Rediscovering Yoga to Quiet a Racing Mind

“And now, if you’re comfortable, tuck into a crow pose.”

I relax my body out of the deep squat that I’ve wrangled my stiff limbs into and glance around the ring of yogis who have taken over an idyllic meadow in the Austrian Tyrol, wondering if anyone else has no idea what a crow pose is.

Sigrid Pichler, our intrepid yoga instructor for the morning, speaks in soothing tones, matching the peaceful energy of the swaying wildflowers and the serenade of cow bells tinkling in the valley below. The rugged ridgelines of nearby peaks add to the picturesque setting, providing me with a sense of calm and ease despite feeling completely out of my depth, having left my comfort zone the minute I rolled out my yoga mat on the soft, spongy grass.

Six months ago, I was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. It was a delayed diagnosis of about 30 years as my symptoms are mostly internal, presenting as inattentiveness that I learned to mask at an early age. The storm that followed my diagnosis was one of anger and grief—the dark, clouded thoughts of my anxious brain had finally boiled over, leaving me untethered to what this new reality entailed. While I finally had an explanation for my racing mind, for my inability to relax or focus, I was lacking any sort of strategy to try and calm my brain and accept what felt like lost years of my life due to a missed diagnosis in my childhood.

Cue an invite to attend the ninth Mountain Yoga Festival held in St. Anton am Arlberg in the heart of the Austrian Alps. Billed as four days of yoga, meditation, fresh air, and community, the festival offers a spectacular natural setting that will inspire even the most reluctant attendees. And a reluctant attendee I am, having tried yoga in the past but quickly found I was unable to connect to the practice in any meaningful way. In fact, it has been 12 years since I last attempted a yoga class—specifically yin yoga—tucked into pretzel pose after pretzel pose, holding each one for what felt like an eternity as I tried, and failed, to quiet my racing mind.

The mountains, however, have always been a place where my feet have felt on solid ground: the one place that calms my anxious mind, the one place that brings me peace, and the one place where I can be fully present in who I am.

 

So it was only with some trepidation that I accepted the invitation, and that’s how I find myself in a sun-drenched mountain meadow, enjoying yoga for the first time in my life.

It’s only when I observe that a crow pose involves removing my feet from solid ground and resting my knees on my upper arms that my enjoyment begins to waver, and my thoughts begin to spiral. If I don’t have my feet to steady me, what is to stop me from toppling over? How can I possibly fold my body into this precarious, unbalanced shape? What am I even doing here?

The moment of uncertainty and doubt brings me back to my initial diagnosis: how unsteady I felt, how unsure I was about who I am outside of who I am expected to be, how my thoughts raced as if I were clicking through the dozens upon dozens of open tabs on my computer browser, trying to find the answers to what I’m now figuring out are unanswerable questions.

I take a deep breath. I inhale, then exhale, pulling air into my lungs, sending the calming energy that radiates from Pichler—and this group I have unexpectedly found community with—throughout my body. I press my hands into the mat, feel the grass on either side of it tickle my forearms. I draw energy from the rich earth below me.

I concentrate on lifting one foot at a time, expelling fear and doubt with each exhale, attempting to embrace each wobble of my hips and the shaking in my arms. I’m so consumed with the physicality of the pose that my mind, for once, is quiet.

I topple over. I try again. I topple over once more. When I finally reach a place where I can hold the pose for just a few seconds, I let the power of the position pulse through my limbs and savour the strength I feel in that moment. And when I collapse on my yoga mat at the end of the session, I have a sense of control over what, for much of my life, has felt uncontrollable.

I pack up and hike back to town feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

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