What I learned about holding space (Part 1)

As an educator of color, I’ve had experience with holding space before I had the language to know what I had been doing. So often our classrooms and schools become these small containers where we organically make it  our business to see, make room for, and nurture our most vulnerable students. Its possible that these students remind us of ourselves in some way, or reflect some parts of our identity, or own painful or positive experiences and as a result, we ensure that we’re intentional about moving in ways to address that… we hold space.  

Now, as a yoga and meditation teacher, that part of my work remains unchanged. After a decade of holding space for students and teachers of color in academia, I’m holding space for them in the wellness world. It ain’t no secret that racism and discrimination toward Black and Brown folks transcend worlds and disciplines so obviously I’d just pick up here. 

My first official yoga series that I taught was titled “For Us: an intentional space for BIPOC.” Cute right? For six weeks, I lead familiar faces and many new friends in yoga and a community building chat to decompress, to relate, to commiserate, to celebrate… to hold space. And while attendance numbers aren’t my primary criterion for success, it certainly felt great to know that I was curating a space that met my targeted community’s needs. 

Sunday, January 26th the world stopped at the news of a fatal helicopter crash killing all 8 passengers, pilot, Kobe Bryant, and 13 his 13 year old daughter Gianna Bryant included in that number.  My next session of that series occurred that following Wednesday. Tragedy of this kind, especially when unexpected tends to shock you in waves. The 1st wave is disbelief. Frist, you’re in disbelief of the news. Next, you want every detail. How did this happen? How could it have happened? Then you begin the process of mourning, followed by opinions and reflections. This is when things starts to get tricky—personal anecdotes and tone deaf think pieces begin to emerge. People start bringing up skeletons from the deceased’s closet and questioning the collective’s right to grieve. And then, you begin to bring it home. What if it were my family that died? What if I found out about my loved  one’s passing via social media or TMZ? You’re triggered reflecting on your most recent bout with death. The funeral… the wound you thought had healed… it all comes back. At least it does for me. 

And even in the face of tragedy, my “For us” series still had to move forward. Although no one had signed up for that individual session, some people had purchased series passes, so I had to press forward with my Wednesday routine. This week was different. The train ride was longer. My legs felt heavier. This week, I had also found out that my older brother was diagnosed with lymphoma after a few trips to the emergency room and being discharged with “flu like symptoms,” because racism permeates healthcare too. My chest felt heavy. As I listened to my gospel playlist on the train, I fought back tears. I knew that this was going to be a very difficult session, but it was important that I still showed up. It was important that I held space for my people.

 I went through my ritual. I set the diffuser with my combinations of oils, burned my palo santo, an set up the mats and props. I made my flower circle and set up the candles. The vibe was important. I needed the physical space to reflect the beauty of each attendee—something I picked up from Oprah and her young women’s leadership academy for girls in South Africa. 

And no one showed up.

Here was the space. I was holding it for anyone who would show up, and no one did. I started to stretch and to practice on one of the mats. I went into child’s pose and immediately the levees broke. I wept. And I wept. I practiced alone in the space, and I wept. 

 I realized that I was carrying so much weight—the shock of an untimely celebrity passing and processing what that meant for those families and watching the world grieve and go through the iterations of the aforementioned cycle. Hearing the hatred and vitriol from Black men toward Gayle King after she was sabotaged by her own network, and centering my brother’s experience being so proximate to death with with that of the Bryant’s. I realized that night that I also need to and have to hold space for myself.