Ancient Practice; New Perspective

Before the pandemic arrived, my time was scheduled down to the minute. I was a 24-year-old, building a career in New York City; my days filled with commuting to work, meetings, dates, dinners, late nights, and high-intensity workout classes. I was drinking from the

firehose—metaphorically—fueling a new life for myself. Even though I was well aware of my naturally reclusive and creative personality, it never occurred to me to slow down. At that time, I thought happiness could only come from doing it all.

Eventually, my body started to show wear. Although once a champion sleeper, I began to experience bouts of insomnia. I struggled to keep weight on. Mentally, if I wasn’t feeling low, I

was on the precipice of it. My mom frequently asked on our calls, “Is everything okay?” Although I was living the life I’d always dreamt of as a kid—working my dream job, living in

downtown New York City, surrounded by wonderful family and friends—I was unhappy. A haze followed me everywhere. It was increasingly hard to enjoy regular days, and I had no clue why. Not until March 2020. After fighting off an early, nasty case of COVID, I shoved a few T-shirts and a pair of jeans into a weekender bag and boarded an empty flight home. With my hamper piled high and food still sitting in my refrigerator in NYC, I fled carelessly. I thought I’d return the following weekend. Turns out, I wouldn’t be back for another eight months.

Back in Kansas City, time slowed. I watched the trees bloom, had conversations with my dogs, and cut peonies in the garden for my mom. Who knew we had peonies? For most of my time at home, it was just my parents and me, but they weren’t parenting me. I was past my days of stealing alcohol and breaking curfew, and even if I wanted to, there was nowhere to go and no one to see. We synced to the same schedule: wake up at 6:30 a.m., dinner

at 6 p.m., and dog walk on the golf course at 7 p.m. Day after day, night after night. All spring, summer, and fall long, that’s what we did. I swapped my sleepless city life for a

much quieter one with two roommates in their sixties.

Without speed-walking to the subway station every morning and high-intensity workout classes every night, I quickly fell into an exercise void. My dad had recently gotten back into yoga, and I had nothing else to do, so I joined him. We’d put the dogs to bed after their nightly walk, roll out the mats on the patio under the stars, and pick a yoga video on YouTube. The poses were slow; the teacher’s voice was calm. For a month or so, it felt like

a chore. Before I understood the value in low-impact, meditative, repetitive movement, it just seemed boring. The classes would vary slightly, but they were hypnotizingly the same. One of my yoga teachers now, Nevine Michaan, frequently says, “There is revelation in repetition.”

Our nightly practice was not strenuous but restorative in nature. Easy, 20- to 30-minute yoga

sessions would pass quickly and lull me to sleep soon afterwards. From time to time, I was tempted to skip, but my father kept me honest. In the beginning, I’d practice with him out of guilt. It seemed cruel to leave him practicing alone, especially at a time when he and I both knew very well that nothing was demanding my attention. Maybe that was his mastermind

plan, to guilt trip me into better habits while I was around. Whether intentional or not, the peaceful routine started to rewire my brain. For the first time in my life, I committed to a daily

reflective practice, and I kept it up. After a few weeks, it felt less and less like a favor to my father. During the day, I caught myself looking forward to returning to the mat. Nightly yoga

became my religion.

Over the course of this pandemic-induced Kansas sabbatical, I found some peace. Gratitude started to come easily, and my empty afternoons filled with activities I had left in my childhood—drawing, writing, helping my parents in the garden, reading for enjoyment, and

walking my dogs. Paradoxically, during a time of horrific loss and uncertainty, somehow, somehow, I struck gold. I stumbled into a life filled with more grace. Quarantine taught me that I am my parents’ child, introverted and routine-oriented like my mother, curious and active like my father. They are my greatest teachers, and unfortunately, it took a global health crisis and moving back home to remind me of that.

As my stability grew in quarantine, my interest in yoga did, too. I studied the poses—mastered easy ones and built strength for the harder ones. I lifted weights in the gym so my arms wouldn’t collapse in crow pose. I stood in tree pose in the grocery store line to train my balance. I struggled with savasana (meditation to close each practice), so I challenged myself to walk the dogs without music to practice silence. In between work calls, I forward folded to calm the mind chatter. Most nights at dinner, I opted out of wine to avoid headaches. I wasn’t entirely conscious of it in the moment, but my daily habits reorganized to orbit around my nightly yoga practice.

As a result of going to bed earlier, spending time in silence, gently moving daily, and drinking less alcohol, I felt more like myself than I had in a decade—since childhood, really. When I slowed down, I discovered how I am supposed to operate; I found a routine that my mind and body agreed on; I figured out how to serve myself.

Yoga is a time-tested therapy, conferring well-being on its devotees. In recent decades, yoga’s potential benefits for the heart and mind may be even more important because of the chaotic pace of modern life. For me, this was certainly the case. One of the most significant ways yoga helps the heart is by reducing emotional tension. It’s a way to pop the cork on accumulated stress and relieve worries from the lived day. Out-of-control stress levels can lead to high blood pressure, heart disease, and other related illnesses.

Yoga is the Sanskrit word for yoke, or union. Traditionally, it refers to a practice of yoking the self and spirit—joining the physical and divine. Devotion to something greater than yourself, or Ishvara Pranidhana, is a pillar of yoga. It is one of the five Niyamas (inner codes or positive duties to oneself) in Hinduism. But devotion is universal. It’s commitment to a passion and an excellent place to discover a community.

My parents have harped on the benefits of community my entire life— whether that meant attending church every Sunday or joining the soccer team. They have never told us which

communities to join—fortunately, they left that up to us as individuals—but being a part of something was critical. So after I returned to New York, I decided to park my yoga fascination in a studio. I Googled “yoga studio near me in Manhattan,” picked one, and

went three times a week for the next six months. Soon the girl at the front desk knew me by name, and I befriended a few of the teachers.

In late January, I brought my dad to a yoga class at my studio. On our way out, he spotted a flyer: Yoga Teacher Training. He insisted I sign up—that day and about every other day for the

next month. “You’re made for this, and you need to find other people who like to do this too.” He was right.

Dad says, “Belonging to a group that meets regularly has been shown to be good for your health and happiness by brightening mood and improving overall mental health, especially if the group is focused on physical activity, such as yoga, a team sport, or fitness class. Leisure-time meetings with a group can contribute to a sense of purpose and life satisfaction and help combat feelings of loneliness and isolation.” So I enrolled, and today, I am a certified yoga teacher, practicing most days.

Yoga is the first recorded form of organized movement, originating in either Northern India or Egypt over 5,000 years ago (there is evidence of yoga popping up in both continents around the same time). In my opinion, if something is that old—not unlike genetically preserved traits that have persisted for eons of evolution—it’s still around for a good reason. I assumed that in its ancient history were hidden secrets about its magical health benefits. Turns out, I was right. Studies suggest that a regular practice of yoga can improve blood flow throughout the body and brain, lower blood pressure, and reduce risk of AFib. Yoga also tends to calm down chronic inflammation, which is a key risk factor for both in heart disease and dementia. A regular yoga practice will also reliably enhance balance, flexibility, strength, mood, and sleep.

Aside from the soothing routine and lowered stress, the savasana is what I’ve grown to admire most about the practice. Savasana (corpse pose) is a short meditation that closes most yoga sessions where you lie still on your back, eyes closed. Stillness is difficult for me; it always has been. However, I’ve found that yoga is an easy gateway to get there. Yoga is a

great way to deaccelerate from the frenzied, over-stimulated, 21st-century lifestyle and calm the nervous system.

Opposing energies create balance. An equilibrium between the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems is crucial for maintaining optimal mental and physical health. A regular yoga and meditation practice is an ideal way to balance the yin-yang energies that constantly ebb and flow through the autonomic nervous system. The slow deep breathing, mindful stretching, and spiritual grounding that are the essence of yoga work harmoniously to induce a state of relaxation. When done regularly, this practice can improve both physical and mental health and boost overall well-being. Sitting with myself in

stillness, noticing the sound of my breath, following the rise and fall of my chest, it’s my daily cocktail for neutralizing anxiety.

From theneurobrain.com

While awake, most of our day is spent in beta brain waves—busy or anxious thinking—making to-do lists, working, exercising, socializing. High beta is stress; low beta is alertness. It’s a brain wave that is emitted by a strongly engaged mind. On the opposite side of the spectrum, we sleep in delta brain waves—an unconscious, regenerative state with automatic breath.

In between beta and delta are theta and alpha brain waves, non-social states of. consciousness, awake but not engaging with anything outside of yourself, where you wakefully drop into your vagal nervous system. Deep relaxation is where the mind allows us

to feel emotion. Imaginary, timeless, and trainable—this is the state of mind where we daydream and feel inspiration; wakeful restoration where we can change or create. Children

under age six primarily think in theta/alpha brain waves, but as we age, these healing states of mind become less accessible. That is, unless we meditate. Sitting in silence is a key

form of mental restoration, separate from sleep, that most of us are deprived of. Most people toggle between beta and delta (high-function and sleep), missing all the states of reprogramming and creativity in the theta and alpha domains. Meditation is a chemical practice. It’s a deep study of our relationship to self, and how we can tap into those restorative brain states. Tuning your conscious states, or knowing how to switch gears from

functioning to reprogramming, is the beginning of self-mastery.

Yoga is a brilliant way to approach meditation. It reduces anxiety and depression by bestowing a reflective state. Just be sure not to skip savasana; I recommend at least five minutes of stillness and silence to close each yoga practice. Ten minutes is even better. Stillness comes easily directly after movement, so savasana is a prime opportunity to engage in meditation. Motionlessness without outside distractions encourages people to be fully present in the moment. Intentionally dropping into the now can help diminish feelings of

worry and angst in the long term.

I’m still working full time, building my career, and living in New York City—just as I was three years ago. But today, everything’s different. I carry a little token in my back pocket. I hold a thin, fragile thread tied to joy, and the more I tug on that thread, the stronger it becomes. Even if it’s only 15 minutes, brief but grounding, I’m a better person because of it. My daily yoga and meditation practice is a ritual that I deeply cherish, and something, that in some sense, saved me.