critique my work. The self I walked in with was shoved aside for the self I was supposed to be becoming. Even when things were going well, it was difficult for me to feel like I was doing things right.

So there were two years of up to 14 hour days, three hour seminars followed by three hours more, lots of critical thinking, lots of critical thinking, plans to quit and run away, insights, family tension, tension in general, taxed relationships, new relationships, many hours in rooms full of many therapists-in-training, and a 50 page culminating paper. 

By the time I got to Mexico my shoulders had inched up a half a foot towards my ears.

Arriving midday, I stepped out of the cab into the moist air, feeling my curls swell on impact. I was escorted down a short path to my new "home." I put my luggage down, stood in the stillness of my room—a cabana just off the beach—inhaled this humid new place and felt so instantly, thankfully far away.

Human interaction during the first part of the trip was reserved solely for ordering food. I spent hours in silence watching my thoughts go by, observing my judgments and defenses trying to find a space at my table and giggling as I saw that there was no room for them. Alone and amused, I decided to start in on the daily yoga offerings.

I entered a spacious cabana, where 10 or so other people sat silently awaiting the start of class. The instructor flowed in, got right to it. We chanted Om, grounded our feet down, and started a never ending series of sun salutations. We opened our hearts, our crowns, our hips, our thighs.

It hurt.

Out poured the aching in my heart for the times I hadn't been able to give or receive love, and for the ache of others' hearts I had added to my own. Out came the tension in my head tied to war that was waged on my thinking brain, my executive function overload. Out came the pain of tightness, of trauma, that had locked its way into my body. And out came the shaky strength of the beams that had carried me forward despite myself. I wept openly with pain, and sweat out the toxicity of too much hurt and not enough self compassion.

90 rigorous minutes later it stopped.

We layed on our backs in Savasana—corpse pose—for 10 minutes, my entire body pulsing slower and slower. We were then instructed to keep our eyes closed while transitioning to a seated position to start alternate nostril breathing, a technique that was new to me. The instructor described where to place our hands, this finger on your third eye, these two covering one nostril, this one then covering the other.

I was confused, tears still sneaking out of my eyes, but present. My eyes trembled as I struggled to keep them closed and I noticed that amidst the heat and the heavy emotions my nose had started to run. I kept my eyes stretched across my wet face as I was being instructed. My body shook.

Sweat, tears, and snot commingled as my breath at-last found a steady rhythm. I was getting it. I hint of pride and relaxation passed through as we came to the end of the exercise. We were asked to bring our hands into prayer and bow. 

Namaste. 

I bowed low, flexible from the heat, sat back up and opened my eyes to see not the eyes of the instructor, nor the faces of my classmates, but the back of the room.

I looked for the familiar feelings of self-criticism and embarrassment, but they were nowhere to be found.

I had misunderstood, gone the wrong direction, done the exercise completely wrong. I had cried through the majority of the class. I was the craziest shade of red and soaking wet with sweat. And yet I felt lighter than I had in two years, my head held high. I had surrendered to my messy pain, and left the battle, gross and proud as could be.