Every morning, I roll out my mat, lie on my back, raise my legs to a 90-degree angle and, by lifting my rear, bring my pointed feet closer toward the sky. I find myself in a Sarvangasana, unconscious to the rest of the world.
Sarvangasana is the Sanskrit term for shoulder stand, and it has been central to my life since I began to practice Ashtanga Yoga when I was 13. Every day, I try to hold it for as long as I could despite it being my least-favorite pose, because it works wonders for me. It’s like my stress ball. My happy pill. My reset button.
I haven’t always thought of it positively, however. When I was younger, I used to tell myself that doing my Sarvangasana had nothing to do with how I handled a bad hair day, my brother’s tantrums or the other unpleasant surprises that life might suddenly hurl at me.
After all, it’s not exactly the asana or the yoga pose that deals with one’s ability to remain optimistic amid misfortune. You see, every asana has its specific purpose. Just like how the Trikonasana or the Triangle pose lessens anxiety and how the Adho Mukha Svanasana or the Downward Facing Dog aids depression, the Sarvangasana also has its special function: to aid women undergoing menopause.
It’s also not the most appealing asana to me. Even after years of practice, doing it still feels like work. I don’t like how it strictly demands the use of a yoga mat because I’d have to trouble myself with unrolling and rolling my mat, whereas if I did a simpler asana like a Tree or a Lotus Pose, I could just practice on my bed or on the floor.
I also don’t like how it’s almost impossible to do when I wake up with a stuffed stomach from a heavy dinner, or when I’m on my period.
On particularly challenging days like those, I lightheartedly tell myself, “Come on, Leah; do this to make up for the pint of ice cream you’re having later.”
My Sarvangasana and I, in brief, are in a complicated relationship. Words cannot stress how weird it is for me, a teenager, to engage seriously in doing the so-called “asana for menopausal women” despite the pose being a constant struggle. But I do it anyway.
Every morning, I bring my legs toward the sky, place my chin against my chest, and hold my Sarvangasana for at least a minute or two.
At first, every ache in my body is magnified; every nerve on the back of my neck constricts. My shoulders ache under all the weight and the pressure — but, slowly, my body relaxes into the inversion.
The pain becomes familiar, more tolerable. Slowly, I clear my mind and savor the peace for just one more minute. Just one more second. The longer my hold, the more cares I leave behind me — from my thoughts about today’s to-do-list and tomorrow’s meetings, to next year’s college coursework. For a moment, the world slows down, and all that matters is my Sarvangasana, nothing more.
And as I concentrate on the sensations pulsating through my tendons, I feel a lovely restorative euphoria in that solitude of near-sensual deprivation. Then, when the ache and spasms reinforce, I only concentrate on that, for right there is my yoga’s value. For when I release my Sarvangasana five or 15 minutes later, everything goes with it.
The enduring grief for a friend’s death, the constant anxiety about going away for college, the pressure I put on myself to exceed expectations and my biggest fear that I’m not good enough, that I’m not a good person — they all disappear.
I am afforded the time to be truly free from everything. My Sarvangasana has become an asylum both from my frenetic lifestyle and from my ambitious idealistic self, and each release is like a small epiphany that brings me to one focus: to remain in that state of personal peace.
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Leah Angela Cioco, 19, is from Bacolod City and is currently on a gap year before attending Wesleyan University in August 2020.