"Yoga, Babe..."
Early 2015. I'd just come back to work after a week off, when my right hip was aching so intensely that I'd booked tail to immediate care for cortisone shots, a scrip for pain meds, and a doctor's order to stay off my feet. I'd gone on at length about my old lady hips to a group of my co-workers as we set up holiday window displays, and one of them, a yoga teacher of 20 years, insisted that "yoga, babe" was the answer to all my bodily dysfunction.
I had dealt with occasional pain in that hip for years. I remember lots of nights in my mid-to-late-twenties when I had to sleep with a pillow between my legs to ease the discomfort, usually after long hikes. I assumed the pain had something to do with the fact that I had hip dysplasia on that side as a baby and wore a brace to correct it throughout my entire first year as an earthling, putting me at risk for early onset arthritis (or so I was told). Because I was convinced that my hip pain was entirely due to the dysplasia, I'd more or less concluded that there wasn't much I could do to improve my situation.
So when my co-worker suggested that practicing yoga would help me, I looked at him like he was sprouting tentacles. Nevermind that he was a licensed body worker with decades of experience. Nevermind that chronic pain was the reason he turned to yoga in the first place and it transformed his life. Nevermind the fact that I was, at that time, well over 200 lbs and could certainly benefit from moving more. Nevermind the fact that, aside from my impromptu trip to the doctor for some glorified Tylenol, I'd done absolutely nothing to get to the root of the problem.
Nevermind all of that. Without blinking an eye, I turned to him and was like "Nah."
It wasn't just that I was resistant to the suggestion of yoga...I actually remember being downright offended that this man thought he knew how to fix me, that he thought he had answers. After all, I had a doctor's note that I'd interpreted as "Don't move. Moving is bad." I'd been active in the past and still had rickety hips, therefore in my opinion, exercise was so obviously not the answer. This dude--yoga teacher or not--had no clue what he was talking about when it came to my hips! DUH. How dare he?!
Fast forward two years, when I took to the mat per the recommendations of my therapist. My anxiety had grown to the point where I was having trouble doing simple things like taking a shower or getting out of bed. By then, not only were both my hips in horrible condition (I'd begun leaning on my left side to favor the right), but my wrists were so weak that I could hardly move them without hearing loud cracking noises. I was still working as a visual coordinator, and a few months earlier had to leave work in actual tears because I hurt my wrist while moving a stack of dinner plates. Thinking about that now actually makes me chuckle. Because for real, who TF gets injured putting away dishes???
My physical condition was so garbage that I was skeptical to even attempt yoga for mental health purposes, much less physical. In hindsight, I can see my skepticism for what it was: pure intimidation. But I begrudgingly pulled out the mat, expecting very little. Yoga was simply a last-ditch attempt to regain some sanity--an assignment from a therapist. Nothing more, nothing less. Needless to say, I was shook when yoga started helping, but that's a story that's already been told.
Then all of the sudden, I started dropping weight and listening to my body's cues as far as nutrition was concerned. My sleep schedule normalized itself. My wrists didn't hurt on a daily basis and I was actually able to hold poses like downward dog and plank without wincing in pain. And I'll be good gosh darned, my hips were all of the sudden able to bear weight again. I could fall asleep on my side body and not wake up an hour later unable to move. I quit needing to prop my legs up with pillows all the time. If I went for a walk, I wasn't disabled after half a mile. I could physically feel stress releasing itself from my hips when I practiced, which, man...that one was a real trip for me to wrap my head around. I had zero expectations physically, and still, all these little shifts were occurring.
The transformations that took place over one summer were so intense that there were points where I truly had to ask myself if any of it was real. My anxiety became manageable for the first time ever. I could hear, feel, and respond to my body in so many ways. It felt--pardon the cliche--legitimately magical, almost as if there were no effort involved. After so many years of being miserable and in pain, the fog began to lift. It had me wondering aloud, What the heck is happening? What's this witchcraft? What's this sorcery?
Those questions, of course, were rhetorical, as the answer was right in front of my face all along.
"Yoga, babe."
I had dealt with occasional pain in that hip for years. I remember lots of nights in my mid-to-late-twenties when I had to sleep with a pillow between my legs to ease the discomfort, usually after long hikes. I assumed the pain had something to do with the fact that I had hip dysplasia on that side as a baby and wore a brace to correct it throughout my entire first year as an earthling, putting me at risk for early onset arthritis (or so I was told). Because I was convinced that my hip pain was entirely due to the dysplasia, I'd more or less concluded that there wasn't much I could do to improve my situation.
So when my co-worker suggested that practicing yoga would help me, I looked at him like he was sprouting tentacles. Nevermind that he was a licensed body worker with decades of experience. Nevermind that chronic pain was the reason he turned to yoga in the first place and it transformed his life. Nevermind the fact that I was, at that time, well over 200 lbs and could certainly benefit from moving more. Nevermind the fact that, aside from my impromptu trip to the doctor for some glorified Tylenol, I'd done absolutely nothing to get to the root of the problem.
Nevermind all of that. Without blinking an eye, I turned to him and was like "Nah."
It wasn't just that I was resistant to the suggestion of yoga...I actually remember being downright offended that this man thought he knew how to fix me, that he thought he had answers. After all, I had a doctor's note that I'd interpreted as "Don't move. Moving is bad." I'd been active in the past and still had rickety hips, therefore in my opinion, exercise was so obviously not the answer. This dude--yoga teacher or not--had no clue what he was talking about when it came to my hips! DUH. How dare he?!
Fast forward two years, when I took to the mat per the recommendations of my therapist. My anxiety had grown to the point where I was having trouble doing simple things like taking a shower or getting out of bed. By then, not only were both my hips in horrible condition (I'd begun leaning on my left side to favor the right), but my wrists were so weak that I could hardly move them without hearing loud cracking noises. I was still working as a visual coordinator, and a few months earlier had to leave work in actual tears because I hurt my wrist while moving a stack of dinner plates. Thinking about that now actually makes me chuckle. Because for real, who TF gets injured putting away dishes???
My physical condition was so garbage that I was skeptical to even attempt yoga for mental health purposes, much less physical. In hindsight, I can see my skepticism for what it was: pure intimidation. But I begrudgingly pulled out the mat, expecting very little. Yoga was simply a last-ditch attempt to regain some sanity--an assignment from a therapist. Nothing more, nothing less. Needless to say, I was shook when yoga started helping, but that's a story that's already been told.
Then all of the sudden, I started dropping weight and listening to my body's cues as far as nutrition was concerned. My sleep schedule normalized itself. My wrists didn't hurt on a daily basis and I was actually able to hold poses like downward dog and plank without wincing in pain. And I'll be good gosh darned, my hips were all of the sudden able to bear weight again. I could fall asleep on my side body and not wake up an hour later unable to move. I quit needing to prop my legs up with pillows all the time. If I went for a walk, I wasn't disabled after half a mile. I could physically feel stress releasing itself from my hips when I practiced, which, man...that one was a real trip for me to wrap my head around. I had zero expectations physically, and still, all these little shifts were occurring.
The transformations that took place over one summer were so intense that there were points where I truly had to ask myself if any of it was real. My anxiety became manageable for the first time ever. I could hear, feel, and respond to my body in so many ways. It felt--pardon the cliche--legitimately magical, almost as if there were no effort involved. After so many years of being miserable and in pain, the fog began to lift. It had me wondering aloud, What the heck is happening? What's this witchcraft? What's this sorcery?
Those questions, of course, were rhetorical, as the answer was right in front of my face all along.
"Yoga, babe."
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