I love yoga, Now.

It makes me feel good. It calms my mind, stretches my body and slows me down just enough to notice how I’m feeling. Yoga makes me more present in my own life, and swaps my never-ending treadmill of a to-do list for a luxurious moment of just being and breathing.

And that’s just for starters!

But I’d be lying if I told you that my relationship with yoga was instant, love at first practice. It would be a stretch (ha ha) to say that I even liked it. The truth is I HATED it - and even when I stopped hating it, I didn’t much like it.

Even before I went to my first class, I had views and opinions on yoga. I thought yoga was an exclusive club with a very strict door policy, and I didn’t want to take my trainers off. I also looked down on it as fake exercise. I mean, you knew from the sounds of the tinkling water and tweeting birdsong that it wasn’t proper exercise. Where was the thumping bass beat of proper fitness music? Where was the sweat?

In fact, the only reason I went at all was my daughter Sash, She REALLY wanted to try yoga. Sash wasn’t long out of a psychiatric unit where she’d spent a year,. She had zero confidence. The thought that yoga might help was enough. To yoga we went.

The first class was on a Monday night. Why was that a problem? Because I was a fitness instructor, and on Mondays I already taught 4 other physically demanding exercises classes of my own already. I really didn't need to go to another class. Still, I thought, it was only yoga...

Hah.

I remember that first yoga class, I was branded by it. The physical pain was only marginally less acute than the emotional shock to my ego and sense of self.

But that is something for the next story...