Updated August 7, 2026 01:58PM
Before I embraced a full-on yoga practice, I charged along the city streets oblivious to the world around me. Whether I was racing to work or simply on my way to meet friends, I was trapped in my head, navigating people, dogs, bikes and baby carriages while wrestling with personal and professional challenges. I was impenetrable.
Now that I’m deep into my practice, my walk to class has become me-time. Toting my mat, I float away in my peaceful, introspective, and—on really nice days—poetic little bubble. I imagine the day ahead or simply debate between getting a sweet or savory scone. Sure, there are times I desperately want to solve all the problems in the world, but not on my way to yoga. Yoga is everything that is right in my world.
Then it happens—POP! Someone bursts my bubble. I’m jolted by tranquility interruptus.
Something about my mat and my at-ease vibe encourages seemingly every single tourist to pick me out of the crowd to ask for directions to the Highline, the F Train or Eataly. I welcome the opportunity to demonstrate that, contrary to popular belief and sitcom jokes, New Yorkers don’t bite. Of course, this newfound openness also invites literally anyone to step right up with their spirited delusions:
- “You know the Grateful Dead? I toured with the Grateful Dead.” (I want this to be true for the man who said this to me. I certainly have no reason to doubt this.)
- “You are possessed. I can see the devil inside you.” (Did we work together?!)
- “I have 47 grandchildren and they’re all named Bob. Even the girls.” (He sounded like an old stand-up comic who couldn’t remember his own punch line.)
I soon realized that my yoga mat brands me as a person who is open, friendly and approachable. Yoga people certainly don’t bite. So I’m a prime target for anyone seeking any sort of connection. Most of these connections are fleeting but also surprisingly valuable—fast moments that send me and the other person back into the world with a renewed sense of purpose.
The No Me-Time Mom
One morning, a woman with two kids and a bulging briefcase joins me in our apartment building’s elevator. After an exchange of smiles, she strikes a confessional tone.
“I used to do yoga. I need to get back to it,” she tells me. But life is complicated: kids, a legal career, an aging dog, and a husband who travels way too much. “I always felt so great after a yoga class,” she adds.
“You know, you can’t take care of others if you don’t take care of yourself,” I reply, sounding less like myself and more like the all-knowing voiceover in a biblical movie from the 1950s.
The elevator doors open with a ding and with a sweeping hand gesture, I send her out into the world. Two months later, we meet again in the same elevator. This time she’s carrying a mat on the way to her new favorite yoga class, “Thanks to you!” she says. She has the energy of someone who’s just been freed from a body cast.
“I owe you. Big time,” she says.
“You don’t owe me anything,” I say.
“No. I should buy you a car. Or some Apple stock.”
“Maybe a coffee.”
“At the very least. Yoga changed me for the better.” Clearly her girls listen to the Wicked soundtrack.
Will she become a new friend, I wonder? Maybe. Maybe not. But I realized that yoga has a way of bringing people together—whether they want to be or not.
The NYC Newbie
I’m looking in the window at a doggy-day-care; there are about twenty-five dogs who are all really excited to see each other. Just as I’m thinking, “We should be more like dogs,” I hear a voice.
“You do yoga. I do yoga. Where do you practice?”
I spin around. There’s a forlorn-looking young woman desperately trying to push her face into a happy place.
“You must be new to New York,” I say.
“How can you tell?” she asks.
“You have that look. I call it ‘What have I done??’ face.”
She takes a breath to push back tears. Usually, I’d assume I’m about to be scammed. But I can feel her aloneness.
“Welcome to New York. We’ve all been right where you are. It’s a rite of passage,” I tell her.
This leads to a 10-block walk. In a nervous stream-of-consciousness, she recaps the last three months of her life: graduated, went to Asia with her boyfriend, they moved to New York, he’s an artist and she wants a career in PR, and last night he announced that he met somebody else and is moving to Buffalo. Buffalo? She only moved here because of him.
“For him, actually,” she says.
I extend a proposition. “Come to class with me.”
Class ends. She’s calmer. She’s not cured of all her fears and confusion, but there are no tears threatening to streak down her face. As she wipes down her mat, the yogi next to her asks, “You’re new?”
“First time here. Yes. I just moved to the city,” she says.
“Oh my god—me too. Crazy, right?”
My girl can only nod since “crazy” has a whole different meaning for her.
“And fun, right?”
Again, my girl can’t muster a response.
“If you’re not having fun, you haven’t met the right people. Give me your number…”
As I make my way onto the street, she runs up behind me.
“Thank you. I owe you—”
“You don’t owe me a thing but you can do me a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Always remember to breathe. Make calm your new superpower.” This is getting weird. In this moment, I sound like a yogi myself.
“How do you know so much? Are you a therapist?”
“Nope. But I’ve got some great yoga teachers,” I reply.
I still see her now and then, racing around with her yoga mat and a pack of new friends. We always have a big hug for each other. She didn’t find her dream job but she found a new dream—working for a non-profit. Yoga does that. It’s a bridge to a stranger, or a connection to a new friend. It can help you find yourself—and maybe a new story of you.
The “HEY!” Man
Standing at a corner, held in limbo by a DON’T WALK sign, a sparkly-eyed pop-pop on my left leans closer.“You’re one of those yoga people.”
“I am.” Oddly, I sound like an opera singer.
“My daughter does yoga,” he says. He reaches for a joke. “All I know is namaste, whatever that means.”
“It’s a greeting. Like hello. Or goodbye.”
“Back in my day, we called it stretching. Use it or lose it, they say. I can’t do half of what I used to do. I was an outfielder. I wasn’t a Yankee but I was in the minors. They always counted on me to steal third.”
Stranded in this sea of people lost in their phones, there’s something comforting about his neighborliness. He reaches into a CVS bag and pulls out a new package of Voltaren.
“This stuff is a miracle. It keeps me moving.”
“You know, yoga might be good for you, too.”
“Now you sound like my daughter. She talks to me like I’m an old man. You know, if I could stand up straight, I’d be as tall as you.”
Interesting, I think, that he doesn’t see himself as old. Neither do I. In my head, I’m me 30 years ago. His secret weapon is Voltaren. Mine is yoga. As we get the signal to WALK, we march forward chatting like we’ve known each other forever. Two blocks later, we head off in different directions, leaving each other with a friendly nod and genuine wish for a good day. Three steps later, I hear, “Hey, yoga guy!” I turn around and he screams out, ‘NAMASTE!”
