I’ve Learned To Dig Up My Roots And Love Myself Better After 6 Years Of Being A Yogi
A story about recovery, a trip to the Amazon and symbolic transitions.
Courtesy of author in the Amazon Jungle of Peru. Photo by Macoy ZV It was the middle of winter and I was feeling eager to try something new. Since returning home from studying abroad and traveling in Australia only a few weeks earlier, nothing scared me. I had taken my eating disorder by the horns and wasn't about to let fear keep controlling me.
I had chosen recovery before my trip, several times on the trip, and I was choosing it loudly and proudly once again.
Part of my eating disorder involved an addiction to exercise as a way to purge food and feel better about what I ate. I was terrified of my body changing and had an insatiable hunger from years of restricting, dieting, and obsessing.
Running is the form of exercise that made me feel most in control of the many spiraling thoughts in my head; running made me feel safe, powerful, and whole. Without it, I didn’t know who I was.
Things got complicated when I started to get excruciating knee pain each time I ran. I didn't want to face the reality that my body might be shutting down on me, so I kept on running, ignoring, and suppressing every negative feeling from my past.
Eating disorders are, after all, nothing more than a symptom of deeper, inner turmoil.
I was in Australia for six months and decided beforehand not to take my eating disorder with me. This meant I had to start listening to my body and honoring its needs, which I wasn’t entirely sure how to do.
To start, I quit running the first week of being in Australia. This ended up being easier than I imagined since I got sick that week and was stuck inside my room most of the time. Still, I was doing ab workouts and whatever stationary cardio I could to feel better about laying in bed for so long.
Eating disorders don’t care when you’re sick. They especially love to demand things from you when you are at your lowest.
After I recovered from my illness, I checked out the local outdoor pool and started swimming laps in between weighted workouts at the school’s gym, which was nothing more than a shed with some basic equipment. I got a bicycle and would ride to the beach, university, and wherever else I needed to go each day.
With all the other movement I was doing, running was still there — in the back of my mind — calling me home. My eating disorder was still there too, manifesting in new and improved ways. Because when you take one form of exercise away from an exercise addict, they will just find a new form to use and abuse.
All addicts know this familiar cycle of swapping one vice out for another. To truly let go and heal, you must dig until you find the buried roots holding you down.
I had yet to learn this while in Australia and kept searching for a solution to run again. I met another Exercise Science student who was determined to correct my running form. And he did. Or rather, we did, together.
But the knee pain was still there; the roots were still buried.
Before I left for my trip, I was seeing a physical therapist two times a week to help with my knee pain. I did this for over a year and saw little to no results because I still wasn’t listening to my body.
I was running to and from physical therapy appointments, revving my assigned exercises up to the highest level of intensity, and abandoning rest.
But I never took the blame for my knee pain. Instead, I told others, “I have bad knees.” Still, I get caught telling this lie when I’ve overdone it and my knees let me know.
My knees are not bad, but I’ve spent years calling them names; I have spent years talking about them in a negative light and neglecting the messages they try to send.
I recently had this realization, and although I’m much more loving toward my body now, I still get caught blaming it for its reactions to how I treat it or have treated it in the past.
Flipping the narrative means taking accountability, and taking accountability is a spotlight on you in a dark room full of people.
What I’ve learned, though, is no one else has the power to dig up our buried roots. Other people can shift the soil on top of and around the roots, but only we can get to the true source of our problems.
Yoga led me to dig up my roots.
Again, it was the middle of winter and I was feeling eager to try something new. Traveling broadens your perspective and gives you a heightened sense of awareness.
My Australian sister (AKA really good friend) had asked me if I had ever tried yoga, and I laughed and said something to the extent that I could never.
But then I got home and thought: maybe I could. That tends to be the case with the things I swear I’ll never do. It’s a fun challenge and game I like to play to prove myself wrong.
So, I browsed the class schedule at the campus rec center and chose an evening time later in the week.
When I walked in, I grabbed one of the loaner mats and tried not to think about the hundreds of bodies that had sweated on it before me. I laid down and closed my eyes, doing my best to put aside any judgment and remain open to whatever was about to happen.
That’s when the instructor called out, “Welcome to Buti yoga! Today we are going to be doing a combination of yoga, cardio, pilates, core activation, and tribal dancing!”
Excuse me?
I opened my eyes and quickly sat up, thinking maybe I had shown up to the wrong class. I had assumed that all yoga was the same and consisted of stretching, bending, and breathing only. But not this class; this class was an energetic ball of fire — and it was amazing.
By the end, I felt high and found myself in a pile of tears and laughter in Savasana (Corpse Pose).
What just happened? I asked myself. Before I could answer my own question, I was back in class again and again and again. For a long time, Buti yoga was how I spent my Friday evenings. I started inviting friends, and I even became friends with the instructor.
Slapping my hands on the ground, moving my hips intuitively, jumping in and out of odd poses, and learning to do my first headstand was exactly what I needed in that season. The release of energy … the playfulness … the empowerment. It all made me feel so alive, free, and — well — high.
Yet, I don’t think I ever would have tried Buti yoga on my own if it weren’t for it being an accident. I would have thought it sounded too weird and difficult. Until that point in my life, I wasn’t into dancing or doing anything where I didn’t look like I was put together.
However, it was in that accidental yoga class and the ones to follow, that I started embracing my femininity and body. I started digging up my roots.
Soon, I became curious about different types of yoga and ventured into my first Hatha — and shortly after — Vinyasa class.
I enjoyed all three types of yoga and would sprinkle them all into my weeks and between my other workouts. Yoga provided me with a mental and emotional release different from running. It forced me — in the most gentle way possible — to get in touch with my inner child and true self.
The mat was like a big set of arms, cradling and comforting me each time I stepped foot on it. I loved the softness that was encouraged and the compassionate words the instructors used. They would say things like:
If it feels good for you, try lifting one leg off the mat.
Notice what your body might need from you today.
Give yourself a big hug.
At first, some of this seemed silly and even childish. I had to look around to make sure other people were giving themselves a hug, too, and I wasn't the only gullible person in the room.
It seemed silly, but it worked.
I’ll never forget the words of one teacher who said, “I know it seems like everyone is watching you as your body folds down into certain poses, but they’re not. We are all too obsessed with ourselves to notice what anyone else is doing in yoga.”
How true.
Soon, I realized it was just me whose approval I needed to earn. And that was a really hard thing to do back then because nothing was ever good enough — especially not me.
I was so used to the no pain, no gain mentality that I never took the time to check in with myself. What did that even mean? I wondered.
Slowly, I started learning; slowly, I started listening. However, it took many yoga classes to push me into uncomfortable positions before I learned to accept my limits and honor my body.
Deep down, I think I was afraid of appearing weak to others and, mostly, to myself. I didn’t want to stand out and assumed I knew what my body needed before actually checking in with it. I have many toxic fitness enthusiasts, non-yoga class instructors, high school, and the media to thank for that.
And although I liked and appreciated the compassionate words of yoga instructors, I didn’t know how to repeat them back to myself. If you can imagine, how the challenge felt was the same way it feels to get paired with a complete stranger for an icebreaker on the first day of school.
Terrifying.
Your body has every answer you need, and you can trust it.
As I’ve started teaching both HIIT and yoga classes in the past year, I’ve noticed many others who struggle to check in with and listen to their bodies. Modifying a pose or movement can be scary when everyone else is doing something different. But it can also be invigorating.
That’s why in all of my classes, I take time to allow for intuitive movement where you close your eyes and just let your body move. I guide my students to do what they need to do for their bodies and individual needs throughout the entirety of class, and I never shame them for taking rests.
This is one of my strengths as a teacher, but only because it was first one of my weaknesses as a student.
Over the years, there have been many times I didn’t want to look at myself in the eyes while balancing in front of a mirror. There have been many times I didn’t want to look at myself at all. Instead, I wanted to hide.
But yoga — over and over — tenderly aided me to meet with myself in new and compassionate ways. Even when there was no mirror, I started to see myself as a more whole and complete version than before.
I became my own friend and learned to tell my eating disorder to kindly get lost.
Slowness is scary, but so is carrying lies and shame forever.
Over the past six years, yoga has remained a part of my life in some way and I have — at some point — tried just about every form; Core Power, Ariel, Restorative, Ashtanga, Bikram, Yin, and even Beer and Laughing Yoga.
I’ve done challenges, taken courses, and have shared the practice with whoever will let me because I’ve experienced its transformation and I want that for other people, too.
The biggest step in this direction was making my yoga instructing official by getting my Yoga Teacher Training Certificate in Peru. It was here that I learned and got to experience some of the non-physical benefits of yoga as well.
My return home from Peru came right alongside the crunch of colorful leaves on the ground; When the days became shorter, the air crisper, and the seasons started changing from summer to fall.
Every other day or so, I’ve walked out to the garden to dig up the last of this year’s harvest. I’ve been digging up roots.
This transition into fall has felt symbolic in many ways, but mainly, it’s reminded me of the many seasons I’ve lived, and the new one I am entering into unbound by my past.
It’s fresh, scary, but oh so exciting.
Carly Newberg is a yoga instructor, photographer, and non-niche writer passionate about authentic storytelling. Carly published her memoir, Good Enough, in 2020 and is now a regular contributor on Medium. She's had articles featured in publications such as Insider, Well & Good, and Dame.