The class erupts into noise that stretches on for longer than I expected, and I run out of breath before the rest of the class. The second time we try it, I attempt to sustain the sound longer than anyone else—well, second longest, since being the very last person to keep it up would draw more attention than I really want. I’m surprised at the effort it takes.

By the time Sara leads us from a sitting position to a standing one, I’m antsy for the real work to begin. I know that yoga is about relaxation and meditation, but it’s exercise, too, isn’t it? Eventually, we settle into downward dog. People around me emit little sighs and groans as they sink into the position.

“Beautiful breath sounds,” Sara compliments. “It’s okay to let go and vocalize your efforts.”

From downward dog, we move through a series of poses with names like warrior one, warrior two, half moon, and crescent moon. Sara encourages us to “flow” from one to the next and be “intentional” about our breath, whatever that means. The language of yoga feels funny to me, but I suppose gymnastics has its own language, too. The class moves slowly at first, but soon, we’re breezing from one pose to the next in a way that makes me sweat. Sara winds her way through the maze of mats, correcting postures with a touch of her hand and whispering words of encouragement. I can’t help but feel competitive about it: I want to perform so flawlessly that she won’t have to correct me at all. It would be one thing if I were a couch potato who struggled to get the poses right—but I’m not. I’m a world-class athlete, or at least, was one. This should be a piece of cake. I crane my neck to glimpse the way my neighbor, a curvy woman in a pink workout tank that reads HUSTLE FOR THAT MUSCLE, sinks into warrior two, and try to angle my body to match hers.

That’s when I feel Sara’s hands on my hips. “Like this,” she says, tilting my left side forward and my right side back. She trails a finger up the back of my neck, causing me to look ramrod straight ahead instead of at the people around me. And then, as if she’s reading my mind, she whispers, “It’s not a competition. Just listen to your body and do what you need to do.”

“Okay, but is this right?” I whisper back.

She pauses and gives an infuriatingly serene wave of her hand. “There’s no such thing as right or wrong, as long as you’re focused on your breath and your flow.”

“But—” I protest.

It’s too late. Sara has already moved on to another student. This, I think, is why I hate yoga. There’s always a right way to do everything.