When Jozef first invited me to go to a yoga class with him at the studio he’s been going to, I said, “Maybe,” by which I meant, no, I don’t think I want to do that, but I’m a compulsive people-pleaser and still have trouble saying no.

Jozef knew that, of course—you can’t (or at least shouldn’t) be married without understanding each other’s communication quirks—and gently encouraged me to reconsider. “It’s a restorative yoga class,” he said. “It’s basically just lying down and listening to Tibetan singing bowls.” And when that wasn’t enough to sell me on it, he added, “Plus, for Pride Month, the studio is offering a free first session.”

Even that didn’t really sell me on it—I don’t know what did. All I know is I agreed to go with him to one class, and then I agreed to go back. And to go back again. And again. And again.

I have taken yoga classes before, as a requirement in college. I’ve done other sorts of workouts, too: strength training, dance aerobics, HIIT, running. Nothing ever stuck for more than a couple months at a time. Jo asks me to do yoga with him all the time, most often in our living room with a Yoga with Adriene video on the television, and while I occasionally acquiesce, I far more frequently decline. So it was a surprise when I went to that first restorative yoga class and found myself wanting to go back. That feeling of surprise pushed me to ask why—why have I been so resistant to yoga in the past, and why is this form of yoga compelling me to actually maintain a practice? It’s been a little over a month since I started going to restorative yoga classes with Jo, and I’ve been slowly coming to understand the answers to those questions.

Restorative yoga, if you haven’t heard of it, is a gentle style of yoga that aims for deep relaxation. Asanas—poses, shapes—are set up using bolsters, blankets, blocks, and other props. Then, they’re held for an extended period of time (in my experience, anywhere from five to fifteen minutes). You settle into the stillness of the shape, let your body relax into it. In the classes Jo and I go to, we usually hold five or six different poses over the course of an hour and fifteen minutes. Sometimes, the instructor plays the Tibetan singing bowls. Sometimes, gentle music plays softly over the speakers. Sometimes, we remain in silence.

If you Google “restorative yoga,” one of the questions under the “People also ask” section is: Why do I cry during restorative yoga? I cry, too, though it isn’t something I have felt the need to research. My body holds the answer to that question—I can find it on my own, as long as I am willing to look.

I go to yoga and think about not thinking.

I focus on my breath. Sometimes, we do a breathing exercise as a group, but more often, we settle into our own natural rhythms. We observe our own inhalations and exhalations, notice how they sound, how they feel.

I think about the stress of work, the pains and frustrations of the day: minor inconveniences, major conflicts.

I remember that I’m not supposed to be thinking—certainly not about work. I return my attention to my breath. I hear Jo breathing beside me, much more deeply and slowly. I try not to compare my breathing to his. I compare anyway: I wonder what it means that my breath is always so shallow. I tell myself to stop comparing. I return my attention to my breath.

I think about my parents. My father, dying. My mother, stressed. The tension between us—my life, so different from theirs, so different from what they expected for me, a perpetual source of conflict. I can feel my love for them, and theirs for me, in the rise and fall of my chest. And beneath that, I feel… what? Fear, sadness, frustration. Fear of losing them from my life. Sadness that my dad is sick, sadness that my parents have had to reorganize their lives around illness. Frustration that our relationship is shaped by so much disagreement. And beneath the fear, sadness, frustration? More love. Always, love.

I remember that I shouldn’t be thinking. I return my attention to my body in this shape. Tension in my neck, shoulders, and back slowly releases like rubber bands snapping back to looseness—a stretch, some pain, and then a settling. Observe without judging, I remind myself.

I think about an old friend, about whom I rarely allow myself to think. One memory or another breaks into my consciousness, disrupting the slow scan of my body. Sometimes happy: a laughter-filled conversation over lunch, the banter of a mock disagreement. Sometimes sad: a gentle reassurance offered in response to my tears, the silence of a disappeared friendship. Either way, the memories are sharp—stabbing pain like a migraine.

I blink away tears and remember to think about not thinking. When I struggle to maintain that mental stillness, I conjure up an image to hold in my mind. A dandelion growing with each inhale, its seeds dispersing with each exhale. Or a whale’s slow drift through open waters, the gentle sway of its tail in time with my breath.

I scan my body once again. I pay attention to each muscle, whether it is caught in the gentle motion of my breathing or held in the stillness of the shape. I shift my attention to each muscle in turn—feeling their connection to one another, but not observing them as a whole. I carefully avoid thinking about my body as my body. When my hands are placed on my stomach, I allow myself to feel the warmth of my palms without thinking about the thick roundness of my belly, which has for so long been a source of embarrassment for me. When my thighs are resting on a bolster, I let them soften without wondering how the muscle and fat has spread wide. If judgment worms its way into my focus, I return to the dandelion, the whale.

The instructor rubs their hands together, then inhales and exhales deeply—signals to us that they are about to interrupt the silence. “Come back to the room,” they say. “When you’re ready, begin some small movements: wiggle your fingers and toes, roll your wrists and ankles, maybe your neck. Find your way to a seated position.” Then, they guide us into the next shape.

In the past, yoga has not been a source of pleasure for me. I have felt awkward, unbalanced, ashamed of my body. I have moved too slowly or breathed too heavily. I have left classes red-faced and weary.

Now, I wonder if I just haven’t been ready for those yoga practices. Perhaps I’ve needed something like restorative yoga as an opportunity to get acquainted with my body. As I relax into the shapes, I relax into myself. With each new posture, it becomes easier for me to keep my attention on the present, the stillness, the breath. I am distracted less often, focused on the depth of my rest. My body becomes a body—free from my judgments or concerns or frustrations. There is nothing awkward about sinking into that stillness. There is nothing shameful about that body; it merely exists.

That is not to say I am ever completely without distraction. My life is spent chucking stones into my subconscious, muddying my mind with endless distractions. The stillness of restorative yoga allows the detritus to settle. The water clears, and thoughts from the depths begin to emerge—whether I want them to or not.

I discussed this with Jo and some of our friends. I told them I’m afraid I’m not “good” at restorative yoga because I can’t maintain a still silence, or a silent stillness.

They reminded me that restorative yoga is a practice like any other. Thoughts will crash onto the shore and draw away, again and again. I don’t have to engage with them—I can observe them and let them retreat back into my watery subconscious.

I can simply be.

There is no room for “good” or “bad” in restorative yoga. My thoughts, my body, my breath—everything just is, free from judgment.

And yes, maybe I would like to be stronger or more balanced. But I can’t become those things if I hate my body. For a long time, I thought I would have to love my body first; restorative yoga has empowered me to shift my focus from body positivity to body neutrality. My body isn’t an object of hate or love—it is only a vessel that carries me through life.

As my body—and my mindset about my body—relaxes in restorative yoga, I find myself more comfortable moving through the world. I find greater pleasure in what my body allows me to do: kneel in the garden to tend to the plants, have sex with my husband, play fetch and tug with our dog, walk around the museum or the park, stretch out on the daybed to watch Love Island, stand at the sink scrubbing dishes, carry groceries in from the car, write the first draft of my novel by hand, draw with crayons and colored pencils in my sketchbook, stitch quilts, curl up for a nap, eat ice cream straight from the pint. I can feel the desire to expand my capacity building, slowly but surely. And not just my capacity to do, but my capacity to think and to feel. There is so much under the surface demanding my attention; with time and practice, I believe I will be better able to give that attention to what needs it most. What could be more pleasurable than that?