Balancing Act

I set up a Hinge account this weekend. I asked my friend Wahjid for feedback, and this morning at the gym I mentioned I had a first date planned—chai tea and a walk through Golden Gate Park. Classically San Francisco.

“Let me see!” he exclaimed, scanning the guy’s profile. He nodded in approval. Permission granted.

Later, as we stretched after class, Wahjid said, “He looks balanced. Watch for that.” Then he added, “You’re balanced too.”

That stuck with me.

What does balanced actually mean?

To Wahjid, it means that on any given weekend, I might see friends, attend a fitness class, coach a client, work on my writing, tend to my apartment, and go to an art gallery opening or a film. It means I’m out and about—but also happy to be alone. It means I know what I like to do, and I do it.

It wasn’t always like this. My life has cycled through extremes: seasons of overwork, intensity, hyperintellectualizing; seasons of softness, retreat, repair. There are parts of me that tug in different directions—the one who hikes tall peaks for views, the one who reads poetry in bed with candles lit, the one who dives into niche research for hours. At different times, one self rises to the forefront.

In Taoist philosophy, balance isn’t static. It’s a dynamic interplay of yin and yang—rest and movement, softness and strength, receptivity and action. These energies don’t cancel each other out; they dance together.

As a yoga instructor, I’ve experienced this viscerally. In yin classes, we hold postures for minutes on end, finding surrender in stillness. In yang flows, we move to build heat. Both are necessary, and neither is sustainable on its own.

Living in San Francisco dials up the yang in me—the striving, the spark. It’s a city of ambition and endless stimulation. I left the Santa Barbara area, where I grew up, because I wanted that spark. But sparks can also burn. After seven years here—six spent in a demanding job—I realized my spirit, my body, my tender heart needed more care.

This past year has been about listening to those quieter parts. Letting the yin rise again.

And as I’ve been healing, I’ve come to understand that balance isn’t just philosophical. It’s physiological. Our bodies, too, strive to maintain equilibrium—a process known as homeostasis. It’s not a fixed point, but a fluid, self-regulating dance. When everything’s working well, we adjust to change gracefully. But when we’re depleted—nutritionally, hormonally—our systems can struggle to keep us steady.

I know this not just in theory, but in lived experience: the extreme fluctuations in blood sugar, temperature, energy. The signs that my inner world needed restoring.

Balance, then, is not about achieving some perfect middle point. It’s about tuning in—enough to notice when we’re veering too far in one direction. It’s about adjusting. Recalibrating. Letting one part lead for a while, then softening into another—and doing so continuously.

So tomorrow, I’ll go on my date. We’ll walk through Golden Gate Park. Maybe nothing will come of it—or maybe something will. But I’ll show up as I am: still in process, still listening, still balancing.