It’s late morning on a Thursday, and my legs are being ripped apart in a small, brilliantly sunlit building just off Santa Barbara Street. Seven people have their hands on me, pulling and pushing my body parts to and fro as an instructor encourages me to resist their efforts with all my might.
My hips and hamstrings scream with a blend of pain and pleasure; my torso, held against a wooden board by both hands and straps, writhes with conviction. As the dance of pulling and pushing and resisting deepens, a strangely hot and thick sweat builds from my insides out as my brain becomes acutely aware of the physical process of thinking. I feel something breaking inside of me — a good sort of break, accompanied by an oddly calming rush of fear and exhilaration that rises with each breath and torque of my limbs.
I’m at least five minutes past my comfort zone when the instructor tells everyone to stop and commands me to get up and “see how that feels.” As I rise from the mat, my surroundings fade away, and, for the first time in years, I stand effortlessly, without pain or cracking bones or popping joints. “I feel perfect,” I report with a giggle and stupid grin, “completely perfect.”
