The stories we tell ourselves about ourselves

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I have to move my body to still my mind. I’ve always been this way, so it surprised no one when I took up running as a teenager, or when it carried me through adulthood.

I wasn’t fast. But I could go the distance. Like the Japanese author Haruki Murakami, who wrote “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running,” I’ve always been more workhorse than racehorse. I loved running — especially when I did it with friends.

In middle age, running allowed me to socialize with other women while I exercised — two birds, one stone — which is a fabulous thing when you’re a busy parent. The best girls’ weekends I ever had were the times when 11 friends and I ran a 200-mile Ragnar Relay race. We took turns running, for 30 hours straight. When it wasn’t your turn, you slept, ate and helped navigate — but mostly you laughed. When we crossed the finish line, my belly was more sore than my legs.

But in the past five years, I’ve had major issues with both my knees and my spine. And while I’m not willing to accept that my running days are over, I have accepted that I need to find new ways to move. People kept suggesting yoga, but it never appealed to me. My mind always went to Larry David’s refusal to say “Namaste”  at the end of class on “Curb Your Enthusiasm” or how Ron Swanson basically referred to yoga as a form of mental illness on “Parks & Rec.” Like those sit-com curmudgeons, I always told people I was not yogi material.

Until I was.

My friend Amanda says a therapist once told her, “Everyone loves yoga; you just have to find the right one.” In January, I found the right one. I just didn’t realize it at first.

I signed up for the beginner’s yoga workshop at a local studio at the beginning of the year. I had a terrible attitude during the first session: I was closed-minded and impatient, somehow there against my will, even though I was the one who bought the class pass. I walked out thinking, “Well, that was 90 minutes of my life I’ll never get back.” Still, I forced myself to return the next week, because workhorses don’t quit.  I promised myself I’d do better. I said hello to the folks around me whose names I remembered, and we chatted nervously before the class began. I allowed myself to be clueless. I followed along. I tried to remember to breathe.

Before I knew it, I had purchased an “unlimited” membership and was taking yoga and yoga-adjacent classes six or seven days a week. That second class had “nudged awake something inside me,” though I didn’t realize it in so many words until this week when I read Pavithra’s Natarajan’s story about returning to triathlons in mid-life.

Within a couple of weeks, I felt better. Within a couple of months, I looked better. And I realized that when I leave the gym (which is what I call it because saying “yoga studio” is still hard for me), I’m in a better mood. No one’s more surprised than me (except maybe my husband of 29 years).

Deep down inside, I knew this wasn’t just about fitness and vanity. After a few years of remote work and mid-life maladies — both physical and mental — I was desperate for more than a good workout. I needed a community. And that’s what I got.

There’s Billy, who was one of my first instructors, but is usually a student on the mat next to me during Saturday morning Build class. Mira, a project manager who always smiles at me in the mirror when our eyes meet during 6:30 a.m. Bootcamp. And Kristin, who endeared herself to me by wearing a long-sleeve shirt for the first half of every 100-degree hot power yoga class (“I really need to sweat,” she explained). I’ve never considered myself a joiner, but falling in love with a yoga studio proved me wrong.

My favorite thing is how generous the instructors are with shoutouts. “Kate’s doubling up on the weights!” or “Good work, Kate.” I get so few “attagirls” these days. But in these classes, where I’m still the newcomer, I feel seen. Sometimes the instructors literally say, “I see you, Kate.” The first time it happened, tears pricked my eyes.

It’s funny the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves — “I’m not a joiner.” “I don’t like yoga.” — and how wrong they can be. It’s a good thing I’m not always a good listener.

Editor's Note: This essay appeared in Cog's newsletter, sent every Sunday. We share stories that remind you we're all part of something bigger. Sign up here.