Page 22 of Playing for the Hat Trick
I breathe through it.
Or try.
“Let your body guide you. Movement without judgment. Breath without resistance.”
I try.
I really do.
But all I can think about is how my hamstring feels like it’s hanging on by a thread, my brace is one wrong stretch from carving into my shin, and I’m surrounded by people who look like they genuinely enjoy this. Like this hour of controlled torture and inner release is the highlight of their week.
I don’t belong in this room. I don’t belong on this mat. And whatever fascia-related grief I’m supposed to be releasing? Yeah, it’s still very much in residence—unless I don’t have one, and this woman is making shit up.
Seriously, I’m supposed to let this woman guide me into emotional release?
She catches me staring. Not in the ‘he’s checking me out’ way. More like ‘he looks like he wants to bolt and I’m debating whether to call him out’ way.
Her gaze lingers. One beat. Two.
Then, she offers a slight nod. Nothing more. And somehow, that pisses me off more than if she’d welcomed me with a “Namaste, wounded warrior.”
I lie back, staring at the ceiling, feeling the tight pull behind my knee and something else low in my stomach. Something not entirely welcome, given that I’m supposed to be focusing on healing, breath, fascia grief, or whatever.
I close my eyes and try to follow the instructor’s voice. Her tone is low and fluid, more like a slow drag than a motivational speech.
“Let your body move without judgment. Let go of control and allow space for trust.”
Trust.
Yeah, sure.
Let me just uncoil over a decade’s worth of trauma and internalized performance anxiety while my knee buzzes with betrayal.
Fuck me sideways.
This is gonna be a long class.
The instructor cues a gentle spinal twist.
I follow—kind of. I do it slowly and cautiously, like my joints are trying to predict sabotage.
My hip complains. My quad tenses. My knee?
It doesn’t scream this time, exactly. More like it throws a silent tantrum. Not pain. But tight. Guarded. Bracing itself for a fall that hasn’t happened yet.
I try to breathe through it.
Inhale, hold, exhale—like I’m not picturing myself snapping in half halfway through a stretch, which someone named Willow could do in her sleep.
Next up is cat-cow. The instructor demonstrates—fluid, effortless. I attempt to copy her.
Hands flat to the mat. Shoulders shaking like I’m on the losing end of a push-up challenge. I arch my back and try to drop my head, but I stop when my weight shifts even a centimeter toward my knee.
This is a fucking no.
Hard no.
Not happening.
