Yoga Meets Us Where We Are
A friend recently commented that “yoga meets us where we are,”
and though I’ve heard it before, I was struck by how that has proven true for
me again and again on my journey.
In college, I took a core yoga class at the gym and my
favorite part -in fact, the only part I enjoyed- was the end when we would lie
on the floor beside our stability ball, and the instructor would talk us
through breathing the tension out of each part of our body. The class was early
in the day, and I would often be almost asleep by the end of the relaxation.
Before I even knew the lingo, I was “only there for the Savasana.”
Over the next decade, I would dip my toes into yoga, but the
habit never really stuck. When I was pregnant with E, I tried some prenatal
yoga DVDs because I knew how good they would be for me - making labor easier,
keeping my body healthier. In truth, I usually only got about fifteen minutes
in before the sticky sweet “soothing” voice of the instructor would send me
running for the hills.
When E was a toddler, a new yoga studio opened a half hour
from home. Some of my friends started going to classes, and I wanted desperately
to join, but there were so many reasons I couldn’t. Thinking about care for E
was daunting – with travel time, the investment would have been several hours
each time I went to a class. Finances were a concern. And honestly, a part of
me was scared of yoga, partly because I had tried it and hadn’t been ready for
it, partly because the fairly recent trauma I was still (and am still)
overcoming was looming over my head. Yoga had gotten tangled up in that trauma
and the resulting stress, and thinking about practicing yoga gave me some
anxiety. I knew yoga could be another avenue to emotional healing, but what if
the trauma link actually made the anxiety worse?

At this point, little e was very little, and very attached. I
had never left her for more than about an hour, so travelling thirty minutes
for a two hour yoga class was out of the question. And then, a whisper came. A
new studio, eight minutes from my front door. Led by someone who was an emotional
safe zone for me, who understood my complex trauma link with the practice. I
threw myself into the preparation of the space. I got to know the walls and the
floor and the energy of the space intimately before I ever rolled out my mat. I
made it my yoga home. And for nearly a year, I took in everything I could about
yoga, going beyond the poses and into the breathe, the philosophy, the energy
and the quiet. And for nearly a year, I was happy. I had broken down that
trauma link. I had made yoga my own. But then, it didn’t feel like enough. I wanted to squeeze every detail out of classes.
I wanted to know why things were put in a certain order, what did all the
Sanskrit mean, what more did the practice hold for me.


But suddenly, there it was. A distance training option with a
school that was Yoga Alliance certified. The ability to get personal insurance
with the credentials the school gives. A self-led, immersive training that was
run by instructors who also grant the industry standard credential – the RYT200.
This distance option wouldn’t give me the same credentials as an in-person
training, but it would satisfy my need to learn more, go further, squeeze more
out of yoga. And the course was in my budget. Many other distance learning
programs had priced me out before I even got a chance to look at the
curriculum.

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