Practicing yoga in Spanish changed everything for me. Here’s how.

I’ve always struggled to find any mastery of the Spanish language. Eight years of classes bounced from my mind and Spanish encounters did little to connect me to the language. I made some serious strides during my time abroad, although most days felt like a series of linguistic errors. With decades of doubt lingering in my mind, I was very nervous to try yoga in Spanish.

But I missed the language (Seattle isn’t exactly a hotbed of Latin culture) and thought I’d give it a shot the chapter It will offer something a little different. It was also free. So, a few weeks into the new year, I saw me walking into a yoga studio in Seattle, the only white guy in a sea of ​​mats belonging to what I assumed were Spanish speakers.

“Sit down please“The instructor said kindly as we settled into the classroom.

It’s important to note that I’ve also struggled with yoga in general over the past decade. I am for life athletean overthinker, perfectionist who struggles to stay present, connect with my breath, and get the most out of any yoga attempt, thanks in large part to my swirling thoughts and hyper-focus on getting things right.

However, there on the carpet, craning my neck to catch every word, I suddenly felt something I had struggled for years to understand: presence. With instructions flowing in clear, concise Spanish, I was able to focus and concentrate in a way I had never experienced on the mat. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly easy to get distracted while my mind was busy translating every word.

At first, I thought this would be exhausting and unsustainable. But as the lesson continued, I found that it was the opposite. Every movement became an invigorating mystery. As I connected with familiar movements in unfamiliar contexts, my body felt energized, my breathing fell to a steady rhythm, and my fears began to subside as I tried to stay in the rhythm of the class.

Sure, there were some words that passed me by. Well, a lot of words. But I didn’t worry about that; I wasn’t worried about anything. I stopped focusing on doing everything exactly right and instead tried to put the movements together in my own way. This was the yoga I was trying so hard to enforce and had never experienced before.

Finally, the idea of ​​pulling your senses made sense. More than just another word in another language, Pratyahara It was something I was struggling with. (It was not lost on me that it took an explanation in a language that was not my own for the concept to finally arrive.) No longer was I cheating in my practice, I was finally able to understand what it meant to be there on the mat—to have the present as my only concept of time and space.

Trying a different language can be an interesting experience. It can scare you and break you. It may seem like an insurmountable obstacle that prevents you from truly expressing yourself. However, with a slight change in perspective, it can also reveal your flaws as a positive shade of imperfection.

My yoga practice had a similar identity crisis. I just didn’t realize it. What I’ve found through practicing yoga in Spanish is that discomfort can lead to an ease I never knew was possible.

Was she beautiful? Negotiable. Was it helpful? More than I thought possible. Here you go, friends.