I first turned to yoga because of “stress.”

When I walked into my first class, I quickly realized it was too much for me. It felt unsafe to close my eyes and truly feel—unsettling to be in a room with people who seemed so different from me. I vowed to never return.

But a year later, I found myself in a class with a truly gifted instructor. She gently guided me, helping me relax—but only as much as I felt comfortable. She didn’t judge me when I kept my eyes open during Savasana, and I learned to trust her.

Over time, I began to return to yoga whenever I felt stressed. I didn’t understand why it worked or how, but on some deeper level, I knew that I needed it.

With consistent practice over 20 years, yoga became a regular part of my life. I would attend 1-3 classes a week, depending on my season of life. I knew early on that I wanted to teach, but I lacked the confidence. Eventually, though, courage came with time, and I impulsively decided to get my certification. I poured all my free time into learning and practicing.

Once I had my certificate, I quickly realized I had no experience—and no one was hiring. So, once again, I acted impulsively. I opened my own yoga business, renting a room at a local church. I told my friends and launched my classes. Then, just 18 days later, my sweet sister unexpectedly passed away.

The world seemed to shift. It felt like everything sped up, slowed down, and froze all at once. My new business, my exciting momentum, suddenly felt insignificant. My sister died on a Friday night, and I told no one but my immediate family all weekend. I didn’t want to announce this devastating news to my students—if they knew, it would be real. So, I continued teaching. I taught four times the week between her death and the funeral.

I reasoned that with my husband at work, my kids at school, and my parents busy with funeral arrangements, I had two choices: sit at home and cry, or teach. I had already spent the weekend doing the former, and I knew enough from my 20 years of practice and my certification that yoga wasn’t a bad idea while grieving. So, I taught.

That week was challenging to say the least. Looking back, I realize I played mostly sad music for my classes that month. Strangely, I knew that some of my students were grieving too, and it seemed to resonate. I’ve never felt such profound sadness. It was surprising not only because of its depth—something I didn’t know could exist—but also because, at the time of her death, my sister and I hadn’t been as close as we once were. My love for her was ever-present, but life had shifted. I had made room for a husband and for kids.

From the consistency of my recent training, I felt more in tune with my body, my mind, and my feelings than ever before. This intense time of practice and learning had taught me how to feel deeply.

So, I taught. I felt. And as I taught, I felt. The discomfort in every hip opener, the exhaustion in every heart opener. I look back at that year, and the overwhelming memory is one of constant fatigue. But I kept getting dressed. I kept teaching. Even on the days I didn’t want to go, I showed up, prepared a class, and moved my body.

I learned during this time that the universe gives us what we need, if we’re paying attention enough to accept it. My classes dwindled as my energy waned. My marketing efforts slowed, and my attendance dropped. I was teaching six or more classes a week, often to just a few regulars. Some days, I prayed for an empty room. Other days, only one or two people would show up, each coming multiple times a week—but they never overlapped. So, I sometimes taught six “classes” to just one person at a time.

In the moment, I was sometimes frustrated. But I kept showing up and did my best. Yoga, I can say with certainty, saved me from turning to less healthy coping mechanisms. I’ve learned, through my own grief, that while I’m willing to discuss others’ feelings without judgment, when it comes to my own, I don’t always want to talk. That’s where yoga provided a space for processing my grief, without words.

Looking back on that year of mourning, I realize it was divinely guided. The sadness is still there, but it no longer dominates my life or my practice. I am so grateful that yoga was there for me, offering peace and comfort when I had little to give.

In the first year of mourning, kindness sometimes went unreciprocated. I just didn’t have it in me. But the mat asked for nothing in return. It gave me the gifts of peace, acceptance, solace, respite, and relaxation—gifts that first drew me to yoga, and still keep me there.

Yoga has taught me that even in the midst of loss, we can find a space to breathe, to heal, and to reconnect with what we truly need.

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