Downward dog used to bother me. I could never keep my back straight or hold myself up without hurting my wrists. Slowly, with patience, I built up enough strength in my core. My back now straight, I learned to place my weight in the palms of my hands, and not in my wrists. With my fingers evenly spread out on the mat, I could now focus on my breathing, feeling the stretch in my hamstrings, feeling energy rising in, and going out. Relaxing with every breath, my body feeling heavy and weightless at the same time.
Yoga. My unlikely ally.
It didn’t use to be like this. I actually used to make fun of people who did yoga. I was so skeptical of its healing practices, associating it with hipsters and crystal loving liars. I didn’t understand it, nor did I want to. So, I dismissed it for most of my life.
But the universe had other plans. In my freshman year of college, I began working as an office assistant at the Plangere Writing Center at Rutgers as part of my work study assignment. The manager there at the time was in the middle of completing her yoga certification training. Her name was Anna, and she talked about things I had never paid much mind to, things I had never heard of before. Meditation. Square breathes. The Universe. Rising moon signs. At first, whenever she mentioned these things or demonstrated a yoga position, I had to resist the urge to laugh.
I grew up in a conservative, first-generation Italian-American household. The only type of spiritual experiences I’d been exposed to were the Catholic church and nine years of catechism school, all of which were much loathed. But I was taught that this was the only way to make sense of life.
Eventually, Anna became both my mentor at work and my yoga teacher. I took my first class with her about five years ago. I still remember the piano music she played in the beginning of class. It caught me off guard. I assumed all yoga classes needed to start with a form of chanting accompanied by some cliched Tibetan-inspired number. I mentally prepared myself before I arrived, knowing I would have to hold in the laughter.
But there was none of that here. Just the soft sounds of piano music echoing throughout the room.
She led us through some basic poses. Sun salutation, tree pose, warrior one. Sometimes, I’d lose my balance and my laughter seeped though. I must look ridiculous, I thought. Who else is laughing?
I looked around the room. No one was paying me any mind. Everyone was just trying to hold their balance, to do the best they could at their own pace. I looked toward Anna. She stood there serene and connected to her breath. I suddenly felt guilty for not taking what we were all doing seriously enough. I began focusing on my breath as Anna guided us through more poses.
We ended with a meditation. I focused on the piano and her words. She had us scan our bodies from head to toe. Relaxing our jaws, our necks, our chests, our legs, and even our toes. With every inhale and exhale, we fell deeper into a blissful state of awareness. She spoke again and asked us to note to ourselves how our minds and bodies felt in that exact moment. She let us know that whatever we were feeling was enough. That we needn’t be anywhere else. That this moment was just for us.
I felt tears roll down my face. After that class, I never laughed at, or during, yoga ever again.
I’ve done yoga now, on and off, for the past five years. While I am no expert by any means, I can say that it’s brought a richness to my life and a sense of intention. Through yoga, I’ve learned that we have the power to restore ourselves, to take care of ourselves, to heal ourselves. It doesn’t get better than that.
Lesson: Don’t dismiss things simply because you don’t understand them.