Although I now had the stuffed Kali by my side, she was no replacement for the real version, the one who used to follow me from room to room, never more than a few feet away. So my yoga mat became my new companion, and we were glued at the hip. No matter where I went — from my bedroom to the front yard, to the office or IOP — it was always under my arm, just in case I needed a moment.
It wasn’t just any mat. It was my mat. A deep purple Manduka I’d had for five years, worn-in and worldly, like an old friend that had traveled the globe with me. But my journey with yoga began way before this mat entered my life. It began before I ever considered myself part of the fitness world, before I knew that movement could mean something more.
Growing up, exercise wasn’t part of my identity. I played soccer, and tried freshman softball. But after getting cut from both the swim team and volleyball, I gave up. I didn’t see the point.
My best friend at the time would go to the gym with her mom. I never understood why a sixteen-year-old girl needed to work out. Her mom struggled with anorexia, so my friend grew up in an environment where thinness was the goal. I had a fast metabolism, and my body never changed much, so I never thought about working out.
My mom, on the other hand, used to spend two-plus hours on the treadmill in our living room, sweating to be skinny. That was the message I absorbed: you exercised if you hated your body, not if you loved it.
At NYU, I started to understand the desire to be skinny. It was part of the party girl lifestyle. The thinner girls got the attention. They cut the lines. They got invited into the bathroom stalls for bumps. I didn’t work out. I just ate less. And the cocaine helped.
I didn’t yet understand that movement could be medicine.
For my body, or my mind.
That started to change during the spring of my freshman year. A friend invited me to a yoga class. I don’t know what made me say yes, but I did. And that yes changed my life.
She brought me to Yoga to the People, a studio on St. Marks Place, a gritty stretch of the East Village with tattoo shops, street vendors, and dive bars. It was just ten minutes from my dorm, a straight walk across Washington Square Park.
Classes were donation-based (pay what you could) which made it perfect for broke college students. There was always a line out front. A volunteer stood at the door, ushering people to one of two studios. You could bring your own mat or rent one for $2. I always brought mine. Partly for cleanliness, but mostly for energy.
There were no phones. No talking. Just cubbies in the back and strangers rolling their mats out edge to edge, barely enough space to breathe. It felt like the New York City subway version of a yoga class.
I always set up second row from the front, right side, next to the brick wall. That became my spot.
As I sat there for the first time, I looked around at this rainbow mosaic of people, different shapes, colors, stories, all ready to move and breathe at the same time.
It wasn’t just a workout. It was a ritual.
Class started. I stumbled. But it didn’t matter. I was breathing. I was alive. Sweat poured from my temples. The instructor led us through poses I didn’t recognize, but I followed. I listened. I tried.
And then came savasana.
My body, heavy and emptied. My mind, clear and quiet.
Eyes closed. Floating.
For the first time in my life, I felt peace.
I was hooked.
Every day I’d make the walk across the park, from the West side to the East, to move and breathe and sweat alongside strangers who felt more like soulmates.
That was my first entry into movement.
And unknowingly, into movement as therapy.
Luckily for me, I had a session with Jen again first thing this morning. Instead of heading to the group therapy room, I turned right into the main office, yoga mat tucked under my arm like armor. I set it down off to the side. I didn’t need it for comfort when I was with Jen.
I curled into the couch. Jen walked in, all softness and space. Her presence made you feel like everything heavy could finally be put down.
“How was your night, sweetie?” she asked, already smiling.
I told her about the stuffed Kali and how I’d jumped the fence to go on a run that morning.
She raised her eyebrows but laughed. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
Then she tilted her head slightly, shifting into that therapist mode I was learning to recognize.
“Now that we’re on the topic of working out... I’ve been meaning to ask. What does it really mean to be a Nike Master Trainer?”
I smirked. I got this question all the time.
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