Y is for Yoga: My first postpartum class

Somewhere along the long, winding, grayscale road that is postpartum recovery you find yourself preparing to exercise in public. This may mean returning to your Tuesday Pilates group, Wednesday night spin (please God don’t do that, though) your Saturday morning tennis club (I really wish I had one of those. G&Ts at the clubhouse included), or something entirely new. Regardless of your choice, exercising in public will require a mental stamina that must equal your physical strength.

I chose yoga. I am a certified yoga instructor and needed the mind-body-spirit alignment hooey that yoga class offers. I spent a few weeks scanning the classes at yoga studios within 5 miles of my house. Living in San Diego this means only about 100 studios. I studied the timing of their classes so I could eventually pick the place and time best aligned with my son’s feeding routine, allowing for the opportunity to move freely about on a mat without fear of concrete boobs by the end of the class. At approximately 12 weeks postpartum, I decided I was ready to take the leap, put on stretchy pants (kk, jk, I’d been wearing those for months), pack up my yoga mat, and drive myself to a class.

*Images provided below are for visualization purposes only. They do not in any shape or form slightly resemble me back it at after baby.

When I arrived, they couldn't find me in the system, and after finally locating my information, informed me that my class pass had expired a week ago. The fact that I had not attended a yoga class at this studio in nearly ten months did not prevent me from tearing up, and saying in a choked up voice, “I purchased that membership a bit optimistically. I was pregnant and thought I would be coming here all the time last summer . . . but I was just so sick . . .” Without batting an eye, the instructor asked if I wanted to pay for a single class or purchase another package. Crap, now that I think about it, I purchased a package because I was embarrassed and wanted to prove to her that I was a real yogi and would be back. This was at least six weeks ago.

I hugged my yoga mat to my side, took a deep breath, and walked toward the studio. This was a gentle yoga class, or was it prenatal? I still looked pregnant so I knew I could fit in. Well, I could do either class, really. Bring it! I am a mother goddess and that means I am strong. It was also a full moon, which meant all the tides were full of positive energy and stuff. If I read horoscopes, I’m sure it would have something positive to say about Mercury not being in retrograde. I could do this noise.

I walked into the room and I immediately, cinematically, zoomed in on two women putting their hair into a high ponytail.

I am a yogi and have learned to listen to my intuition. I got a little quakey in my belly and glanced to others for reassurance. Oh F! See, being a seasoned yogi with anxiety only gives you more anxiety because you can read the signs. The clues being: women redoing ponytails means this is an active class. You can have a cute, loose braid or a bun fastened with a scrunchy in a yin yoga class, but in an active vinyasa flow class, you need a legit ponytail or bun. I guess french braids would do, but you've got to be real good, like Swedish-raised, Coachella-blogging, french-fish-braiding good in order to wear braids to a flow class.

I looked around the room for some salvation, any affirmation that I was possibly misreading the situation but I only found headbands. This was my second cue that I had come to the wrong place.

Headbands mean hot yoga. See, your fly aways are manageable in a regular hatha yoga class. Damn girl, you could let your hair down, literally. But in a 96 degree class with sweat running into your eyes, a yoga headband is a necessity. You might think I am being sarcastic but I assure you, I am dead.effing.serious. I take yoga wear very seriously because at the slightest discomfort I will decide I should never do anything involving exertion or self-introspection again. I have to really prep for classes, e.g. caffeinated tea, hot shower, yoga pants that don't roll under my belly when I move, a sports bra that holds the girls in so they don't make an unwelcome appearance in upward dog, but not too tight, because I will need to move the girls out of the way for some poses, all accompanied by a headband that doesn't roll off, an essential oil under my nostrils in case my neighbor believes in patchouli instead of showers, and my trusty Yogi Toes mat topper because I have clammy hands and feet.

This consuming panic only takes seconds to set in. In a few short moments, the instructor walks in and introduces herself, thanks everyone for joining the class today and begins giving instructions. I am delayed in my response because I am sitting in hero’s pose in the corner under the hot air vent wondering if I should raise my hand and ask to be excused.

Let’s begin in child’s pose.

Oh, just great. I should have seen this coming. I have to keep my knees together for this pose because my pelvis has separated at my pubic bone, meaning excruciating pain if I try to do this with knees spread out the way that would usually feel good. This means my chest and belly are squished against my thighs instead of between them, so its not so much lengthening and relaxing my spine, as it is placing my boobs and inflated uterus on a shelf while trying to tuck my chin so its looks like I'm laying down. Except, in reality, my back is rounded so much the pose should be called hibernating turtle instead.

Once instruction for the sun salutations flow starts, I can’t just go back to hibernating turtle because I am competitive and I know what good alignment in warrior looks like you yoga betches. I will show y'all what a sad postpartum body can do.

(The following italics must be read in a melodramatic, drawn out yoga instructor voice. Sorry not sorry, I am an elementary school teacher and read aloud voices are very important in story telling. I am afraid my writing talents will fall short and I need you to play along.)

Breathe in, lightly blink your eyes open, palms at heart center . . .

Oh hello giant wall mirror. I really look pregnant. My boobs come out under my armpits so my elbows chicken wing out instead of resting down. (Making boobs present forward and sports bra modifications for sizes E - H/I necessitates a separate blog post. Stay tuned.)

Reaching arms up toward the sky . . .

Wait don't lean back! Don’t cactus those arms, even though I know you want to, that heart opener is not supportive for your diastis recti!

Oh, we’re moving on now! Don’t pay attention to your reflection in the mean mirror.

Swan dive to palms on the floor, step your right foot back . . .

Oh, oh, ohhhh nope.

That just broke my hips. I will take table top on all fours, then step one leg back. I really am a yogi because I know when to modify. I know my limits. This is healthy.

Raise up to crescent lunge. . .

Holy stars in the sky why did I try that? This move requires engaging your core, drawing up from your pelvic floor, while pushing off with your quads and squeezing your glutes. This asana is entirely rooted in strength and stability in your hips and belly. But wait, everything is. This is about the point I realize I have no business dragging my postpartum body to this class.

Back to hibernating turtle.

At least I didn't have to exit class every 10 minutes to throw up or pee like the last time I was here. I try to get centered, focus on my breath and even take a break in savasana when I was sure my hips had torn apart.

When the class finishes with pigeon, my absolute all time favorite, I realize the last thing I need is a hip opener, I need a hip closer. I have been binding them for weeks to help them come back together, so I will sit this one out too, or rather lie this one out.

I timidly put my blocks away after the class bows in namaste. I want to stay to tell the teacher that I thought this was prenatal yoga and WHAT THE BLEEP WAS THIS? Do they have a different schedule than the one I have been studying with intent for weeks, because I really want to know how to not make this mistake again. Also, I want to brag that I survived the class. Teacher! Look how good I did! The thing is, this yoga forest nymph in her lace chemise cami with ballet pink yoga pants who is on the way to her bachelorette in NYC this weekend will not understand. She is a beautiful soul, but I too, am an empath. I too am a yoga instructor, but I just wouldn't have understood how empowering and simultaneously shaming a postpartum yoga class could be.

I wrote this blog with a very important message in mind: just don't do it. The opposite of Nike and empowering marketing everywhere, don’t do it if it isn't good for you. There is a big difference between knowing something is good for you, like going to the gym after work when you just want to imbibe something with a high alcohol content, and thinking something is good for you, like going for a run with a hangover past the age of 25, because it is what you think you should do.

What was I out to prove? When I was lucky enough to have someone watch the baby for an hour and half, I could have used the strength and intensity that it took to leave the house and venture out in public to sit at Starbucks and drink a grande iced decaf Americano with sweet coconut cream, maybe eat a birthday cake pop and read a book for adults that did not focus on the milestones my baby was missing.

Yay for all those women in that yoga studio, being strong, getting stronger, learning to love their body while they stare at themselves in those big giant wall mirrors for an hour, trying to find proper alignment in their reflection but possibly judging their body and others around them at the same time. For me though, what I needed was an epsom salt bath and a physical therapist to work on my uterine ligaments that were cinched so tight I couldn't walk upright.

If it’s not for you, or you aren't ready yet, damn girl, just stay at home, stretch your eye rolling muscles instead as you scan Instagram, and eat a Little Debbie snack cake or almond milk based chia seed pudding or whatever nourishment brings you joy.

I will make it back to yoga classes and I will enjoy them. But not yet. Not yet.

#health #yoga