I didn’t start yoga to “find myself.” I started yoga because I was emotionally constipated, spiritually bankrupt, and physically tight in places I didn’t know existed until I tried touching my toes in front of strangers.

I was burnt out. Not in the glamorous, “I’m so busy and important” kind of way, but in the sad, slightly greasy way — where you cry in the car because a podcast ad was too emotional. I didn’t want enlightenment. I just wanted to stop feeling like I was one missed email away from collapsing in a Walgreens.

Enter: yoga. Or more specifically, a $12 Groupon for six intro classes at a studio that smelled faintly of eucalyptus and regret.

Everyone in that first class seemed to float — effortless, glowing, all seemingly born with bendy hamstrings and inner peace. I, on the other hand, spent most of the session sweating through my Target leggings and pretending I wasn’t mad that “Child’s Pose” hurt my ankles.

Expectation: Inner Peace. Reality: Internal Screaming.

I wanted yoga to be a tranquil escape. Instead, it was a 60-minute confrontation with myself. There was no Spotify playlist. No podcast. No “productive multitasking.” Just me, and my body, and a whole lot of feelings I’d been successfully ignoring for years.

It turns out that when you strip away the distractions — when you just breathe and move and listen — a lot of weird stuff bubbles up. Like how angry you get when someone tells you to “soften your jaw.” Or how much tension you hold in your hips. Or how deeply, desperately you want to be good at things.

Yoga didn’t calm me. It *irritated* me. It made me itchy in my own skin. It made me face how obsessed I was with doing everything "right." And — worst of all — it made me feel things. Big, uncomfortable, wet-face-in-savasana feelings.

The Shift (Spoiler: It Wasn’t Pretty)

Somewhere around class nine, I stopped performing. I stopped looking around the room. I stopped sucking in my stomach on every exhale. I started moving slower. Breathing louder. Shaking more — not less.

I don’t know exactly when it happened, but one day I realized: I wasn’t trying to win yoga anymore. I was just trying to meet myself — exactly as I was that day. Tight hamstrings, spinning thoughts, awkward wobbling and all.

And holy hell, was that freeing.

What Yoga Gave Me (That I Didn't Ask For)

Yoga didn’t make me calm. But it made me honest.

It gave me a space where I didn’t have to be funny or smart or productive. It gave me moments — sometimes just seconds — where I wasn’t criticizing myself. It showed me how much I overthink, overgive, overexert — and under-rest.

It’s still hard. I still have days where I fight with my mat like it personally insulted me. But I keep coming back. Not because I want to be better — but because I want to be real.

Final Thought

If you’re new to yoga and wondering when the bliss kicks in — don’t hold your breath. (Actually, do. Just, like, slowly and with intention.)

Let it be weird. Let it be frustrating. Let it be ugly. Breathe through your gritted teeth. Cry during hip openers. Curse your own inflexibility. It’s all part of it.

You don’t have to become a peaceful person to do yoga. But if you stick with it, you might just become a more honest one.