Something new mothers need

In a month I'm doing some specialist postnatal yoga training, the natal phase that I feel most passionately about. I am excited about increasing my skills to support women in this stage, partly because it was when I struggled the most, even though I had lots of great support from midwives, my partner, family and friends.

Mothers are brilliant at holding onto guilt, and I still feel some for not enjoying this phase more. I still sometimes feel uneasy when I see new mothers' social media posts that make it seem like they're loving this part of their lives. Why did I struggle when friends didn't? Why could other people bring a bit of gallows humour to the broken nights and the lack of stimulation and the long days? If I could barely cope, what about women with no support and three children who lived in tiny flats on 24th floors and who could barely pay the bills? How on earth did they do it? What about women who were desperate for babies? Why couldn't I be more thankful for my situation?

The answers don't really matter. We're all different, our children are different, there is a whole spectrum of postnatal sentiment about our new babies and our new lives. In my case, I felt a large degree of grief about my old life, the carefree urban childless one that involved things like brunch and festivals and galleries and sleep. I felt trapped and panicky and my feelings were magnified x millions thanks to a long labour, postnatal insomnia, a wakeful baby and the "disgusting hormone bath", a friend's words, that envelops you after birth. I would walk past capricious young people drinking wine in pubs and feel a wild envy. It felt like there was a gulf between my old and new life. Part of me wanted desperately to escape the responsibility that terrified me in its enormity and part of me wanted to hold my baby and never let her go. I felt a fierce love for her. I was also tired and sad and scared.

As yoga teachers we often want to help and be the answer or at least present the answer, as if we can offer advice or a sequence or a meditation that will be transformative, that can shine a light, that can turn something around. As time passes I feel more humble and realistic, knowing that little or nothing can remove obstacles entirely or make a life easy; that an hour's yoga class will rarely present that light-bulb moment. But I do believe yoga works. Gradually, its teachings about slowing down, noticing the present moment and trusting what's deep within ourselves starts to creep into our everyday life and take hold. It allows us to create space in our bodies through movement and in turn, space in our minds. We start to feel more grateful about what we do have and calm when things don't go our way. It teaches that there is no cure from life but that sometimes you have to face then move through feelings, that you don't have to judge yourself. And it tells us about the nature of the mind - that sometimes the feelings you think have gone away will resurface and be real, like the other day when I felt sad all over again about some of the losses we inevitably incur when we choose one path and not another.

Cheryl Strayed writes poignantly about a "sister ship", a life that could have been yours had you made a certain decision or had things worked out differently, and the grief we feel for this life-we-won't-have varies from an enormity of opportunity lost to my small feeling that day, a nostalgic pang from a life that I recognise as privileged and full and wonderful. The grass is often greener, but I also think it's legitimate and healthy to feel a bit sad for a life that's no longer yours, the countries you won't travel to, the conversations you won't have, the books you won't write, even though of course in exchange you get all this other stuff, all this other joy.

Could I have had an easier time in early motherhood? To an extent I think I had to go through it all, so I could really believe the things I was telling myself (it'll get better. You'll sit in a bar alone with a book and a glass of wine one day. You'll sit on a yoga mat and quietly, embarrassingly cry in class because you finally recognise something. You'll find the place where your old and new self meet and you'll call it your life.) I "knew" these things but I didn't really know them, didn't feel them in my body in the way that we do when we really understand something, in the same way that, despite the fact that I'd read all the baby books and endlessly imagined what motherhood would be like, there was nothing or no-one that could have enabled my imagination to really prepare for it. And in a way, the grief I had was valid - my life really had changed. Sure, I would regain a stronger sense of my old life, but as a mother, the days of doing fun/self-centred things impulsively, or particularly frequently, really was gone (for at least 18 years or so!)

But I do believe that the "yoga skills" I have now, and which weren't so well practised then, could have helped. And I don't mean my ability to bend and flex my body in a crazy way. I mean what I understand now, about how to live my life in a more mindful way; to move in a way that conserves your energy and to deeply rest even if you can't sleep; to be kind to yourself. A yoga class can be a place of sanctuary. The more support you have from kind compassionate people you want to help; the more someone can provide you a bit of space to forgive yourself or mourn your life or feel exhausted or at sea or remind you not to believe anything you see on Instagram; the more someone can give you permission to rest deeply and move slowly even if you can't get 8 hours (or even a raggedy cobbled-together 4) a night ... the better.