What's the difference?

When a small gesture leaves a big impact

After a great deal of resistance and a great deal of hesitation, after I promise not to laugh at his inflexibility and promise nobody else will laugh at his inflexibility, on the 47th time I ask my husband to come to yoga, he finally says yes. Not because he actually wants to go to yoga, but because I am annoyingly persistent. 

“Please please pleeeease?! Think of it as a free date!” I suggest convincingly, laying out my case. 

The circumstances, for once, are perfect. Our kids are with my mother-in-law for two glorious nights, leaving us with no plans and free childcare. Plus, I get a free guest pass at my yoga studio each month, and haven’t used it for August yet.

“Why does this matter to you so much?” he asks. 

I let the question hover in the air for a moment, thinking of how often my kids run into my bedroom to show me something. A picture they drew. A LEGO creation they made. A bleeding scab on their knee. Underneath every request lies an opportunity, an invitation to show I care. 

What I say to my husband: “Isn’t it weird that I leave the house several times a week and you have no idea where I go? Aren’t you even a little bit curious?”

What I don’t say to my husband: This is part of my world, and I want you to see it. I want you to see me. 

On the drive there, he makes me promise, again, not to make fun of him. Then come the questions. Am I going to be the only man there? (No.) Should I be next to you or behind you? (Next to.) What if the instructor calls out a pose and I don’t know what to do? (Copy me.) What if I get sweaty? (There are towels at the front desk.) 

Then come all the stipulations. This is a one time thing—not a regular thing. I am not allowed to pester him about yoga ever again. Brett is not going to “become a yogi.” He is not going to “join the studio.” 

I nod.
I understand.
I accept the terms. 

///

75 minutes later, we walk out hand in hand, sweat droplets dripping off our bodies and glistening in our hair. 

I pepper him immediately. WELL …? Did you like it? How do you feel? What did you think? 

He smiles, nods, and says it was good. A beat later, It was actually harder than I thought it was going to be. 

I feel happy. Proud. A tiny bit validated. I tell him I respect the terms. I’m not going to keep pushing him to come to yoga on a regular basis. But I have to ask. Would you ever want to do this again sometime?

Brett shrugs, noncommittal. He says he’d do yoga at home with me—either through Zoom or a class on YouTube—but doesn’t see a need to go back to the studio. I’m not surprised by his response, even though for me, the studio is the best part. 

“What’s the difference?” he asks. 

It’s a valid question. For the past 10+ years, I, too, have mostly worked out from home, occasionally joining and quitting a handful of gyms that offered childcare. For my husband, doing yoga at home on YouTube alone and doing yoga in a studio surrounded by people are the exact same thing.

For me, they are not. 

Although, off the top of my head, I can’t fully articulate why. 

///

Two days later, I sign up for a 5:30pm class, which I don’t normally attend. En route to the studio, I remember why: trying to get across town at the same time everyone gets off work nearly doubles the commute. By the time I get through every red light and finally find parking, I walk into the studio three minutes late.

I hustle through the lobby, tossing my shoes in a cubby only to turn the corner and realize the class is jam-packed. Every row is completely full, all the way to the back of the class. Anxiety courses through my chest. Just as I wonder if I should turn around and leave, the instructor locks eyes with me. 

“I’m so sorry!” I mouth to her.

She smiles back at me, unfazed, and calls out to the class, “Can someone make space for Ashlee?” 

This is the all-too-familiar part of the movie where everyone turns around to look at me in slow motion. Like synchronized choreography. Like a nightmare. All we’re missing is a spotlight and dramatic music.

All eyes remain on me: The Late Girl Holding Up Class. 

I hate everything about this. I hate being the center of attention. I hate inconveniencing people. I’m still looking at the instructor, biting my lip, when two women in the third row begin moving their mats. The row is so full, it doesn’t even seem possible that another person will fit. I’m tempted to stop them, to shout out, “Just kidding, I was never here!” and sprint out of the room. But they each inch their mats a tad to the left and a tad to the right and somehow, some way, space appears for me. 

For the duration of class, I can’t stop thinking about that small, powerful gesture. 

I am reminded again that yoga is so much more than feeling your thighs shake, your triceps burn, your core engage. Yoga is more than balance, stamina, strength and flexibility. Yoga is about presence, about noticing what is happening in your body, your mind, and the room as a whole.

What I notice tonight: generosity, consideration, hospitality, selflessness.

What I notice tonight: how impossibly seen and loved I feel when two complete strangers simply move their mats a few inches … for me. 

///

A few hours later, all the kids are sprawled across our bed.

It’s the night before school starts and I feel compelled to share what happened in yoga. I tell them how I walked into a crowded room, late, and everyone stared at me in slow motion like a scene out of a movie. My kids’ eyes widen—especially my middle-schooler—all of them horrified on my behalf. 

And then I tell them how two women moved their mats, a few inches to the left and a few inches to the right. How it was probably not a big deal to them, but it was a really big deal to me.

I remind the kids that tomorrow is the first day of school, and they should be on the lookout. Look for the kids who have nowhere to sit. Look for the kids who are new. Look for someone who seems lost, who seems like they don’t have any friends. And for the love, if someone is late to class and everyone turns around to stare, offer that kid a big smile, okay?

They nod.

We pray for good sleep, for the teachers, for the admin and principles and janitors. We thank God for our neighborhood, and for our public schools.

As the kids shuffle off our bed to go brush their teeth, I turn to Brett, who already knows what I’m going to say.

This is why I love going to the studio. 

Because if I only did yoga at home, I would never be late. And if I was never late, I would never walk into a crowded room. And if I never walked into a crowded room, nobody would ever move their mats for me. And if nobody ever moved their mats for me, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now—equal parts grateful and convicted—telling our kids on the night before the first day of school just how much that small gesture meant to me.

If you liked this post, you might like these, too:

The Practice
On Being Proactive
The Hardest Pose

P.S. I haven’t mentioned this in a while but did you know I wrote a book? 😜 You can grab Create Anyway at Amazon, Target, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, or directly through Baker Book House. Thank you so much for supporting my writing ❤️