I didn’t wake up one morning and decide I’d become someone who does yoga. It wasn’t a grand plan. If you’d met me five years ago, you’d probably describe me as the type of person least likely to enjoy it. Always rushing. Always stressed. The idea of slowing down or sitting still felt, quite honestly, like a waste of time. But life has a way of nudging you — gently at first, and then with a full-on shove.
It all started with a really bad week. I’d just come off a string of back-to-back meetings at work, I’d barely slept, and I was snapping at people who didn’t deserve it. My shoulders were tight, I had constant headaches, and my mood was in the gutter. My best friend, who’s always been one of those peaceful, glowy types, said, “You need yoga.” I rolled my eyes so hard I might’ve pulled a muscle.
But she dragged me to a class — a quiet little studio tucked between a charity shop and a bakery on a side street in Brighton. It smelled like lavender and wood polish, and the floorboards creaked when you stepped on them. The instructor had this calm, soft voice and the kind of posture that makes you sit up straighter just looking at her.
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That first class? Let me tell you — I hated it. Everything ached. I couldn’t touch my toes. I was dizzy in downward dog. And when she told us to “breathe into our hips,” I honestly didn’t know what that meant. I felt silly. Out of place. Like everyone knew some secret, I didn’t.
But something strange happened when I walked out. For the first time in months, my shoulders weren’t up by my ears. My breathing felt slower. My thoughts weren’t racing like they usually did. I didn’t love the class, but I loved how I felt after.
So I went again.
And again.
I started with one class a week. Then two. Then three. Somewhere around the two-month mark, something shifted. I wasn’t just doing the poses — I was noticing things. The way I held tension in my jaw. How my breath shortened when I was worried. How different my body felt when I moved with kindness instead of pushing it like a machine.
Yoga started spilling into other areas of my life. I was more patient at work. I stopped skipping lunch to answer emails. I began to walk more instead of driving everywhere. I even drank less coffee — not because I had to, but because I didn’t need the jolt anymore.
One of the biggest changes, though, was emotional. I’ve always struggled with anxiety. The kind that simmers under the surface, making you overthink every conversation or replay mistakes from ten years ago. But yoga gave me a way to quiet that. Not instantly — nothing works like magic — but gradually. With every session, I felt like I was peeling off layers of noise I didn’t realise I was carrying.
One class, during savasana — that bit at the end where you just lie there and do absolutely nothing — I cried. Not big, dramatic sobs, just a quiet stream of tears. I didn’t even know why. But it felt like something had let go. A tight knot I’d been holding in my chest without realising.
After that, I stopped treating yoga like just another workout. It became something deeper. A kind of moving meditation. A way to check in with myself — not just physically, but mentally. Some days I’d show up to the mat feeling tired and heavy. Other days I was full of energy. But yoga taught me to meet myself where I was, without trying to fix or change anything.
I started reading more about it — not the super spiritual stuff that made me feel out of my depth, but the real stories. People who’d turned to yoga after heartbreak, loss, and burnout. I saw bits of myself in all of them.
Eventually, I found myself on a retreat in Cornwall, spending four days doing yoga by the sea, eating simple meals, and walking barefoot on the grass. I never thought I’d be “that person,” but I was. And it felt right.
Now, yoga is part of my life. Not in an obsessive way — I don’t wake up at 5 am or chant under waterfalls. I’m still me. I still get stressed. I still binge-watch telly and forget to drink enough water. But I’ve got this anchor now. A way to come back to myself when things get loud.
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And look, I’m not saying yoga fixes everything. It doesn’t. But it gave me something I didn’t know I needed: space. Space to breathe, to feel, to be okay with not being okay. It helped me treat myself with a little more care, and that’s no small thing.
So yeah, yoga changed my life. Not in a “quit my job and moved to Bali” kind of way. More like — I can sit still now. I can take a breath before reacting. I can face hard days without falling apart. And for me, that’s huge.
If you’ve ever thought yoga wasn’t for you, I get it. I do. But maybe — just maybe — it’s exactly what you need.
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