By Katie Vagnino
This is what happens when you sign up for a yoga class online and don’t read the fine print.
It is an honest mistake, one I realize the moment I enter the studio and am confronted with posters of women smiling blissfully, their hands delicately placed upon their bulging bellies, legs in lotus position. No bump, no glow, no service?
The women around me are going about their tasks: filling up water bottles, sliding off sandals, tucking errant hairs into ponytails. The instructor enters and begins explaining how to make adjustments to certain poses. She encourages everyone to do what feels comfortable and not worry too much about form.
A few days earlier, I’d been asked by a chatty salesman showing me cellphone accessories if I had any kids. Before I could answer, he told me his wife was having their first, a boy, in a month.
“Everything’s gonna change,” he’d said, grinning and shaking his head.
Leading us into pranayama breathing, the instructor tells us to set an intention for today’s practice. Please don’t let them find me out. Many of the women aren’t showing yet. I close my eyes.
At thirty-six, I am in advanced maternal age; any pregnancy would automatically be categorized as high risk. When my mother was this age, she had two kids and a third on the way. I have a cousin who is twenty-three and just got engaged. She and her fiancé are buying a house in Scottsdale. When I was her age, I was living above a bodega in Brooklyn, commuting ninety minutes every day on the subway to a job on the Upper East Side that paid me $10 an hour. I did not have healthcare or a husband. Neither seemed particularly necessary.
Focus on the breath. Soften your gaze. As I flow through each position, raise my arms to the ceiling with each sun salutation, I can almost convince myself I am expecting. I imagine a stirring in my belly as I gingerly fold over at the waist, fingertips brushing the mat. With each inhale, I grow more purposeful, strong, primal. I am no longer self-conscious about the sweat dripping down my clavicle as I bend into my warrior pose. Breathing in unison with the rest of the class, I feel grounded, connected to these women by the important work our bodies are doing.
My body is capable—a fact I am reminded of every time I give blood and they ask if I am now, or ever have been, pregnant.
Yes.
How many times?
Once.
How long ago?
Eleven years ago.
Did you miscarry?
No.
Sometimes I want to tell the Red Cross volunteer my story. How I thought I had food poisoning and my mother came with me to the ER. How as soon as the doctor asked her to leave the room, I knew. How I wrestled over whether to tell the boyfriend I had already broken up with. How the decision didn’t feel like a decision at all given that I was about to start graduate school. How I almost never think about the fifth grader I would be raising had I not had a choice, or made a different one. My body was capable then, but who knows if it is now. I might not ever find out.
Savasana—corpse pose. I smile at the irony of a room full of women carrying life inside them pretending to be lifeless. The energy from our communal effort begins to dissipate. As I sink down into my mat and my pulse slows, calmness washes over me. I think of the men I might have married, the places I might have lived, what my life might look like if I hadn’t decided to go back to school. But really, I have no idea what that life is like. All I know is that it isn’t mine.
Namaste.
Katie Vagnino
Katie Vagnino is a poet, educator, and freelance writer based in Minneapolis. She has published essays and reviews in the Star Tribune, Time Out New York, Role Reboot, and The Establishment, and her poetry has appeared in literary journals and been featured on public transit. You can read more of her work at www.katievagnino.com.