Sub
You can't, and you won't meet the expectations
Subbing someone's class is challenging, especially if it's your teacher's.
I am familiar with their teaching style and aware of how they prefer particular instructions, like saying "reach up" versus "sweep up." I know how they bring people out of a deep meditation. I am familiar with their quirks, too.
I understand that I can't replicate my teacher’s classes. Although my teaching stems from theirs, it is digested and processed through my own practice.
When I began teaching yoga in late 2020, my main goal was to get through the class without making mistakes. I wrote down and memorized all of my sequences before teaching any class. I was nervous about effectively communicating with an N95 mask on, let alone worried about my health and that of others. I had to stay on the mat, demonstrating and speaking muffled through the mask. By the end of each class, I felt exhausted and breathless.
During the second year, my focus shifted to teaching without physically demonstrating all the time. I had a difficult time explaining how these kinesthetic movements created subtle changes in our bodies, and how those changes impacted our energies. I spent a lot of time thinking about developing metaphors and examples so students could move while listening to my words. Yet, sometimes my words felt too wordy. I wanted the students to get into their own bodies without processing the words in their heads.
I didn't feel comfortable directly touching the students, especially during the peak of COVID. I focused on teaching students how to self-align their bodies using their hands/feet as props. For example, I asked students to touch and feel their muscles (i.e., poking their own quadriceps) to ensure the muscles were engaged.
Sometimes, I wonder if there's a guiding spirit on my yoga journey.
I've recently met a new teacher and a group of her students, who are seasoned teachers themselves. They have different teaching styles and approaches than my previous teachers. Although paths may look different, the ultimate goals seem to be the same: we want our students to better themselves and learn how to heal themselves through yoga. It seemed as if the spirit knew I was ready to embrace different viewpoints.
In hindsight, when my words felt too jumbled, I met a teacher with preciseness. When I felt inept and needed more knowledge, I met a teacher with a technical background. When I was too caught up in my head, I met a teacher asking me to feel, not think.
It's hard to understand the path that the yoga spirit is leading me to because, at that very moment, I don't know what all the things mean.
Last summer, I found myself frustrated with teaching. Attendance was so low that I started to worry about the class getting canceled. It felt like I was teaching semi-private classes all the time. A crisis of confidence kicked in, and I felt like I was being called out as a mediocre teacher who didn't know what she was doing.
I spiraled, yet, I learned a lot. It was the opportunity to get to know those few consistent students and watch their practices up close. These (almost) one-on-one settings helped me support those who needed my service. It helped me learn how to improvise without sticking to the sequence scripts. Although it wasn't the original intention nor the plan, that's what I needed to diversify my offerings.
I'm still figuring out how to teach yoga – it seems to be a theme for everything I do.
These days, I'm learning how to lead a group while providing individualized experiences for the students. How do I discern what each student needs while keeping the cohesiveness within the group? How do I create a space that accommodates everyone? How do I share my energy with the students? I have to remind myself that it's not about me; it's about the students. My role is to serve, not to indulge in ego trips.
Last week when my teacher asked if I could sub while she was away, I hesitated. For those two seconds, I came up with well-planned excuses ("My parents are in town (which is true), and they want to spend more time together").
But in reality, I didn't want to embarrass myself, nor did I want my teacher's students to realize that I might not be a good teacher. All these concerns came from my insecurities, not the students' needs. I ultimately said yes because of that very reason. Because it's not about me. It's about the students.
Nic Antoinette said "the cure for comparison is doing your work" (I am paraphrasing). I don’t remember where I heard or read this from (podcast? newsletter?) but I wrote it down on my journal with a big sharpie.
I perform better when I do the necessary work. I feel better when I am prepared. I do better when I can overcome my nervousness. The only way to reach that stage is to actively engage in the work.
I cannot compare my class to my teacher's. And the only way to get out of the insecurity trap is to keep teaching. I must make it work for my body and translate that experience to others to the best of my abilities. I need to test it in real-life situations, observe how things unfold, move as I should, and see the interconnectedness. That's how I escape the never-ending feeling of inadequacy and find my own voice.
I love reading about how artists pursue their creative explorations and how they bring their inspirations to life. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprisingly, most artists say the same thing. Keep doing the thing, whether it's writing, music, painting, or any other art form.
Despite the consistent background noise called self-doubt, they don't dwell on why they can't do it. They simply return to their work without wavering. Then the dogged pursuit, which most of the time feels like it's leading nowhere, slowly starts to accumulate. These efforts transform mediocre work into something better.
I subbed for my teacher's class on Monday.
It wasn't the most captivating class of my life, but it was a decent one.
I did not amaze everyone with my shining personality. But I felt good about my work because I gave it my best.
I am unsure if my best is enough since there's still much more to learn — but perhaps, for now, that is enough.