I used to be a complete snob when it came to yoga. I figured that if I wasn’t sweating, struggling, and in pain, then it wasn’t a workout. The way I was raised, there was no problem on earth that couldn’t be solved by going for a jog. Just sweat it out. Run until you throw up! Now your old problems have disappeared and your only worries are side cramps and vomit on your sneakers. Hooray! Problems solved. (Not that my parents and volleyball/soccer/track coaches were wrong; I always feel empowered, invincible, and ready to take on the world after a work out, and being involved in team and individual sports was one of the best things about my upbringing.)
I wanted to try yoga, but thought I could only incorporate it into my schedule as a last resort. I would do everything else first. I’d go to spin class, step aerobics (YES), or bounce along on the elliptical, and if after that I had time, I would maybe try and kinda sorta attempt to fit in a yoga class. Maybe. If there was time, and if I hadn’t already washed my hair that day. But not if it conflicted with a Law and Order: SVU marathon. That’s a deal breaker, ladies.
So, predictably that didn’t work out too well. I spent years saying that I wanted to try yoga but just couldn’t find the time. In truth, I wasn’t making time. I was being lazy, non-committal, and frankly I was totally chicken.
Sometime in the middle of 2010 everything in my world seemed to fall apart. The nitty gritty details don’t really matter at this point, and I’m not about to Taylor Swift this article and personally call out specific people or events (even if I’d like to), but it was your basic string of first-world disasters. Love life? Epically over. Career? Catastrophe. Health? Felt like garbage. Immigration attempts? Denied more than once. Audited by the government? Not once, but twice. Roommate situation? Awkward, and about to end badly. I don’t want to sound ungrateful because I had a LOT of awesome things in my life. I had a niece (and a nephew on the way) who are the light of my life, an unshakeable, supportive Mom, and a small but fantastic support group of select family members and friends. Despite all of the good things, all the crap stuff took a big toll on a lot of things in my life, but mostly on my confidence. It just vanished. It disappeared and I didn’t really know where it went, or more importantly, how to find it again.
When you hit rock bottom, you realize that you need to try something new. Whatever you’ve been doing ain’t working anymore. Besides, I’m sporty and flexible right? Yoga couldn’t be that difficult. Maybe it could be a kind of therapy. Lord knows I need(ed) that. At the time, I was living in the Marina district of San Francisco, which is basically the epicenter of yoga. Or at least the epicenter of people who look like they are always at yoga. Lululemon pants everywhere! Sporty tops and tiny bleached blondes chattering about how they’re giving up refined sugar, dairy, meat and caffeine, while sipping their kale-compost smoothies, and confessing that they really REALLY want to lose 2 pounds this year. I don’t hate these girls at all, and honestly I’m a little jealous. There is no way on God’s green earth that I could give one of those things up for any real length of time. Roz with no caffeine is a terrifying prospect for anyone within my reach or earshot. Take away cheese? Or bacon? I’m gonna hunt you down and rip off your limbs. These Marina girls have willpower, dedication, and a fearlessness that I suddenly lacked. I needed what they had, and thought maybe I’d find it in the yoga studio…cuz I certainly wasn’t giving up chocolate. Or meat. Or chai tea.
I gathered up the remains of my courage and hauled my curvy ass to Aha Yoga on Union Street. (http://www.tomleeyoga.com) I was greeted by Tom Lee who was so warm, kind, and welcoming to a visibly nervous and sweaty beginner. Here’s a picture of Tom: He’s the one shaped like a graceful pretzel…
I made it through my first yoga class. Barely. I felt more like a manatee on my mat than a graceful warrior goddess, but I had to start somewhere. Besides, manatees are adorable. Of course, I was surrounded by people who could touch their nose to their own ass and effortlessly flip themselves over and upside down on one hand without breaking a sweat or smearing their makeup. Yes, they wear full make up to yoga. I got a serious case of the giggles when I was told to bring my hands into prayer position at my sternum. “My sternum?” I thought to myself, “Where the f&^k is my sternum? I have to wade through 6 inches of sports bra-ed mono-boob to locate my sternum. This is clearly not going to happen.” Turns out you can laugh in yoga. Apparently you can do whatever you want in yoga. I was intrigued.
I made a commitment to myself to try it for a week. The next day I went to Christie Marshall’s class. Christie is the personification of light, hope, and kindness. She came up to me before class to introduce herself and cue my nervous sweating and verbal diarrhea: “Hi it’s nice to meet you I’m Rhoslyn and I really don’t know what I’m doing at all here and I’m new and I don’t know yoga and I’m at the beginning.” She put her hand on my arm and calmly replied, “Aren’t we all at the beginning Rhoslyn? It’s all good!” I nearly burst into the ugly cry. That’s how fragile I was. Say something nice to me and I was a puddle of emotion on the yoga studio floor. Here’s the glorious goddess woman Christie…
Her class made me fall head over heels (heels over my head?) in love. I had found two amazing teachers in only two classes, and I felt great. Or at least, I felt better. I knew that I was on the right track to finding some happiness and confidence again.
I spent the next two years in that studio. Sometimes I feel like a pro, and I can balance on my elbows like a magician, and the next day I lie on my back for the last half hour of class and sob. Or sleep. I don’t care, and neither does anyone else. That is the beauty of yoga. Every day is different and it doesn’t matter what you do, it only matters that you show up.
I started to notice small changes in my life. I was singing more often, and I was singing better. I was calmer, more focused, and I wasn’t having as many emotional breakdowns in the aisles of Walgreens. These are all good things! I learned that small is the new big. Great things could only be achieved if I started with small intentions. Bigger, louder, and faster was not the way for me. Tiny, intentional, and quality things could grow slowly into something truly great. For me, that started on my yoga mat.
Yoga became a healthy addiction for me. It was so life-changing in terms of its physical, mental and emotional impact that I wondered how I made it through life without it for so long. It was my church, my safe place, and my sanctuary. My friends and I started calling it “yurch”: A horribly inelegant term combining yoga and church into something that described the experience to us perfectly.
It’s clear to me now that things in my life are better because I tried something new. Love life? Happily married. Career? On my way up baby. Immigration woes? Over as of this week. Audits? Shmaudits.
It’s not like everything is peachy and perfect, but my perspective has completely changed. I’m more prepared and armed to deal with the things that will inevitably come my way because of how yoga has impacted my life. I’m not advising that everyone go out and spend their life savings on yoga mats and Lululemon attire, but I do think that everyone can find their “thing.” The thing that gets them through. It might be yoga, or zumba, or rugby, or church, or knitting, or dancing, or singing, or writing, or volunteering. Whatever you like. Yoga is my thing. It has given me a sense of calm, focus and has filled my life with so much peace. I’m so peaceful, in fact, that I only rarely get the urge to hurl my chai tea and bacon sandwich at the heads of passing Marina girls. Namaste.