Noga: A Journey into My Yoga-Induced Identity Crisis

 I have a complicated relationship with yoga. Actually, scratch that—I have a diabolical relationship with yoga. If yoga were a person, it would be that effortlessly perfect friend who shows up to brunch in athleisure, glowing and smelling faintly of lavender, while I’m over here in yesterday’s leggings, marinating in chaos and last night’s garlic bread.

Yoga, you see, represents everything I wish I were but fail miserably at: flexibility (emotional or otherwise), strength (both of body and mind), discipline (which I have none), and mindfulness (what even is that?). Let’s not even talk about its health benefits or sexiness. Yoga is all about being grounded, serene, and in touch with your inner self. Me? I can’t even touch my toes without feeling like I’m about to snap like a card table in a sumo match.

Every time I attempt yoga (in my mind)), it’s like entering a parallel universe where everyone is graceful, calm, and annoyingly bendy, while I, on the other hand, am the human equivalent of a brick trying to swim upstream.

Oh, and forget the breathing. Yoga people love their breathing. “Inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth,” they say in soothing tones, as though that’s a perfectly normal thing to remember while your left leg is wrapped around your head like a pretzel. Meanwhile, I’m over here gasping like a brick out of water, quite literally dying and clenching everything I can (except the muscles I’m supposed to be engaging) to prevent a backdoor symphony from my booty cannon.

And the mindfulness? Oh, don’t get me started. “Clear your mind,” they say. Clear my mind? Are you kidding? My brain is like a radio stuck on scan mode—random thoughts popping in and out at lightning speed. “What’s for dinner? Did I lock the door? Why does the cat hate me? OMG, I forgot to go to Greece.” By the time the class ends, I’ve had about 17 existential crises and zero Zen moments.

The worst part is, yoga has this sneaky way of making you feel like you’re not enough. Not flexible enough, not disciplined enough, not calm enough. It’s a constant reminder of everything I should be but am not. But here’s the thing: I’m learning to be okay with that. So what if I can’t nail a headstand or touch my toes without risking spinal collapse? At least I’m showing up—And by showing up I mean writing about the ridiculousness of it all.

For now, I’ll stick with my version of yoga, which I like to call “Noga.” Noga involves lying on a mat, occasionally stretching just enough to reach my peanut butter pretzels, and meditating on the fact that I’m probably never going to be graceful. And you know what? That’s okay. Because even if I’m a 2x4 with the mindfulness of a squirrel, at least I’m honest about it.

Namaste... on the couch.