Where Love Heals

I get it now. I finally understand the hype around hot yoga.

If you’re even remotely able-bodied and reading this, do yourself a favor—take advantage of that $49 unlimited month at Sol Yoga in La Jolla. Back home, I could get ten sessions for ten bucks, so yeah… I definitely questioned my sanity handing over my card. But then again, I’m not in Tennessee anymore.

For three months, I kept telling myself I’d try it—this trendy, incense-scented, hipster ritual of sweat and stillness. And after two straight days of beignets, cider, and mimosas with friends, a seven-day “detox” felt like a reasonable way to pretend I had my life together again.
So I stocked up on lemon water, cucumber slices, kale, berries—the whole cliché—and finally committed. Thirty days at Sol Yoga. Today was day one.
And honestly? I needed it more than I realized.

Lately, I’ve been trying to find my way back to myself—back to that quiet, steady place I had only just begun to recognize as peace. Somewhere between the move, the memories, and the sudden absence of someone I thought would still be here… I lost it.

Last night wasn’t restful. It was the kind of night where sleep comes in fragments, where you wake up at 6 a.m. with tear-streaked cheeks and a chest full of questions that don’t have answers. The kind where the ceiling becomes your only company, and your “I just need to cry tonight” playlist says everything you can’t.

I don’t fall into sadness often. It’s not who I am. But yesterday… yesterday felt heavy. Not quite broken—just dimmed. Gloomy.
Losing someone you believed in—someone you felt deeply connected to—doesn’t just leave a gap. It echoes. And for the first time since I moved, loneliness showed up loud and uninvited.

Staying in bed all day would’ve been easy.
But that’s not who I am either.
So I got up. Filled my water bottle. Grabbed my mat, a towel, and whatever motivation I could piece together—and drove to La Jolla.

Walking into Sol Yoga felt like stepping into a different world. If peace had a physical form, it would look exactly like that studio. White walls, soft light, tiny waterfalls trickling over smooth stones, and people who seemed to glide rather than walk. Everything—and everyone—was effortlessly calm, like they had mastered something I was still trying to understand.

And then there was me. Trying to look graceful. Trying to feel centered. Faking a kind of ballerina-zen I absolutely do not possess.

Heidi, the instructor, was warm and grounding. But then I got handed off to the “orientation lady,” whose energy could best be described as… aggressively structured. She pointed—sharply—to everything: water station, bathroom, amenities, showers.
And then she showed me the hot room.
“This is the hot room. Once you come in here, you can’t really leave.”
Cool. Love that for me.

So naturally, my brain went: This is it. This is how I go. Found lifeless in a 100-degree yoga studio because I thought I needed a detox.
Thankfully, she eventually clarified that yes, I could leave if I needed to. Small but important detail.

Then Heidi came back in, grounding the room again with her calm encouragement. “You guys are beasts,” she said. “Today’s a beautiful day.” And somehow, I believed her.

For about five minutes.

Because the moment we started—just standing, breathing—I was already drenched. Not glistening. Not lightly sweating. I mean pouring. Like I had walked straight into a rainstorm.

And even though Heidi kept reminding us not to compare ourselves to others… it’s hard not to when you’re questioning whether you’re about to sweat yourself into another dimension.

But somewhere in the middle of all that heat, all that discomfort, something shifted.

Heidi kept repeating one thing: Look yourself in the eyes.
The room was lined with mirrors. There was no escaping your own reflection. And for me, that was the hardest part of the entire class.

I avoided it at first—staring at my feet, my legs, the back of someone else’s head. Anywhere but directly at myself.
Because really seeing yourself—without distraction, without filters—is confronting. But eventually, I tried. And it wasn’t easy. It’s humbling to admit how difficult it is to look into your own eyes without immediately noticing every insecurity, every flaw, every quiet criticism you carry around. I could list them all. I’ve rehearsed them enough.
But instead, I chose to look deeper. And beneath all of that noise, I saw something else. I saw strength.
I saw someone who showed up—even when it would’ve been easier not to. Someone who pushed through not just a 90-minute hot yoga class, but a day full of emotional weight. Someone who chose movement over stagnation, effort over self-pity.
I saw resilience. And, unexpectedly, I saw beauty. Not the polished, effortless kind. Not the kind you post or perform. But the kind that exists in being able—to move, to breathe, to endure, to try again.
I wasn’t thinking, Wow, you look amazing right now. I was thinking, Wow, you’re here. You’re doing this. You’re still standing. And that was enough.

By the end of it, something felt lighter.
Not just physically—but emotionally. Like I had wrung out more than just sweat. Like I had released something I didn’t even realize I was holding onto.
And when I walked out of that studio—face flushed, clothes soaked, completely drained—I felt better.
Clearer. Stronger. Softer, somehow.

Even today, it’s already a little easier to look myself in the eyes. Not easy—but easier. And that feels like progress.
So yeah… I get it now.
Hot yoga isn’t just about the heat. It’s about what rises to the surface when you can’t escape yourself—and what you choose to do with it.
If you’re willing to lean into it, to sit in the discomfort, to show up honestly…
Change will meet you there.
I promise.

JMS