A Humiliating, Humbling, Shit-Show
On the mat at a much nicer session, I dind’t take any photos at the one mentioned in this post, bad vibes - 2025
This week Julia and I went to an Astanga Yoga class in Ilkley. It was, without exaggeration, one of the most brutal things I’ve willingly subjected myself to (sort from that weird microwave therapy thing I once had done to my feet, that could be used in Guantanamo bay)—and I say that as someone who’s done hot yoga, long distance running and spinning (honestly, fuck spinning). But nothing prepared me for this.
The class started innocently enough. I met Julia and gave her a big hug as I knew she was nervous about doing Ashtanga for the first time, but the place seemed pretty chill. A hearty hello, warm room, a handshake of a skinny vegan dude called nick. I knew Julia was worried, but honestly, I thought, “How hard can it be?” Ha.
I soon learned that Astanga isn’t your average flow. It’s yoga on steroids—disciplined, repetitive, and physically unforgiving. There’s no room for messing about or free movement. No time for peddling the feet in down dog, or squatting out some stiffness, no time to find your breath. You’re in, you're moving, and you'd better keep up under pain of death. At one point, I remember taking some great feeling movement to the hips, and the teacher snapped at me for wasting my energy… This was when I started to become aware that this was not the calm spiritual yoga I was used to.
Within ten minutes, I was sweating, like really sweating. Twenty minutes in, my hamstrings were screaming for mercy and me and Julia were exchanging that “what the fuck have we done” glance. During what felt like my 15th Vinyasa, I lept forward into a cross-legged seated position and suddenly I felt a pair of feet step on my hands. Not next to. I looked up. The teacher looked down on me like I was shit. She stood on my hands till I managed to get my legs through to Dandasana without lifting my hands from the mat.
It got worse. Or better, depending on your tolerance for pain and public embarrassment. Adjustments came thick and fast, and none of them were gentle. Hands shoved my hips into place, feet kicked my hands about, my spine was pushed down, and at one point, the instructor barked out something unintelligible and physically twisted me like a corkscrew in to a “proper” knees to ears Karnapidasana. I think I saw God, and my own perineum.
And yet, in the middle of this utter chaos, something clicked. Beneath the questionable hands-on techniques and slightly sadistic energy, there was something oddly profound. I wasn’t coasting. I wasn’t hiding in my comfort zone. I was being challenged, really, truly challenged, in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Yes, I got laughed at. Yes, I probably looked like a sweaty wounded duck. But the structure, the discipline, the absolute rigour of Astanga gave me a weird sort of joy. There’s something deeply satisfying about being told, “No, not like that,” with a sharp kick, and then being shown a new depth you didn’t know you could reach. My fight or flight took a beating, but my body learned something. And my brain, well, my brain eventually shut up and focused, because it didn’t have any other choice.
How was Julia doing? Superbly, she moved though the experience, took the adaptations where needed and saw the whole class though to the end (2 fucking hours of constant movement), she was brilliant and Susie who ran the class told her as much, the divide was weird, but honestly, we’re different students who needed different things. Julia needed to be eased in and to know it was accessible and that she could do it, and she nailed it.
From my own personal point of view, was it an example of great teaching? Honestly, no. The adjustments lacked consent, and the tone at times crossed the line from challenging into downright abusive. I’m a firm believer that pushing people should never mean belittling them. There’s a difference between being firm and being flippant. And the timing; for some reason, a class that was supposed to finish at 19.30, ran to 20.15, we started at 18.15, that’s 2 hours of constant movement, and for me, what felt like a 2-hour argument. I held my own, but it was exhausting, both physically and mentally.
But would I go back? Weirdly, yes*. Because even in its clumsy, slightly unhinged execution, the class gave me what I went for: growth, discomfort, and the spark of something worth exploring. Sometimes the worst experiences are the ones that crack you open—and let a little more light in.
Just maybe next time, I’ll keep my hands on the matt.
* Unfortunatly, since writing this post, I found out that I actually really badly hurt myself in this class, the part where I wrote “and at one point, the instructor barked out something unintelligible and physically twisted me like a corkscrew in to a “proper” knees to ears Karnapidasana. I think I saw God, and my own perineum.”. When that happened, I very momentarily dislocated the shoulder, and just a couple of days later, my whole right side had horrible inflammation, and I have a nerve impingement that the doctors have said will take me months to shift. Long story short, this yoga studio is dangerous, and as much as I enjoyed being pushed and keeping myself in that situation, I would not go back. I’m worth more than to be broken down by someone who obviously had something more than yoga teaching going on. That shit needs to be left outside the studio. I didn’t complain to her, I didn’t get the impression she would be susceptible and I didn’t think it would bring any sort of satisfying conclusion. Sometimes you’re better walking away rather than making a mess that will mean more to you than someone else. We live and we learn.