“The fact I didn’t nail every pose was no longer a failure, because my yoga is—finally—for me,” says one Vogue writer.
Recently, I found myself on the floor of a well-appointed outdoor yoga studio in a trendy neighborhood of Los Angeles, panting as I contorted myself into what seemed like the hundredth in a series of chaturangas that wouldn’t end. Everything ached, my face was bright red, and sweat dripped off my forehead onto the spare mat I’d borrowed from my friend.
Doing the at-home Yoga with Adriene video once or twice a week for so long—at home, naked, often a little stoned, in hotel rooms and Airbnbs, alone and on trips with friends, to stretch after a long hike or to inject a little movement into an otherwise still day—has, without my noticing, caused me to completely rewrite my relationship with yoga.