I’m a Yoga Teacher Who Quit Yoga When I Developed a Chronic Illness: Here’s Why

Our hobbies are part of our identity, and chronic illness can change that. Here’s how my sense of self evolved from young, limber yoga teacher to embracing a different kind of strength.

When I first became a yoga teacher at age 19, I could put my palms flat on the floor, touch the sole of my foot to the back of my head, and stand on my head.

However, I’d also never had a physical illness or major injury before.

Back then, I practiced or taught yoga nearly every day and posted pictures on Instagram doing advanced yoga poses.

Yoga — and my physical ability to do it — was a huge part of my identity.

This didn’t come from a completely superficial place. Yoga helped me cope with anxiety and depression, and I found it incredibly fulfilling to help others.

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My body changed, and so did my practice

When I started experiencing unexplainable fatigue and chronic pain a few years later, I was devastated that these symptoms affected my yoga practice.

Poses that used to be easy for me now felt painful or left me sore for days. My body felt stiff and tired instead of bendy and strong.

Who was I without yoga?

Eventually, I pushed myself too hard despite my body crying out for help. I ended up injuring my wrist.

That injury, along with my other symptoms, meant I was unable to attend my typical Ashtanga or power yoga classes or physically practice at the level I was used to.

I felt completely lost.

Physical therapists and friends encouraged me to find a less intense way to practice yoga. But every time I got on the mat, it felt like a slap in the face.

My body felt completely out of my control, and I started to profoundly grieve not only the way I used to do yoga, but who I used to be before I got sick.

In short, the thing that used to bring me immense joy now felt like my biggest trigger — a reminder of what my body could no longer do.

I decided to quit yoga for the same reason I started it: for my mental health.

Getting a diagnosis

My wrist injury was worse than anyone initially thought, perhaps because I’d become so used to pushing through pain that it didn’t seem that bad. I ended up needing surgery.

During the year-long period of waiting for surgery, I also received an endometriosis diagnosis. That diagnosis finally explained the abdominal pain and other changes in my body.

The diagnosis took all my mental strength and energy. I did find other ways to cope that were more accessible, like reading, blogging, and cooking, but I always missed yoga.

Returning to yoga and to myself

After healing for a year or so, I decided to dabble in yoga again during the pandemic. A local yoga studio was offering live, at-home classes, and I signed up.

The first time I got back on my mat in my home office, my body felt foreign. It was so hard not to compare every pose I struggled through to something the “old me” could have easily done.

I skipped every single Vinyasa and opted for Child’s Pose. My wrist and arm were still incredibly weak, and my abdomen felt tight and sometimes painful.

However, practicing at home changed something. There was nobody there to judge me, either in reality or in my head. That somehow gave me permission to stop judging myself.

Some days, I spent half the class in Child’s Pose or used a chair to help relieve pressure. Despite being a certified yoga teacher, I signed up for beginner classes. I also tried restorative yoga for the first time.

Gradually, I started coming to terms with my new yoga practice and my new body. Modifying poses didn’t mean I was a failure.

In fact, I confronted myself and realized that this train of thought actually reflected ableist beliefs that had been embedded into my subconscious. That wasn’t who I was, and I needed to let those beliefs go — starting with myself.

Accepting adaptations is key

I’m not a failure because I do a yoga pose differently to accommodate my body. In fact, knowing my own body well enough to respect its limits is a form of power.

My chronic illness forced me to dive deep into the greater meaning of yoga.

After all, there are eight limbs of yoga, but the physical practice only represents one. I learned this lesson in my yoga teacher training, but I clearly hadn’t internalized it. Chronic illness and injury taught me how fragile my ego really was.

The word “yoga” means “union,” and the practice is about connecting to your true inner self and the universe around you. It’s not about touching your toes.

Heading back to the studio

Over the past couple of years, I’ve slowly redefined my relationship to yoga and my own body. A few months ago, I stepped foot in a brick-and-mortar yoga studio for the first time in years and signed up for a monthly in-person membership.

At first, I chose mats in the back, where fewer people could see me modifying the poses or skipping challenging parts. I felt self-conscious about choosing Child’s Pose instead of the advanced poses, but I quickly overcame this when I noticed other students following suit and choosing their own variations to match their bodies.

Recently, I’ve started occasionally opting for mats at the front of the class — even though my body isn’t the best example of strength or flexibility.

However, I feel confident in my choices. There is a reason behind every modification I choose, and the reason is that I know and honor my body, including its limitations. That’s something to be proud of, not whether I can touch my nose to my knees in a Forward Fold.

My relationship with yoga and my chronically ill body is still evolving. I have a feeling that it always will be. I hope that I don’t ever quit yoga again like I did at my lowest.

I now know that there are so many ways to practice yoga, not just the cookie-cutter version.

Takeaway

Our hobbies and the things we do form an essential part of our identity. When chronic illness happens, it can prevent us from doing those things the way we used to. The worst part is it can also strip away our identity.

It’s important to acknowledge this for what it is. It’s not fair.

It’s also important to take time to mourn the “old you,” including how you used to participate in your hobbies.

It’s also possible to eventually find a light on the other side, whether that’s the other side of a flare, surgery, or even another diagnosis.

That doesn’t mean you go back to doing things how you used to, but you can find a new way. The journey can be painful and full of grief, but it may also lead you to recognize your true strength.