I Went to Yoga Expecting to Hate It. I Didn’t Expect to Cry.
With two torn and repaired ACLs behind me and my late thirties approaching, my body has made it clear that doing the activity is no longer adequate preparation for doing said activity. If I want to enjoy ski season, I need to put in some work before the lifts start spinning.
I also know myself well enough to understand that I respond better to the stick than the carrot when it comes to exercise accountability. So, for the third year in a row, I’ve signed up for a five-week winter conditioning program at a studio near my home in Salt Lake City. Three mornings a week, I’m there at 7 A.M. for a mix of weightlifting, squats, lunges, core work, and cardio intervals designed to get me and my fellow victims classmates ready for skiing, which is arguably the majority of my personality.
The five-week Winter Conditioning program at Seek Studio also includes an optional weekly yoga class of our choosing, which, for the third year in a row, I had planned to ignore.
A couple of years ago, I tried a yoga class called “The Fix,” chosen specifically because it was the shortest available and promised upbeat music, high energy, and nothing too heady. I figured if I was going to do yoga, I might as well choose the version that sounded the least like yoga.
I went once, thought it was fine enough, I guess, and didn’t go back.
My relationship with yoga has been a smattering of intermittent classes over the years, sporadic at best. I’ve tried studios, online classes at home, and various versions of convincing myself that this time I’ll get into it. Nothing has stuck.
One of my earliest attempts came just after college, when I moved to Los Angeles and signed up for an introductory hot yoga package. I thought it sounded like a nice way to sweat out the toxins of city life and all that communing in standstill traffic on the 405.
I showed up to my first class in leggings and a tank top, side-eyeing everyone else in their skimpiest outfits. Was being nearly naked really necessary?
Turns out, yes. Yes, it was.
These people knew something I didn’t: we were about to sweat an absolutely obscene amount. I spent the next hour slipping all over my mat, struggling to keep up, and generally having a terrible time.
I left with the beginnings of a migraine so intense that I had to pull over on the 5 near Santa Monica, several miles from home, for a 15-minute emergency nap. Then I threw up on the side of the interstate, drove the rest of the way barely able to see out of one eye, and slept for 14 hours.
So that was hot yoga. Not for me.
Eventually, I settled into the idea that yoga simply wasn’t for me. I could appreciate it in theory, in the same way I appreciate people who meditate every morning or remember to stretch after a workout. Good for them. Couldn’t be me.
Which is a little ridiculous, considering that I am chronically tightly wound, both physically and otherwise, and probably the exact person who stands to benefit from yoga’s restorative and meditative qualities.
Lately, though, I’ve been feeling the effects of being so strained and figured I should probably do something about it, even if that meant revisiting an activity I’ve never particularly enjoyed.
While reconsidering the yoga classes in my winter conditioning program, I came across a Sunday evening offering called “Roll + Restore,” which promised gentle movement, myofascial release, deep stretching, and extended rest. Basically, a therapeutic massage disguised as yoga. “Extended rest” sounded especially promising. I signed up.
I arrived, got settled on my mat, and heard the instructor say, “OK, for the next 75 minutes…”
Seventy-five minutes.
Somehow, I’d missed that detail when I registered. An hour and fifteen minutes of yoga. My nightmare. I pictured an eternity of downward dogs, uncomfortable poses, and silently counting the minutes until I could leave. I eyed the exit and assessed how many Gumby-people I would have to slip by to reach the door. I was trapped.
Accepting my fate and recalling the promise of extended rest as my anchor, I stretched out on my mat as class got started. With my hands stretched overhead and my toes pointed in the opposite direction, I took the suggested deep breaths to begin my practice, and almost immediately, I started crying.
Not sobbing, please, don’t embarrass me. Just a few silent tears, seemingly out of nowhere.
And I let them come.
We spent almost the entire class lying down or sitting, using blocks, straps, and lacrosse balls to work through tight muscles and connective tissue. It was marvelous. There was gentle stretching, self-massage, and lots of being still. My heart rate barely moved. There was no sweating, no pushing, no feeling like I should be better at any of it. Nobody asked me to hold my body in a position that made me want to crawl out of my skin.
We returned to savasana, the resting pose typically reserved for the end of yoga class, between exercises, and a few more tears came.
I couldn’t quite explain the crying, so I naturally Googled it when I got to my car. (Where I cried some more.)
Turns out, it’s a thing.
As Carrie Havranek reported for Outside’s sister publication Yoga Journal, crying during yoga isn’t particularly unusual, and it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re sad. The relationship between breath, physical relaxation, and emotional release isn’t fully understood, but sometimes slowing down brings up feelings we can’t quite explain.
Which was reassuring, because I wasn’t particularly sad. Nothing dramatic had happened. I think I was simply surprised by how unfamiliar, even uncomfortable, it felt to finally slow down, both in mind and body. And how good it felt once I did. I was simply lying on the floor of a yoga studio, pressing a lacrosse ball into my hip, having what I can only describe as a really lovely time watching the sun set over the Wasatch Mountains in the distance.
I spend a lot of time moving my body in and around those mountains, skiing, hiking, and biking. I love it, especially when there’s a destination, a challenge, or something to accomplish. And I’ve gotten pretty good at recognizing when my body needs more training to keep doing those things. I’m less practiced at recognizing when my body, or my brain for that matter, might need a break.
Maybe that’s what made this class feel so good. For 75 minutes, there was nothing to achieve. No reps, no miles, no pace, nothing to figure out or get better at. I didn’t even have to be good at yoga.
I could just lie there, really. And somehow, 75 minutes didn’t feel long enough.
Before bed that night, I signed up for the same class for the next four weeks. And if you hear me blubbering in the corner next week, no, you didn’t.
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