For years I heard my eldest daughter Gillette extol the virtues of Bikram Yoga, the studio heat cranked up to a steamy 100 to 105 degrees. I was happy to stick with normal temperature classrooms, whether in a gym or a free-standing yoga school. Of course, as we say about so many things, “the pandemic changed all that.” I spent three years practicing at home with the trusted Yoga with Adriene as my guide. Being the fanatic for routine that I am, I’d dress in my usual yoga togs and keep track of which class I was “attending” as if I was actually going somewhere. It kept me sane.

It also made it possible for me to keep up once I reentered an in-person yoga class during the Summer of 2023. I chose a Vinyasa class with a restorative second half taught by a teacher, Simone — a budding social worker — whom I had known at the yoga studio that had shut down because of Covid. Some familiarity helped me feel a bit less risk-averse though my fears of being the oldest person in the class (I was and still am) accompanied me as I rang the buzzer and mounted the stairs to the second floor of District Flow Yoga on 8th Street, Southeast. Just across from the former studio, it has no extravagant artwork, no front-desk staff and a single practice room.

But it’s got plants and ceiling fans, a wall of mirrors, a backroom stocked with blankets, blocks, straps and yoga mats in case you don’t bring your own. It’s also got no pretensions. Sure, you’ll find some enviable yogis sporting the latest Lululemon but more folks in standard issue stretch pants and tanks. And bodies of all shapes and sizes. So while I’m still typically the elder in the crowd, it’s a non-competitive space that feels welcoming to all who venture there. After a few months of Simone’s Sunday evening class, plus continuing with Adriene on line and a couple of mid-day Friday classes, while perusing the schedule I spotted Chris’ Hot Power Vinyasa. And because Capitol Hill is a small village, I also know Chris. In fact, I was their clinical supervisor for a couple of years while they were on the way to becoming a licensed counselor. So I sent an email asking them if they thought I could handle it; and of course got back a compassionate, descriptive and reassuring reply.

Internalized ageism still shadowed me as I packed a bag with a bandanna, small wicking towel and water bottle, hoisted my yoga mat in its shoulder strap and walked a few blocks to District Flow. A couple of guys on the street thought I didn’t know how to ring the buzzer and came up behind me to press it aggressively till the door clicked and I could enter. And there was Chris at the top of the stairs, dressed down as usual in a tie-dye t-shirt and gray shorts, a welcome smile drawing everyone in.

When I told my daughter I was planning to try a hot yoga class — heated only to a modest 85 to 90 degrees — she said my main goal should be “to stay in the room.” And stay I did. Flanked by one woman who seemed to be trying too hard as if we were in an aerobics class along with a couple of others who had clearly been there before and could take every pose to its highest level of challenge, from crow to half moon to flying crow or wild thing. All without dripping sweat on their perfectly fitting spandex. But Chris repeated the guidance that each asana contains varying levels of difficulty and that each of us must adapt to what our own bodies can do.

And so I stayed, and kept up and felt the strength in my arms as I held plank pose and then slid effortlessly into downward dog before moving to three-legged dog and into high lunge and warrior one, warrior two, humble warrior, side angle pose and before long the bandanna I had wrapped around my head was damp with sweat but I didn’t need to stop or escape and in a moment when Chris mixed up our left and right and one end of our row was twisting one way and the other going the other way, the beautiful young woman to my right glanced at me and we smiled because it doesn’t matter as long as you stay.