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I sat scrunched in my black Jetta, waiting and watching as lithe white women walked past me, phones in a single hand and Hydro Flasks in the opposite. I saw only slender women with exposed abdomens. I made note of their crisscrossed black tanks and compression leggings. Then I looked down at my loose black Ruth Bader Ginsberg t-shirt and Goal leggings, feeling uncomfortable.

I used to be parked outside the yoga studio where I’d signed up for my first-ever, in-person beginner’s yoga class. The dashboard read 102 degrees, not bearing in mind Central Florida’s humidity, while I sat there for quarter-hour, sweating and crying and wanting to see someone whose body took up space like mine.

My phone pinged. It was a text from my therapist. “Just breathe”—punctuated with a red heart emoji. She knew me and my anxiety well; the three of us had been in a relationship for nearly a decade. At any time when I used to be about to do something outside my comfort zone, something monumental that I actually wanted as one other type of healing—like this yoga class—she would note the day and time and send me a fast therapeutic reminder that I’m stronger than I give myself credit for.

Mustering strength and optimism, I got out of the automobile. I convinced myself that the yoga teacher would normalize the differences all of us hold in our bodies and create a welcoming community, one which I’d need to return to each Saturday. I trusted that, if people truly went to yoga seeking something, I’d fit right in. After taking an enormous inhalation and an excellent greater exhalation, I went inside.

My expectations versus my reality

For many of my adult life, there was shame attached to how I see my body, its physicalities, and its limitations. Finally, I felt able to rewrite my default narrative of self-effacement. I saw it as a step toward self-love. Yoga was going to be one other a part of my therapeutic process.

But as soon as I stood in that pristine lobby with women who looked so alike—and so unlike me—I began to default to my old internal narrative. Comparing myself to other women’s appearances and talents is something I’m quite good at. My BMI was not less than twice those of the opposite women. Although I took pride in my flexibility (I could guide my left leg behind my head!), I knew from my at-home attempts at yoga that I struggled with even the essential Warrior poses due to my poor balance and injuries to my back, ankles, and knees.

I had hoped that my off-screen yoga experience would start with learning the best way to ground my feet and find some balance. Then, inside just a few classes, I’d graduate to “relaxing the shoulders down,” as I’d heard in my online classes, since I carry a lot of my anxiety in my shoulders.

The early 20-something instructor—also a skinny, able-bodied woman in an ab-baring cropped tank —prioritized the physical poses and offered no example of variations. There was limited emphasis on pranayama. As a substitute, she urged us to  “tighten this” and “extend that.” I kept quietly inhaling with regular confidence that she would come over and redirect my body into something that felt safer and more achievable for my wobbly frame, easing my racing thoughts and pending tears.

When that didn’t occur, I began to panic. My negative self-talk hindered my ability to listen to or take a look at anything or anyone else within the room. I got here down onto my mat and remained in Child’s Pose until class was over.

I had intentionally chosen this instructor’s class due to its description: “Beginner-friendly, moderate vigor (no yoga experience needed).” Every word of this sounded supportive. But the teacher never acknowledged me or asked if I used to be okay, even when it was clear I used to be not. I left offended that she had unconsciously validated my shame.

That was 4 years ago.  I even have not returned to a different in-person yoga class.

My struggle with accepting myself

I’ve at all times struggled with existing in an chubby body. I experience privilege due to my whiteness. Nevertheless, as a queer woman with invisible disabilities, I even have a familiarity with being othered. My collection of mental illnesses—chronic anxiety disorder, OCD, and depression—take a toll on my quality of life. For this reason, my therapist suggested yoga might offer some reprieve. I believed her.

I had recently admitted to my wife that I yearned to reconnect with my body. She wanted this release for me, too. She couldn’t understand my shame. It made her sad. “You might be so beautiful,” she said. “I like every thing about your body. Your creativity, intelligence, and grit. How deeply you’re feeling things. How much you take care of others. I wish you can give yourself that very same care and love.”

I wish that for myself, too. So I turned to yoga searching for peace of mind and ease in my body. I wasn’t trying to change my body for aesthetic reasons. I used to be focused on my mental and physical health and longevity.

Othering has no place in learning

Before I attended the category, just a few of my friends assured me that I’d feel more relaxed once I used to be on the mat. They understood, as students and teachers of yoga, the responsibility of an instructor to satisfy every person where they’re, especially in classes with yoga’s foundations as their focus.

Acutely talented instructors exist in every single place. I even know some personally. I expected my teacher to be cognizant of what it means to create a category that honors all bodies.

It’s no different than once I taught starting writing on the University of Central Florida. I used to be answerable for instructing students with various abilities, identities, and histories. “Difference” was welcomed and desired in my classroom. I took pride in fostering a way of belonging.

Yes, there are some instructors whose pedagogies and practices fail to acknowledge the responsibility of embracing diversity of their classrooms. This reality makes me sad. Students might leave the writing classroom believing their unique voices are  not valued. Teachers must know what’s at stake if their ways of teaching and their content don’t represent the needs of all students. The identical goes for yoga instructors.

Bringing all of it together

The word “yoga” means “yoke,” or “to bring together.” It feels essential to the very definition of yoga that each one bodies and talents are capable of come together in a yoga space and feel safely seen and heard.

Nevertheless it’s clear that there are teachers who lack the knowledge, concern, and awareness of what everyone means. It’s not clear that they understand the damage done by their lack of awareness.

The blame shouldn’t be placed squarely on the instructors themselves. Some may lack the vital training around the best way to hold space for all of their students. Teaching the tenets of accessibility in just 200 hours of coaching seems unrealistic. Perhaps my expectations that a firm understanding of inclusivity within the studio is somewhat unrealistic given a limited amount of basic training required for yoga teachers.

What exactly does inclusivity appear like?

I’ve seen arguments that a “plus size” yoga class is required in every studio so “all bodies” may very well be seen and receive support. I reply to this with an issue: Is it flawed or unrealistic to expect yoga teachers to see all bodies and identities and wish to assist them?

Most marginalized groups already contend with a cultural climate that fosters exclusion. To me, separation mirrors more othering. Such practices would only exacerbate the issue. What I want is  a yoga instructor who values every type of bodies and talents within the classroom.

I’m in search of someone who can create a transformative practice that honors my very own unique body and mind. I need an instructor who can gently guide me through yogic respiratory and various accessible poses. I don’t want special treatment. Just a fast adjustment and a sense that I matter, too.

After all, slender bodies belong in a yoga room. But so do other bodies—all types of bodies. That’s the issue:  “Everyone” all too often doesn’t truly equate to inclusivity. If we students don’t advocate for our own bodies to be rooted in inclusivity, who will?

My yoga story continues

It’s the second week of the brand new yr. My anxiety is getting worse, and I’m uninterested in feeling unwell. I want movement. My therapist is emphatic that I want to seek out one other yoga community because most days I still operate in line with the three-word Covid mantra, “Just stay home.”

I feel isolated. I don’t need to hide in my automobile again. I need to reclaim my mental and physical health. I need to feel strong and loved once I finally ease into Warrior I. And I also need to feel supported.

Perhaps sooner or later I’ll begin my in-studio yoga practice again. Until then, I’ll remain on Zoom.

About our contributor

Ali Smith is a nonfiction author, educator, freelance editor, and lifelong learner. Her advocacy work focuses on mental health awareness and addressing equity issues in education. Currently, she is working on a group of creative nonfiction essays surrounding memory, loss, identity, the body as “home,” healing, and growing up in Central Florida. Her weekly Mindful Writing Workshop class and swimming are her church. Always seeking community, she is returning to in-person yoga very soon. Follow her at @a.denee_light_bright.