Bodies, Bodies, Bodies
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Class had been hot and especially sweaty; I peeled off my soaking wet leggings and sports bra and felt incremental relief each time the fan rotated in my direction. The locker room was a tight squeeze of women, chatter of brunch plans and kids’ soccer games floating in the spaces between. Monique—who I’d been practicing alongside since I started at this studio—had struck up a conversation with someone who seemed to be a loose acquaintance, maybe a friend of a friend. I kept my attention there.
“Is it always that hot?” the acquaintance asked. After confirming it had been more humid than usual, Monique went on, unprompted, “You should stick with it, though. 26&2 has done so much for me…”
I knew exactly where she was headed. For the uninitiated, 26&2 yoga is more widely known as Bikram, after the teacher who amended and popularized the series with Western practitioners (the name has been mostly phased out for reasons of clichéd guru misconduct, and I’ll leave it at that). Each class consists of the same 26 postures and two breathing exercises, done in the same order every time, and always in 105º heat. I somehow stumbled into it at age 37—coming out of a depressive episode and at the height of an intense period of workaholism—and realized immediately that I’d been paying attention to everything but my actual self.
Monique continued. “I’ve always had issues around my body…”
Across 60, 75, and 90-minute class formats, making near-uninterrupted eye contact with your own reflection is something of a requirement. Acknowledging my corporeal for that amount of time probably should not have been the revelation it was, but the disconnect between my mind and body was vast. Within weeks of starting a regular practice I could feel the two forming a tentative sort of peace; for the first time in my life I could correlate my energy levels and mood with what I’d eaten, how I’d slept, and whether I’d moved enough that day. I drank less. My weight stopped fluctuating. Dysmorphia softened into appreciation, then eventually pride.
“...and it’s done so much for my self-esteem,”
Yes, I thought, exactly. In the hot room I am an athlete, I am a Roman statue, and I am never not f-cking flying, because it’s obscenely empowering to show up exactly as you are and be rewarded for your own perseverance (the rewards might be sweat and a modicum of progress, but they are rewards nonetheless). With time and compassion, the heat will become background rather than a barrier, and it’s the state in which you show up—mentally and physically—that keeps an otherwise repetitive series of postures from becoming in any way stale. You’ll never have the same class twice, and getting to the end of one will never not feel like a victory.
“I didn’t play sports or anything growing up…”
Well I did, Monique, and let me tell you—as an adult, the structure and discipline required of 26&2 is a real turn-on. It’s got a deserved reputation for being intense, but at its core it’s a “beginner’s series,” which, among other, more nuanced definitions, means everyone is good at it. You’ve won simply by showing up and staying in the room. It’s only (and exactly) as grueling as you want it to be, and the strictures function as guardrails against injury and distraction, both for yourself and those around you. This is an individual sport that blossoms into a communal one, and listening in on Monique’s convo had me feeling newly bonded to her in both practice and perspective.
“...so I never spent much time in locker rooms,” she continued.
Oh, okay. Wait. What?
Her voice dropped in volume, and she leaned in, almost whispering. “But it turns out everyone’s body is, well…..”
A pause. A pause? Monique?
“Everyone’s body is weird,” she blurted out, and then I swear to G-d she took a furtive glance in my direction. Naked and sweat-soaked, full bush blazing, I was, at that moment, in a half-crouch pulled straight from the Evolution of Man diagram, aggressively flapping a hand towel over my legs in an attempt to dry them. We made brief and confusing eye contact.
Undeterred, she brought it home: “Everyone’s body is weird in its own way, you know? And that made me feel so much better.”
Sure, Monique. There’s that too, I guess.
“Bodies, Bodies, Bodies” emailed out 6.9.2026 with newsletter-exclusive extras. Subscribe for free here.