There are two types of people who do yoga: the ones who glow with inner peace, bend like human pretzels, and sip green tea after class while discussing mindfulness, and then there’s me—a person whose body was not designed to fold in half and whose brain only understands chaos.
But I live in Spain now. A new life, a new me, a new commitment to being the kind of person who does healthy things instead of just saying she will.
So when my friend suggested a yoga class at a fancy studio in the city, I thought, Yes. This is my moment.
It was not my moment.
Phase One: False Hope and Denial
It started well enough. The studio smelled like eucalyptus. Everyone was calm, barefoot, and radiating that unsettling level of serenity that makes you wonder if they’re part of a cult.
The instructor, a woman with cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass, welcomed us in Spanish with a voice that sounded like she was permanently on the verge of a deep, spiritual sigh.
I nodded along as if I understood anything she was saying.
Then I saw the mats.
Thin. Too thin. Not even a hint of cushioning. A prison cot has more padding than these mats.
This was my first warning. I ignored it.
Phase Two: The Immediate Physical Betrayal
Five minutes in, I was sweating.
Ten minutes in, I was rethinking my entire existence.
Fifteen minutes in, I was trying to make a mental list of which friendships in my life were toxic, because whoever convinced me to do this was now my enemy.
Meanwhile, the rest of the class was gracefully transitioning from pose to pose like elegant, whispering swans. I was violently shaking in downward dog, wondering if my arms were going to give out and send me face-first into the hardwood floor.
Then came warrior pose.
Now, on paper, warrior pose seems simple. Feet apart, arms out, looking majestic. In reality, it’s a squat disguised as a power stance, and my thighs were not on board.
I could feel my muscles screaming in betrayal.
The instructor floated over, her peaceful aura directly mocking my suffering. She pressed down on my back, gently correcting my posture.
Everything cracked.
Not in a good way. In a “this is how people die” way.
She nodded approvingly. “Sí, muy bien.”
It was not bien.
Phase Three: The Moment I Considered Faking an Injury
Halfway through the class, we moved to something called ‘crow pose.’
If you don’t know what crow pose is, it’s essentially a cruel joke disguised as a yoga move.
You balance your entire body on your hands, with your knees on your elbows, defying both gravity and common sense.
I watched the woman next to me float into the pose like it was nothing.
I attempted it.
What happened next can only be described as a controlled crash.
I got halfway up before realizing my arms had the structural integrity of cooked spaghetti. My knees slipped, my balance disappeared, and I collapsed forward in slow motion.
And because the universe hates me, I fell directly onto my water bottle, which let out a sad little squeak as I crushed it beneath me.
The entire class heard it.
I lay there, face down on my mat, contemplating whether or not I should just stay there forever.
Phase Four: The Spiritual Defeat
Finally, we reached shavasana—the part where you just lie down and pretend to be peaceful.
The instructor dimmed the lights. Soft music played. Everyone was breathing deeply, floating in their own personal Zen.
I was trying not to cry.
My body was broken. My soul was shattered. My water bottle was dead.
And yet, somehow, I knew that the worst part of all of this was that I would do it again.
Because that’s the thing about yoga. It doesn’t care that you’re terrible at it. It just waits for you to return, weaker, humbler, still lying to yourself that next time will be different.
So, anyway.
I signed up for yoga to find inner peace.
What I found was a deep hatred for my own lack of flexibility and an instructor who looked like she knew all my secrets.
I’m going back next week.
I don’t know why.
