The journey to the mat

My yoga stride has eluded me ever since I moved and switched studios. It’s the same “chain”, but a different location and different teachers. In my old studio, there was the yoga bully. The man I openly hated, but secretly loved when he cranked up the Snoop Dogg and demanded just one. more. flow.

After five years of practice, the yoga bully gave me Vinyasa. And I loved it.

It had been a long road to it, though.

There was a kidney transplant, followed by months of recovery.

There was a yoga DVD — bought as a recovery gift — that I tried one day to fight the recovery blues.

There were stiff legs, tight muscles, and an off and on relationship with my at-home practice.

There was a bad break-up that took me back to the mat and off to a community college in an attempt to meet some new people. At the time, it had nothing to do with yoga. Really.

There was an addiction to that Saturday afternoon class that made me forget about meeting new people, forget about that boy who’d broken my heart, and made me look forward to something.

There was the discovery of the yoga high.

Then, there were gym classes and my first experience with a real teacher. Real in terms of intensity. Intensity in both physical and mental exertion.

And then finally, three years in, there was a studio. My first studio experience was not pleasant. A friend and I checked it out and the instructor was a complete turn off. A little too serious, a little too intense. The next studio was an improvement, but I still wasn’t sold. It wasn’t until my third try — with the yoga bully — that I finally found my home.

And then I moved. And while I could continue to go to my old studio, it’s a bit more convenient to go to the new one. Which means I must find “home” again.

Over the past couple months, I’ve tried a few instructors, but none have the teaching style that I crave. Until tonight. Sure, there wasn’t rap blasting in the background. But there was sweat. Dripping in puddles around me. There was release. Shown in the migraine that vanished with each stretch.

There was relief. That I’d finally found home again. That I’m not as out of practice as I thought. And that I will regain my stride.