I was so vastly under-prepared for a naked yoga class.
Proven to me and the rest of the world as I made my way to one a few weeks ago, climbing into an Uber wearing a… dress, of all things.
I was headed to a small studio in Sydney’s inner-west for a night of naked yoga - a three hour class for vulva-owners that focused on de-sexualising nudity, embracing vulnerability and shifting it into courage. Not only do I love yoga, I also love to regularly hitch myself to the self-help-spirituality-bulls**t bandwagon, so this felt right up my alley.
However, I quickly learned that embracing that much vulnerability is not meant to be easy.
Here are all the things I wish I had known before spending my Saturday night doing yoga, completely nude.
1. The nerves will sink in.
Somehow, I’d managed to not feel nervous in the week leading up to the class.
However, as I ‘got ready’ early on the Saturday evening, I was inundated with bizarre internal questions - the most probing one being ‘what on earth should I wear?’.
I was going to Newtown, in Sydney’s inner west, and I’d casually told my housemates I was just headed out for drinks - hoping to avoid an awkward chat. I also knew I’d end up naked, so as I tied myself up in awkward knots on the inside, I put on one of my comfiest dresses, sandals, and a denim jacket. While it absolutely did not matter because, spoiler alert, I did indeed end up naked, I did feel more silly in the end over my outfit choice than anything that happened in the class.
Captured the outfit on my way to the class. Image: Supplied.
2. It’s easy-ish to be honest with a room full of strangers.
Coming into the class, my run-of-the-mill insecurities came to the forefront.
Lately, I’ve been sucking my stomach in, berating my crumpled-looking face the morning after a night out, creating a daily practice of hating my boobs and being mad at myself for never finding a well-fitting bra for my entire life – all feeding into a long list of reasons I wanted to do this class in the first place.
Beyond these, as I've travelled further into my 20s, I've also begun to feel tired of the constant pressure I've been putting on myself to be smaller, or fitter, or different in any way.
I’d found yoga (with clothes) to be really liberating – working as a band-aid solution for the above noise in my brain.
The meditative effect of the practice - which comes from a focus on the breath - can reduce activity in the limbic system, which is the part of the brain that houses your emotions. And I figured, if I was going to let go of these hang-ups, it would have to be from a place of peace.
We weren’t even naked as the class began, but as we sat in a circle, clutching our robes and sarongs, we were encouraged to introduce ourselves and talk about why we’d come along for the evening. The facilitator was very forthright and honest about her own experiences, which put me at ease. Plus, I was pretty confident I would never see any of these women again - and would I even recognise them in actual clothes?
No holds barred, I told the women in the room how I’d been born with mild cerebral palsy, and I’d always resented myself for it, even if I was only a little bit different to everyone else.
It was a difference I carried through the awkwardness of high school, through any attempt to play sport, walk in heels, go on dates, as I bore the weight of wanting to constantly explain myself.
I was tired, and I told them just that, hoping to leave as much of it as possible in the studio once I walked out.
3. You will care how you look, but not that much.
A big part of ‘naked yoga’, especially for the company whose workshop I chose to attend, is about desexualising nudity.
Growing up attending a conservative Christian college, I was very well-versed in modesty. I was put off low necklines and high hemlines even after I left school, but going starkers for three hours in a room of strangers? I could see my old teachers clutching their pearls in horror.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t hard to choose to remove my sarong as soon as the yoga started. Without clothes, I could very clearly see the functionality of my body, the muscles that tensed and released as I moved through the poses.
After a few minutes, I was bored of worrying about the roll of my stomach or the wobble in my thighs, or the fact that I completely forgot to shave my legs. My body was just a body, doing what bodies do - moving through the world.
4. Vulnerability is tough. Shared vulnerability is tougher.
A three-hour yoga class would turn even the most adventurous yogi off, so I was relieved to realise only about a third of the class would be spent doing yoga. But I was less relieved when I realised some interaction would be involved.
Sharing at the start had been challenging, but now I’d have to chat one-on-one about the ways I was hoping to turn my vulnerability into courage.
The hardest part, however, was when we were asked to look into each other’s eyes for the length of an entire song. I didn’t know it, so I couldn’t judge how much time was actually passing, but every time a cymbal clashed, I’d twitch in anticipation as my mind raced.
Does my face look weird? Is my mouth twitching? Can I look away for a second and look back?
But, just as with yoga, eventually, my mind calmed itself and I was able to look into the eyes of this stranger, feeling the intensity ebb and eventually subside as my face just did what it did. What a boring concept - to have a face. I soon saw no point in actually worrying about it.
5. The vulnerability hangover is real.
It felt somewhat self-indulgent to spend so much time thinking about myself, my body, and my hang-ups, so when I left, I felt kind of lost.
In the class, we’d discussed ‘removing the layers’, both physically and emotionally, so when I emerged onto King Street, with its vibrant nightlife pulsing all around me, I actually felt very raw.
I wanted to laugh off my weird, wistful mood with a friend or two, but instead, I kept it to myself for a little while, actually wanting to hold on to the things I had learned.
While I’m definitely not ready to walk back into a naked yoga class - especially one where eye contact is required - I’ve found little ways to pluck out the lessons that apply and use them in my daily life.
As earnest as it sounds, being just a tiny bit grateful for what my body is capable of - clothed or not - has really, really changed my entire perspective.
Naked Awakening was founded by Rosie Rees, a Perth-based sexual wellness entrepreneur. She began holding ‘Women’s Nude Yoga’ workshops in 2015 after practising nude yoga in her own backyard. Soon after, she decided to take her work on tour, going to different cities across the country and offering the workshop to scores of women hoping to empower themselves.
Naked Awakening focuses on de-sexualising and normalising female nudity, as well as turning vulnerability into courage.
You can check out their work here.
Image: Supplied + Mamamia.