We Were in the Same Bikram Class
Standing on the podium, I realised we weren't all there for the same reason.
A few days ago, I taught a Bikram class that left me thinking long after the class ended.
Before class started, a lady came up to me holding her phone.
She smiled and said,
“Just to let you know, I’ll need my phone during class.”
Normally, that sentence would be a hard no from me.
I came from a studio with a strict no-phone policy, and personally I still think ninety minutes away from our devices is one of the gifts of a Bikram class.
But every studio has its own rules, and this particular studio allows phones in the yoga room as long as they’re on silent mode.
So I asked what it was for.
She smiled and said,
“I’m doing a makeup wear test. I need to film a few TikTok clips throughout class to see how it holds up in the heat.”
I paused for a second, smiled back.
“Well... that’s a first.” I thought.
As the class went on, every now and then she’d stop.
Pick up her phone.
Record a short video.
Check the footage.
Put the phone down.
Then continue with the class.
Standing on the podium, I found myself wondering...
Were we actually doing the same class?
Not in a judgemental way.
More out of curiosity.
Because we were standing in exactly the same room.
Listening to exactly the same dialogue.
Doing exactly the same twenty-six postures.
Yet I don’t think we were having the same experience at all.
For those ninety minutes, she was paying attention to how her makeup looked.
Meanwhile, everyone else was paying attention to something completely different.
Their breathing.
Their balance.
Their aching legs.
Their determination just to stay in the room.
That contrast stayed with me.
Not because I thought she was wrong.
But because it made me think about why each of us walks into the hot room in the first place.
When I walked into my very first Bikram class fourteen years ago, I wasn’t looking for mindfulness.
I wasn’t looking for flexibility either.
At that point in my life, I was running regularly and spending a lot of time in the gym.
I loved training hard.
I wanted something intense.
Something that would push me physically.
Something where I’d leave completely drenched in sweat.
A friend introduced me to Bikram Yoga.
I still remember finishing that first class.
I walked out thinking,
“This is it.”
I knew almost immediately that it was something I could see myself doing for a very long time.
Back then, I came for the workout.
The intensity.
The challenge.
The sweat.
And Bikram certainly delivered.
But if you asked me today why I still practise...
My answer would be completely different.
I can’t even tell you exactly when it changed.
It just did.
Somewhere between thousands of classes...
Teacher Training...
Competitions...
Teaching...
Somewhere over the years, without me really noticing, my reason changed.
The practice quietly became something else.
The sweat is still there.
The challenge is still there.
But they’re no longer the reason I keep coming back.
These days, I value something else.
I value those ninety minutes where nobody expects anything from me.
No emails.
No notifications.
No decisions.
No multitasking.
Just one posture.
Then the next.
Then the next.
It’s one of the few places left where my attention belongs entirely to one thing.
And these days, that feels surprisingly rare.
Thinking back to that class, I realised something.
Maybe we all start Bikram Yoga for different reasons.
Some people want to lose weight.
Some come because their doctor recommended it.
Some are recovering from an injury.
Some are looking for stress relief.
Some simply want a good workout.
And apparently...
...some come to test their makeup.
Honestly, I don’t think there’s a wrong reason to start.
If that reason gets you through the door, that’s enough.
The more interesting question is this:
Does your reason change?
Because mine certainly did.
The practice never changed.
The room never changed.
The dialogue never changed.
The twenty-six postures never changed.
I did.
Maybe that’s why some people stop after a few months.
They achieved what they came for.
The weight came off.
The back pain improved.
The challenge wore off.
But the people who stay...
I think somewhere along the way, they stop practising for something.
The practice simply becomes part of who they are.
I don’t think that happens overnight.
I don’t even think you notice it happening.
One day you just realise you’re no longer coming because you have to.
You’re coming because it feels strange not to.
I never found out whether her makeup passed the test.
I hope it did.
But she unknowingly gave me something much more valuable than a story about phones in the yoga room.
She reminded me to ask myself a question I hadn’t thought about in years.
Why do I still walk into the hot room?
The answer isn’t the same as it was fourteen years ago.
And I hope it won’t be the same fourteen years from now either.
Because maybe that’s one of the quiet signs of a practice that’s still alive.
It continues to evolve...
...even when the twenty-six postures stay exactly the same.