Therese Quinn closed her laptop and went to Goa for four weeks to train as a yoga teacher. She came back sharper, more supple and wide open to the universe …
By the time I was two hours deep into a chanting session with a woman from Oslo who claimed to have been a dolphin in a past life, I realised I had officially left my old life behind. It was March, I was in Goa, India, on a four-week yoga teacher training course. My work in corporate communications and journalism was quiet and the offspring had joined their tribe in London. So, somewhere between empty nesting and strategy decks, I did what any woman with a modest midlife crisis and a strong core might do: I booked a flight to India, signed up to the highly recommendable Himalaya Yoga Valley School, and prepared to bend, breathe and possibly break.
The school in Goa was at the quiet and magnificent beach at Mandrem, an unspoilt village set on the jungle’s edge. The single dusty red dirt road to the village was the backdrop to a sensory explosion of riotous nature, cacophonous scooter beeping, startling birdsong, blazing colour and pungent aromas. I cannot tell you how much I absolutely loved being able to experience the head-clearing sensation of having landed in a totally different world. I find travel outside my usual destinations gets me thinking how very vast the world is and how very small Europe is in the big scheme of things.
Chatting to my friends before I travelled I could see their reaction to “a month’s yoga in Goa”; a strange mixture of concern at the rashness of it, sympathy at how cracked I must be to contemplate such an adventure but also a small hint of wistfulness as they envisaged me gently stretching by the sea, a light breeze fluttering my linen kaftan while I sipped cleansing juices and rediscovered myself. In truth, it was a twelve-hour-a-day, six-day-a-week full immersion in traditional yoga covering just about everything: anatomy, alignment, meditation, pranayama (breathwork), philosophy, history, and plenty of hands-on teaching. And while the days were long, hot and humid – and utterly exhausting – the training was exceptional.
One advantage of the relentless heat and humidity was the stretchability it facilitated, allowing me to bend and twist into hitherto unimaginable knots! All the while realising that learning to be still was the most intense stretch of all.
Every day began with chanting, definitely not my strong suit. Leading a mantra class myself was a lesson in humility – my students survived, but I fear my pitch may have set their progress back a few karmic lifetimes. The physical practice was seriously hard in the intense heat, so it was always a welcome break to sit with a gentle fan wafting while enjoying classes covering anatomy and ayurveda. The philosophy classes leaned heavily into forgiveness, which I found slightly trying before breakfast.
Yoga, it turns out, is less about touching your toes and more about sitting with yourself when your toes seem very far away.
My fellow beginner 200-hour students were very young, very idealistic, decidedly earnest and almost transcendent with political correctness. Any utterance that might give rise to gentle debate was rebuked with studied blankness, even my mild complaining about the plumbing or the curriculum was met with narrow-eyed dismay. That said, they were very sweet, wellmeaning and all round just lovely. Even so, I naturally gravitated towards the advanced teacher training cohort who were closer to me in age and in mindset and who didn’t find the suggestion of skiving off for a beer to be seditious. Indeed I found great refuge in a chic French woman who, like me, had once attended a board meeting in a proper pair of shoes. We would occasionally exchange glances over turmeric tea that said everything we weren’t supposed to say out loud. And I must mention two brilliant Dublin women who were full of fun and had the scoop on absolutely everything from where to find the best coffee to the most thorough masseur.
While coffee at the school was average, the vegan food was most incredibly delicious – in fact a definite highlight of the trip. It was prepared by a dedicated team of talented cooks who really cared, and although I had about 1,000 curries, honestly not two of them tasted the same. And they did wonders for the efficacy of my digestive system. I must, though, confess to having a secret stash of chocolate in my room; dark 85 per cent of course.
My little apartment was a short stroll from the school and while it was relatively decent, it was, like the whole village, subject to lengthy power cuts which meant no air conditioning or fans and this could be brutal. Apart from the aforementioned increased bendablility, the 38°C+ heat and the humidity at a steady 80 per cent made for challenging days and nights. My carefully curated Lululemon coords didn’t last the first week. I abandoned them for shapeless linen things bought from sympathetic street traders who could see that this very pink woman with the crazed hair was on the brink. It was heartening how, when they understood I was there for a month, they offered not just compassion but also lots of chat and on several occasions shared their food with me. These small gestures helped to make me feel less of a transient tourist and more rooted, which eased the vague anxiety that I felt all the time.
This feeling of – admittedly – very low-level stress, was not just due to being very far from home in a decidedly different culture but also the continuous demands of learning so much so intensely. I felt I was always “on” and I was emotionally and physically drained. This after all wasn’t a retreat, it was training – serious, structured, and occasionally, slightly surreal. Yet amid the incense, chanting, poses and occasional outbreaks of unfiltered earnestness, something shifted quietly, like mist lifting. I found myself softening, settling, and, for the first time in years, simply being.
Yoga, it turns out, is less about touching your toes and more about sitting with yourself when your toes seem very far away. There was beauty in the discipline and I was struck by how transferable it all is. Holding a yoga class and leading a strategy meeting both require empathy, clarity, presence – and sometimes the ability to herd cats.
By the end of the four weeks, I had taught a full class, passed a practical exam, and received a certificate. We graduated not just with our 200-hour Yoga Teacher Training qualification but with an understanding of what it means to hold space for others. I left with more knowledge and more respect for the discipline than I had ever expected.
I celebrated my graduation with more travel; an exploration of the Golden Triangle – a whistlestop tour of Jaipur, Agra and Delhi – and finally chilled out deeply in heavenly Kerala (but this part of the journey needs its own instalment). A grand adventure and my first serious solo travelling. Would I go back? In a heartbeat! Whether this marks a new chapter or simply an unexpected footnote, it’s a path that Connie, my beloved socialclimbing alter ego from A View from the Jeep [the column which appeared in THE GLOSS for several years] would have never taken – unless, of course, Gucci yoga mats were being handed out.
This journey was never about abandoning my professional past – quite the opposite. I remain committed to the world of communications and strategy plans. If anything, learning to slow down has sharpened rather than softened my instincts. I’ll also begin teaching yoga this month, with a special interest in those who don’t see themselves as “yoga people” – to include those who suspect shrinkage is setting in, stiff cyclists and stressed professionals, or anyone whose idea of mindfulness begins and ends with cancelling a meeting.
I can be reached at theresequinnyoga@gmail.com whether you’re after strategic clarity, better posture, or just a good story.
