Dear Side Plank, 

I thought we’d never get along. That first day of yoga, when you made my arms shimmy like an unbalanced wash machine, I discovered you were the pose that revealed my painful secret: 20-something and hiding behind the genetic gift of an overactive metabolism. More than a decade of lying during annual physicals: “Yes, of course I exercise.” “Oh, I don’t know. Two or three times a week?”

I had arrived at yoga fixated on the idea that touching my toes would be a big, audacious accomplishment. But then I met you. And your simplicity taunted me. How could a pose so plain reveal so much of my weakness? It took me two or three or four more encounters with you before I figured out that simplicity can be a kind of invitation, rather than a confrontation. 

And tonight, many months after meeting you, long after I have discovered the sensation of touching my own toes, you and I made peace. My body went up, and instead of arguing, you and I nodded at each other, and we did the work together. When my arm started to shake a little, the fingers of the other, extended above, pushed higher.

We held each other up. Thanks for that. And for your patience.

Sincerely,

Emily

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