The Day My Yoga Spot Was Taken
For months, I practiced in the same corner of the room. Upper left. Right by the door.
It wasn't random.
I was in survival mode. From the outside, I was functioning — showing up, doing what needed to be done. But inside, I was just trying to get through the day.
That season, I started practicing hot yoga every morning at 9 a.m. — a ninety-minute Hatha series. Same class. Same routine. Same spot.
I didn't go to socialize. I barely spoke to anyone. I didn't make eye contact or linger in the locker room. I came in, laid down my mat, and tried to get through those ninety minutes.
Always in the upper left-hand corner. Right by the door.
I think I chose that spot because somewhere in my mind, I believed that if things got too overwhelming, I could step outside and breathe. The door often opened halfway through class, and that small bit of air felt reassuring.
Everything about my routine was rigid. I knew exactly how much water to drink before class, which towel to bring, what I needed just to make it through.
Then one day, my spot was taken.
I panicked. For a moment, I genuinely didn't know what to do. I even considered leaving.
But I didn't.
I moved to the back corner of the room.
Nothing dramatic happened that day. I simply practiced. But something small shifted inside me.
Another day, I moved to a different spot. Then another time, across the room. Eventually, to the other side.
And slowly — over time — I stopped panicking when someone was in the space I had believed was "mine."
Something else began to change too.
Someone would say hello, and eventually I would say hello back. Faces became familiar. The room felt friendlier. The practice felt less intimidating.
I grew stronger — not just physically, but emotionally.
Today, I practice in the front row, right in the center.
Not because I'm trying to prove anything. Because that's where I feel most comfortable.
There was a time when I couldn't look at myself in the mirror during practice. I would avoid my reflection completely — as if I couldn't really see myself.
Now I need the mirror. I watch my alignment. I use my reflection to find balance and space. I take up my small place on the mat and feel at peace there.
Now I say hello to everyone. I talk with people before and after class. The studio has become a safe space — somewhere I can simply be.
And I don't always practice in the same place anymore. Sometimes I take different classes, move around the room, change things up just for the joy of it.
Looking back, I also realize this: even though I arrived quietly and kept mostly to myself, I wasn't walking through that season alone.
There were voices in that room that helped guide me — through the practice, and through that time in my life.
Jamie's calm voice.
Kate's strong, steady energy.
Nicole's powerful presence.
Jesse's quiet strength and warm friendship.
And so many others along the way — too many to name.
They were yoga teachers, yes. But over time, they became something more. Mentors, in their own way. People who helped me see life through the lens of yoga, patience, and friendship.
Sometimes healing doesn't come from one big moment.
Sometimes it comes from showing up in a room where people quietly hold space for you — even when they don't realize how much they're helping.
Those ninety minutes became more than a practice.
They became moving meditations. Moments of quiet rebuilding. A place where I could begin to see myself again.
Healing rarely happens in dramatic leaps.
Sometimes it begins with something as small as moving your mat.