I was in a headstand in yoga, and wondering, as usual, how this pose could possibly be good for me, let alone bring me the inner peace I was seeking. What I wasn’t expecting was that a split second later, in a class I’d been to hundreds of times, I would get a spinal injury that would change my life.
People like to talk about habits and moderation in the same breath, but for the past decade or so, I thought I needed to do yoga to stay sane – or as my favorite meme puts it, “yoga: because punching people in the face is frowned upon”.
Yoga is admittedly self-serving, and westernized yoga is sometimes plagued with contradictions, like people meditating in $100 leggings, posing for sexy pictures instead of sinking into poses, and quietly competing to be the best at stretching. But since I wasn’t into any of that, I thought my practice was relatively pure, and that I was doing yoga for the right reasons: to gain clarity, strength and flexibility. I wanted to be mentally healthy and physically independent, and until recently, I was.
That all changed when one of my yoga instructors encouraged me to set a six-month goal for my practice, and since I enjoy a challenge, I decided to take on the headstand. Until then, yoga had been the only place where I wasn’t always striving to be better – a daily escape from the pressure I faced in the rest of my life, if only for an hour. But I didn’t realize in the moment that accepting a yoga challenge meant pushing myself there, too. Instead of accomplishing a goal I didn’t care about, I got hurt doing the thing I loved the most.
I still needed to balance against the wall to stay upright, so the day that I slipped, either from poor form or my ponytail, I didn’t exactly fall over. But when my weight came crashing down upon my head, my entire body started shaking, and I immediately knew something was terribly wrong. My instructor, who is also my friend, brushed it off, saying I would eventually be able to do the pose.
Instead, my entire world was turned upside down.
I went to see a spine surgeon, who gave me painkillers and a referral for an MRI. He was about my age, and during that first visit, we kidded around and called each other doctor, joking about my PhD.
When I returned for the results, though, he avoided eye contact, and I soon discovered that it was because my injuries were worse than I thought. From one moment of seeking inner peace gone awry, I had a herniated disc in my neck, two bulging cervical discs, and the pleasure of learning about some other degenerative surprises like arthritis and stenosis.
We started talking about treatment. The meds weren’t working, but for some reason, when the doctor said that we could begin with an epidural, I started wailing.
“My husband and I aren’t planning on having children,” I found myself stupidly explaining, “so I’ve never researched epidurals! I can’t just get one here today!” I chose to start with physical therapy instead, which he called the “conservative approach”.
When I saw the three-pound weights, the thin elastic band, and the traction machine, depression sank in – the sort that I normally use my yoga practice to alleviate.
My first PT pamphlet taught me how to turn my head from left to right. I joked about the exercise to my husband, dismissing it at first.
In reality, it was no laughing matter. The therapist said I could barely rotate my head 30 degrees, but I already knew that from trying to change lanes driving. Tilting my head down to read brought tears to my eyes, so I began reading on my back, holding the book above my head – but that doesn’t work when it comes to grading 10-page papers.
I quickly deteriorated, and my independence evaporated before my eyes. I needed help carrying my groceries, and couldn’t even slide a small potted plant an inch to catch the rain. I blushed as I told dismayed friends that I couldn’t go kayaking or camping any more – I got hurt in yoga, I explained, and wouldn’t be able to keep up. I was overwhelmed with pain and regret, and feared I’d never be able to forgive myself.
After a month of physical therapy, the pain was still there, but since I was able to go a few hours without thinking about it, the therapists said I’d only need to come back during acute flare-ups. I was getting stronger and gaining confidence, but I must admit it was nerve-racking when they said they’d taught me everything I needed to know. I wanted to buy them a round, but instead, I hugged them and said goodbye, feeling lucky that, unlike some of my fellow patients, I had all my limbs and could just walk out of the facility.
I kept walking, now alongside my husband when he took our 70-pound basset hounds around the block. At first I leaned on him, taking comfort in the fact that he was there. Even though my doctors were afraid I might never be strong enough to do it, I soon took one of the leashes myself, and my recovery began.
Although I can’t go to sunrise yoga before a long day of writing just yet, I can walk my dogs around the lake alone now – so I do. My dogs need me more than I need yoga, anyway, and they spread joy further than the edges of my mat.
They make other people smile, too – people milling around the hospital by my house, or people who have slept outside in the park. Inevitably, someone will croon, “Ohhh, they look so sad,” or exclaim, “They’re so big! They must be stronger than you!”
Sometimes when they say that, I’m in pain. But while my physical stamina and range has suffered, I’m much more resilient than I used to be, so I just smile coyly and say, “Looks can be deceiving.”
Open contributions: When have you faced your fear?
