How I Stumbled into Yoga and Never Looked Back

That period of my life when I first started yoga was a neurotic quest for more, more, more. Nothing was ever enough: no workout, no amount of success, no expression of love, nothing. I managed to turn everything into a letdown. I was restless, impatient, and had decided that I was horribly lonely. That was my story and I was sticking to it.

Though I spent hours at Crunch spinning and stepping and God knows what else, I had no interest in yoga until I stumbled into a class one evening pretty much convinced that it was not going to burn enough calories to be worthwhile. I’m sure the teacher that night remembers me as the sulky student with a chip on her shoulder. I mostly remember the nausea. Yoga definitely got and kept my attention. Between the waves though, I could feel something important calling, something radically contrary to my insatiable need for more I was completely irritated by the pace of the class, by the teacher who kept reminding me not to fidget and bite my lip. I could not seem to manage the simplest of instructions. I knew that I would either return the very next day, or escape in the opposite direction without looking back (or breathing through my nose).

Suddenly there it all is, up in our face in our downward facing…

I did return the next day, and the next. And though I have plenty of learning, evolving and footing to find ahead of me I have managed to change much of my “woe is me” into “fortunate me”—or at least “grateful me.”

I often wonder what in the world would have become of me had I found my way into a pole dancing class that night instead…

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