Namaste, Bitches

I love yoga.

I love how it makes me feel, how it makes me sweat, how it makes me question if I can go further, longer, or dare to try something new while looking ridiculous doing so.

I love that it’s quiet, and all I hear is breathing or the moaning of a good stretch around me. And I love, love, love, how my body beautifully aches the next day and the day after that as my muscles scream and stretch and get stronger.

What I absolutely despise about this practice is a particular breed of instructor.

Holy.

Shit.

Who told them they were all gingerbread cut-out spiritual gurus? Is that part of the cult initiation?

I realize that yoga has long had spiritual roots, and I actually know people who, in 2025, don’t dare to participate because they heard it’s demonic, or satanic, or whatever the hell. Rolls eyes aggressively. I’ll bet Christ himself did yoga. But my feelings about JC will be discussed another day.

This particular type of modern-day yoga instructor, on the other hand, is no spiritual leader. I don’t care who once called you an empath: You’re not a pastor, a priest, a rabbi, a shaman, a bhikkhu, or a pandit. You’re no different than my dance instructor or the guy I pay to tell me how much weight I should put on the leg press.

Again, not knocking the profession, the certification, or the passion by any means – but good God, some of these nouveau hippies need to chill with their higher selves.

I do yoga all over the place. Not just in the city in which I live at various studios, but also everywhere I travel. And Christ on a cracker, this new generation of instructors … do they really think they’re taking me to church? I arrive in yoga pants, a sports bra, and some ratty, gray T-shirt I stole from my dad, my hair barely brushed, and my face covered in a fine sheen of acne med. I’m not here to meet God. I’d shower for her. I’m here to sweat and breathe out my anger, and ma’am, you are only adding to it.

“Let me start this class by reading a passage to you that really resonated with me, and I feel called to share with you. It will take up approximately the first 10 minutes of class.”

Please. Don’t. I do not care. Go have fake Bible club somewhere if you want to do this shit. I just want to work out.

“Think deeply about what you want to get out of today’s class.”

Exercise. Hello.

“Tell me what your intention is. Let it sink into your third eye and then into your heart chakra.”

While I have intimate experience with chakra alignment, I do intend to roll up my mat and slap you with it if you keep talking like that. Is it time for me to throw my legs behind my head now orrrr?

“I’d like to count in slow motion, so even though I said, ‘Hold for fiveeeeee,’ it’s actually fifty-sevennnnnnnnnnnnnn.”

Whyyyyyy???

“I’d like you to let everything goooooooooo.”

“Make your heart feel like your hoooooome.”

Y’all all from the Midwest, orrrrr?

“Shine your heart up to the sky.”

“Knit your ribs together.”

No. Absolutely not. These verbs are not creative, they’re insane.

“Breathe into your ankle.”

That’s not a thing.

“Send breath into your fingertips.”

How? Do my fingertips have lungs? I know I refused to cut open the frog in Mrs. Jones’ biology class, much to her dismay, but I don’t think that’s right.

“Class ended five minutes ago, but I’d like to hold you all hostage for another 15 to tell you about how I became a reiki master last week, and we have soooooooooooo many events upcoming that I’m going to share in excruciating detail.”

You. Are. Not. A. Reiki. Master.

I adore reiki and have had some really interesting experiences, and going to a professional, someone who has steeped themselves in the practice, IS NOT THE SAME AS THE FUCKING FLICKING YOU’RE DOING IN FRONT OF MY FACE.

While you rattle on about the 983 classes that are already on your website, I’ll be smashing my skull into “the earth,” otherwise known as a hard wood floor, hoping my brains fall out so I don’t have to listen to any more of this pseudo-spiritualism.

“Take a deep breath in.”

Ok, normal.

“Sigh it out.”

Fine.

“Relax your back, one vertebrae at a time.”

You’re joking. Actively grinds teeth at the misnomer.

After savasana (that’s Sanskrit for “final relaxation.” If you’re a true new-gen head yogi, you say both the Sanskrit and English to the class as patronizingly as possible), the instructor begs us all to simultaneously om and cum to the word “namaste” and clap for ourselves and each other.

Neither of us landed an airplane in 2025. So no, no claps for either of us. Instead, I’ll be packing up my mat and saying, “Sayonara!” Me and my sitz bones (not sit bones, goofy) have had enough of this metaphysical jackassery.

I grab my towel and blocks with the full intent to rage write about the ridiculousness of my so-called divine workout, when the dark cloud above my head is interrupted.

“Molly, great to see you! Same time next week?”

You, too! Yes, I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

And I’m telling the truth because I’ve never felt better.