Yoga Studios Taken to the Next Level

 Yoga Studios Taken to the Next Level

I've been practising yoga for over twenty years and am a certified yoga teacher. Now, don't get me wrong—I’m not claiming to be the best yogi out there, able to swing my legs over my head in a flash. My journey has been a bit of a rollercoaster, but I’ve always had a soft spot for hot yoga, primarily when I reside full-time.

When I travel, I make it a point to visit various yoga studios around the globe—I've seen quite a few! But I felt compelled to write this blog after witnessing something I’ve never seen in all my two decades of practice. You see when I’m on the road, I don’t keep my practice continuous, so when I return to my usual spot, I need a studio to help me get back in the groove—mostly to acclimatize to the heat, not so much the yoga.

Now, let me set the scene. This small studio is in a prestigious area of Southern California, where the heat is cranked up to a whopping 120 degrees. The classes are packed—literally no room to breathe (or maybe that's just the heat!).. The car park is a parade of Teslas, Cybertrucks, Rolls Royces, Bentleys, and whatever else the wealthy drive these days. You get the picture.

The studio is filled with near-perfectly coordinated outfits, and everyone seems to be trying to practice yoga—hmmm. Usually, I wouldn’t pay much attention to this, but this time was different. I unrolled my mat in the cramped space, only to find myself next to a shining gold mat. Yes, you heard that right. This mat was surrounded by towels arranged as if for royalty, with the owner’s name written in elegant calligraphy at the top. I thought, "WTF? Am I next to the King of England?"

It was not a great start, especially in a space meant to embody unity—where everyone’s equal, grappling with the heat and their inner demons. But not here. I was beginning to think, "Great, now I can't escape the reminder that we’re not all equal, even in a yoga studio!"

To top it off, the instructor dared to ask me and the person on the other side to give this golden mat owner some space. Oh, for crying out loud!

So, we were about five minutes in when this older gentleman strolled in—because he could—slammed his body down, grunted, and had no care about pushing his towel onto my mat. No respect, even when we were practically spooning on our mats.

Then, the yoga teacher launched into his spiel about affirmations and how this is a space of equality where we forget the outside world. Yeah, right! What nonsense!

The classes are usually set to upbeat EDM, which I enjoy, and we move through the poses, sweating and huffing like we're in a rave. This time, however, I took a moment to look around and felt like I was in a Star Trek movie. Everyone looked suspiciously identical as if they were all assembled from the same plastic mould—perfect bodies, big and sweaty, making sure to check themselves out in the mirror. It was bizarre, all because of my new royal neighbour.

It struck me—when people ask what Newport Beach is all about, I can tell them it’s where yoga has become a business, and money buys you a prestigious spot on the mat, complete with a show to match.

Now that I'm back at my usual yoga studio, I took a moment to look around—and what a difference! People of all shapes, sizes, and colours, with no elevated status in sight. We’re all equal there, and we actually practice yoga. Sure, the music isn’t as upbeat, and we hold our poses for much longer, but I leave feeling like I’ve truly practised without feeling like I’m less than anyone else.

Will this experience stop me from hitting that materialistic yoga studio when I need a boost after a break? Of course not! But it does remind me of how much I cherish the true practice of yoga.