I had a dream about yoga the other night.
I pulled up to my studio. The owner was working the counter and I breezed past her. I entered the hot room with it’s delicious 105 degrees, and then I remembered. I couldn’t be there. I was pregnant.
I tried to make a quick exit, but the owner saw me. “Are you leaving?” She asked, surprised. “Yes,” I replied. “Well, I’m pregnant so I can’t do hot yoga.” She was on the brink of congratulating me when I added “You know I lost two babies. I have two, and I lost two. So this one… we’ll see.” I had only briefly mentioned my losses to her, shortly after I started yoga. She had praised my dedication in those early days, coming to the studio three or four days a week. I tearfully told her that I’d recently had two pregnancy losses and had a lot of self-loathing toward my body and was trying to punish myself. She awkwardly did not know how to respond.
She asked me when I was due and I replied “August 15th. So I should probably be back in October. If I’m back sooner than that, you’ll know it did not end well.” I got into my car and pulled away quickly.
Then I woke up.
I miss hot yoga, so much. I miss the intensity and the focus that the class required. I miss the 90 minutes of self-awareness and escape.
It’s 2:30 am and I am wide awake. The muscles in my legs are aching and cramping and my body feels tight. Anxious today, I paced around my living room. A walk would have been better, but the weather did not cooperate and it was raining. If only I could do my hot yoga. If only, if only.