I Started Teaching Yoga When I Was 20. It Was Not What I Expected.

I could feel each labored breath in my chest as I replayed the sequence in my mind. I’d taught the same class maybe a hundred times before. I’d learned how to speak from my belly instead of my throat. I’d long ago stopped pacing the room as students held their balance as I learned it was distracting. I’d created space in between my cues, allowing students to be in their bodies instead of distracted by my words.

But as I stood outside the hot room about to teach my tenth class of the week, a gnawing anxiety was stirring inside me that I couldn’t disperse through my breath.

Who was I, a 20-year-old, to guide a room full of adults through their yoga practice? 

I had started practicing yoga with my mom when I was 16. At first, it was a fun activity to do in the park on a Tuesday evening. I’d move through the postures but be captivated by the bumblebee pollinating the weeds beside my mat rather than the sensation of my breath expanding in my belly.

As I got older and experienced the greyish coating of anxiety in life, the breathwork I learned in yoga became a bigger deal. Each breath lessened the constant chatter in my brain. I itched to be on my mat and did as many YouTube yoga videos I could find.

I walked into my first hot yoga class in 2018 when I was nineteen years old. The hot room, the people, the immediate sweat forming on my skin–it gave me a new sense of purpose. At that time, I didn’t have a set direction in my life, but showing up on my mat each day gave me something to dedicate myself to, something that brought a different feeling than I had experienced when practicing in the park at 16. With each practice I grew stronger. Not just physically, but my mind and breath evolved into the anchor I learned to use on and off the mat. I admired the instructors and the way they held space for a room of 30 students. I wanted to be that person.

I was 20 years old when I headed to Ecuador to complete my month-long 500-hour yoga teacher training in 2019. Something clicked into place as I taught my first practice yoga class in an open room cabana steps from the ocean. I felt my body fill with peace as I watched my sangha (community) breathe in synchronicity; a breath that I guided them toward. I returned to Canada with a new fire to be the best yoga teacher I could be.

And I tried. I tried really hard. I worked with mentors. I made time to practice. I read about yoga and even stopped hanging out with friends that weren’t down to meditate or do a 6:00 AM yoga class. I was fortunate enough to return to my home studio and start teaching right away. And I taught—a lot. Teaching ten to fifteen hot yoga classes became my normal. My core purpose in life was to develop as a yoga teacher. I went to class just so I could intentionally listen to how other teachers cued. Any workshop that popped up at the studio, I was the first to register. I did an online yin yoga training only a few months after I got back from my initial training so I could teach more classes. I watched my colleagues teach two or even three classes back to back and I strived to do that, too.

But no amount of reading or mentoring prepared me for being the youngest teacher in the studio. When a student would walk in and ask “Are you the teacher?” I was overcome with the fear of making a mistake.

If I stumble on a word, they’ll think I’m immature. If I mix up my lefts and rights, they’ll stop coming to my class. If I don’t hold myself to an unreachable standard, they’ll never respect me.

My age maxed out my imposter syndrome. I was stuck in turmoil. I tried each and every class to prove that I deserved to be there. I’d spend countless hours each week analyzing my cues to make sure they sounded just right. I’d stay up till the early morning perfecting a playlist. I tried so hard to memorize names and faces of every student that walked through the studio doors. Whether the students realized it or not, I did everything in my power to convince myself I was enough. But this feeling wasn’t discussed at yoga training. I didn’t know how to maneuver through the feelings of not being worthy enough in the teacher’s seat at such a young age.

I was so obsessed with showing up as the best version of myself for every single class I taught that I lost the energy to get on the mat solely for myself. My personal practice of three times a week slowly diminished to one time a week, then every few weeks, and then maybe once a month if I happened to carve out the time. The studio had transformed into not only my workplace, but a place that fostered a deep coating of anxiety —a feeling I never thought the practice would give me. I burned out—both as a teacher and a student.

I had to take the advice I gave to students all the time: rest if you need it.

I went down to teaching one class a week to help heal my burnout, but I also decided to start a new university program. And then as the COVID-19 pandemic swept through in 2020, I stopped teaching entirely. I taught a few times when things started to calm down, but the deep fire I once possessed for guiding breath with movement had faded. No one told me this would happen if I became a yoga teacher.

I’m now 26 and I haven’t taught a yoga class in more than two years. My personal practice has also become something I do very occasionally. Other passions have occupied my time and honestly, I think that’s okay. If the practice has taught me anything, it’s that you’re allowed to thrive in the season you are in—without judgement. You’re allowed to flow in and out of challenges and come out the other end better for it. Even if that means wanting to solely be a student again on the mat.

I moved to a new city two months ago and the first thing I did was look for a local yoga studio. No expectations, no judgements, just getting back to my practice. I close my eyes in every pose and feel the breath fill my body. I’ve turned off my ‘teacher’ brain. I arrive for class, mindfully flow, and then head home, the original feeling of calmness when I first started practicing following me.

For now, being on my mat is directed toward myself—and myself only.