I Went to Yoga Expecting to Hate It. I Didn’t Expect to Cry.

With two torn and repaired ACLs behind me and my late thirties approaching, my body has made it clear that doing the activity is no longer adequate preparation for doing said activity. If I want to enjoy ski season, I need to put in some work before the lifts start spinning. I also know myself well enough to understand that I respond better to the stick than the carrot when it comes to exercise accountability.

So, for the third year in a row, I’ve signed up for a five-week winter conditioning program at a studio near my home in Salt Lake City. Three mornings a week, I’m there at 7 A.M. for a mix of weightlifting, squats, lunges, core work, and cardio intervals designed to get me and my fellow victims classmates ready for skiing, which is arguably the majority of my personality. The five-week Winter Conditioning program at Seek Studio also includes an optional weekly yoga class of our choosing, which, for the third year in a row, I had planned to ignore.

A couple of years ago, I tried a yoga class called “The Fix,” chosen specifically because it was the shortest available and promised upbeat music, high energy, and nothing too heady. I figured if I was going to do yoga, I might as well choose the version that sounded the least like yoga. I went once, thought it was fine enough, I guess, and didn’t go back.

My relationship with yoga has been a smattering of intermittent classes over the years, sporadic at best. I’ve tried studios, online classes at home, and various versions of convincing myself that this time I’ll get into it. One of my earliest attempts came just after college, when I moved to Los Angeles and signed up for an introductory hot yoga package.

I thought it sounded like a nice way to sweat out the toxins of city life and all that communing in standstill traffic on the 405. I showed up to my first class in leggings and a tank top, side-eyeing everyone else in their skimpiest outfits. Was being nearly naked really necessary?

These people knew something I didn’t: we were about to sweat an absolutely obscene amount. I spent the next hour slipping all over my mat, struggling to keep up, and generally having a terrible time. I left with the beginnings of a migraine so intense that I had to pull over on the 5 near Santa Monica, several miles from home, for a 15-minute emergency nap.