My Epic Fail at Yoga Class

By Nadeem Shah

I had one simple goal: stretch a little, breathe deeply, and finally prove to my overworked body that I wasn’t trying to kill it. So, naturally, I signed up for a beginner’s yoga class at the local community center—a place where, I assumed, beginners were welcomed with open arms and maybe a free granola bar.

Instead, I walked into what I now refer to as The Yoga Chronicles: Chapter One — The Fall of My Dignity.

It started innocently enough. The instructor, a serene woman named Sky (because of course her name was Sky), floated into the room like a whisper of eucalyptus oil. She greeted us with a warm smile and a voice so calm I nearly fell asleep before we even started stretching. I glanced around the room—everyone else looked like they’d just stepped off a Himalayan retreat. I had mismatched socks and a pair of gym shorts I found at the bottom of my laundry basket.

Sky led us through some basic breathing exercises. I inhaled. I exhaled. I thought, Hey, I’m kind of good at this. Maybe I was born to yoga.

Then we hit the Downward Dog. And everything went downhill from there. Literally.

I had my hands planted firmly on the mat, or so I thought, until one of them began slowly sliding forward like a reluctant penguin on ice. I tried to adjust, which only caused my feet to slip in the opposite direction. Before I knew it, I was in an accidental full-body plank, trembling like a bridge made of overcooked spaghetti.

“Breathe through the stretch,” Sky said, oblivious.

Stretch? I was clinging to life. My body screamed. My hamstrings filed a formal complaint with HR.

But I wasn’t about to give up. Oh no. I was going to finish that pose or die trying. So, I shifted my weight, tried to recenter myself—and let out a sound that will haunt me forever.

A fart. A loud, unmistakable, traitorous fart.

For a brief moment, the room was silent. Then someone coughed. Another person snorted trying to hold back laughter. I desperately pretended like it didn’t happen, but my face had already turned the color of a ripe tomato marinated in shame.

Sky, the goddess of peace and oblivion, still hadn’t noticed. “Let’s flow into Cobra,” she said gently.

I flowed alright—straight into panic mode. I tried to transition gracefully, but somewhere in the flailing chaos I managed to knock over my water bottle. It rolled across the hardwood floor like a spotlight on my failure, eventually colliding with another yogi’s mat, sending their phone skittering across the room.

I muttered an apology and tried to get up, only to realize I’d somehow wrapped my own ankle into the yoga strap like some kind of amateur magician who failed the escape trick. I tumbled sideways, landing with a dramatic grunt that even Sky couldn’t ignore.

“Ohhh…” she said, finally acknowledging the human disaster unraveling in the back row. “Are you alright?”

“Totally,” I replied, limbs splayed out like a broken action figure. “Just…meditating horizontally.”

By the end of the class, I had sweat in places I didn’t know had sweat glands. I looked like I’d survived a spiritual exorcism. But when I finally rolled up my mat (and pride), a fellow classmate gave me a fist bump.

“You were hilarious, man,” he said. “Best class I’ve had in weeks.”

I grinned, despite myself. Maybe yoga wasn’t about perfect poses or staying silent during accidental body betrayals. Maybe, just maybe, it was about showing up—even if you fall, fart, or face-plant along the way.

Next week? I’ll be back. With grip socks.

Author’s Note:

To anyone who’s ever felt out of place, uncoordinated, or just a little too human—I see you. Keep showing up, keep laughing at yourself, and remember: grace is overrated. Awkwardness is where the real growth happens.

— Nadeem Shah