(originally published on Elephant Journal)

Some mornings, I wake up with a furrowed brow and a head wobbly with doubt.

I spend a little—okay, too much—time on social media, stalking my yoga teaching brethren. And I’ve discovered something they all have in common that I lack: they’re amazing!

They are a truly remarkable bunch of glorious looking, uber-flexible, strong and svelte humans. That’s if they are, indeed, human at all.

These yoga people I stalk are intelligent, courageous, sexually superior, infinitely wise, and spiritually assured—not to mention, superbly photogenic. How does one mere mortal achieve such outrageous perfection in a single lifetime?

But me? I’m not like them.

I’m a stumbling, bumbling skinful of karmic debts and spiritual foibles. With a potbelly and way fewer than a thousand Instagram followers, surely I don’t qualify.

Despite the fact that I have practiced yoga for 20 years, hold numerous qualifications, nearly 2,000 hours of formal training, and innumerable hours of teaching experience, self study, and practice, I still don’t feel worthy...