Long before I started having therapy, I discovered a regular yoga practice. I would argue that this was my first truly therapeutic experience-with all the ‘woo’ removed, operating in its bare function.
I have tried several types of yoga philosophies and related practices over the years, always enjoying the adventure and thrill of experiencing physical limitations to be overcome. From a pure ADHD perspective, this was gold. At the same time, my autism was deeply stimulated by the rigid format, the set time, and what already felt like a ritual when I first started taking classes in my early twenties. Without knowing it, I was using somatic stimulation to cultivate a grounding effect on my nervous system through the different poses.
The controlled, rhythmic breathing alone had a profound effect on me. By the end of those early practices, I moved completely out of a fight-or-flight response and into a state of calm, grounded rest. For a long time, I preferred practicing in the evenings for that exact reason, it prepared my body and mind for sleep. For anyone new to yoga, this type of breathing is called pranayama and there is nothing magical about it (!).
Although the effects of the breath were touched on as early as 800 BCE in historical Indian texts, the modern breathing exercises practiced in yoga today were recorded between the 15th and 17th centuries. A text called the Hatha Yoga Pradipika treated pranayama as a medically (Ayurveda) inspired part of the practice, with the implied goal of preparing the body for meditation. Be that as it may, I could actively feel the physiological effects the breath had on my body, and I developed a completely different relationship to it over time.
Eventually, I discovered Ashtanga – a system with a rigid sequence of poses that, as I learned later, was traditionally meant to be practiced early in the morning. Ironically, my mind is not naturally attuned to sequences. It took me several years before it even registered that certain teachers used a strict, set sequence, and another couple of years before my first experience of ‘Mysore style’ self-practice. Later on, I also had to reconcile the system with the serious abuse allegations that came to light against its founder, K. Pattabhi Jois.
For me, navigating that wasn’t about excusing the harm, but recognising that a practice can be distinct from the person who institutionalised it (in much the same way I wouldn’t judge someone for attending Catholic Mass just because of the historical abuses within the Church). I still remember the first session at my teacher’s home. Pretty much at the start, she told me that I was meant to stay on the mat, learning to be more grounded and paced rather than scattered and wandering around the perimeter. Looking back, being one of only two students present, it is hard to believe that I had no clue about my ADHD at the time, or the restlessness associated with it.
This practice was entirely different from masking. Masking requires forcing myself into behaviors that result in anything from mild discomfort to total dissociation. Yoga self-practice, however, genuinely calmed and grounded me. The steady concentration on the breath, remembering the poses through daily repetition, and learning not to beat myself up for getting it wrong – being asked instead to simply go back to the pose where I lost track and repeat it in the correct sequence – shifted something in me. Furthermore, focusing the gaze on particular points (like down the nose, the floor in front, or along the arms) meant nothing around me was competing for my attention.
The daily repetition of what is, in essence, the same physical movement eventually led to a deeper focus on my mind and what was coming up emotionally. When reaching physical limitations, the negative self-talk could no longer be pushed aside or ignored. I noticed how I spoke to myself. I would never talk to other people like that, but man, was I good at putting myself down in order to push through. And that approach only gets you so far.
Around that time, I started counseling, which helped me explore all the things that were coming up on the mat. My teacher once told me that what happens on the mat also plays out off the mat, and she was absolutely right. Through the practice, I became able to stay in my body and notice when I was trailing off-a highly useful skill. It taught me not to give up when things get hard, but to stay present instead. There are, physically, very challenging poses. Experiencing the body exactly as it is meant that I suddenly became acutely aware of anxiety, sadness, hunger, or thirst. To this day, my practice helps me cultivate acceptance, stay grounded, and avoid getting constantly lost in my thoughts.