Headbanger’s Satori: Baptism by Inferno

The seven-thirty p.m. candlelight yoga class is not for the faint-hearted, nor for the casual seekers of inner peace. This is not the domain of the early-rising go-getters, those jittery maniacs who bolt out of bed like they’ve been launched from a trebuchet, fueled by whey protein and the conviction that their personal excellence is somehow a gift to the rest of us. Nor is it for the midday floaters, the soft-handed wanderers who slip into a noon session because they have time, because they “prefer smaller classes,” because they can. No, this is a class for the end-of-day survivors, the ones who have white-knuckled their way through obligations, side quests, and necessary evils, only to find themselves back in the thick of it, staring down a room where the temperature reads 104 but feels closer to the molten bowels of a volcano.

The studio is full. Bodies laid out like offerings on their mats, the heat creeping in, heavy as a curse. The instructor’s voice is calm, patient—like a benevolent deity watching us prepare for a ritual that may or may not end in spontaneous combustion.

The first few rounds feel manageable, like the opening minutes of a good horror movie where you can still convince yourself it won’t go sideways. But then the heat starts chewing through my skin, slithering into my lungs, coiling around my ribs like a python. The sweat isn’t just dripping—it’s pouring, cascading, an exorcism of every indulgence, every poor decision, every stray toxin that thought it could hang around unnoticed.

By the midpoint, hydration becomes a desperate calculus. I’ve always been strategic about rationing water, but now I’m clutching my bottle like a castaway eyeing the last coconut on a deserted island. I sip carefully, knowing that too much, too fast, could doom me to a gut full of sloshy regret. Around me, the class is falling apart. Warriors trembling, triangles collapsing, seasoned yogis abandoning the flow in favor of the fetal solace of Child’s Pose. We are in it now.

And then, Savasana.

A mercy. A release. A slow descent into a floating nothingness, where the war is over and the body—so brutalized, so wrung out—sinks into the mat like it’s finally made peace with gravity. The instructor’s voice fades, and for ten glorious minutes, the heat is no longer an enemy, but a distant hum, a ghost of the battle we just fought.

By the time I make it outside, the night air hits like a narcotic. Cool, dark, infinitely gentle. The world is quiet. I leave my phone in Do Not DIsturb mode. No urgent notifications, no tedious conversations, no flashing screens demanding attention. Just a full-body stillness, a silence that only comes from being wholly, completely emptied out.

This is what it’s all about. Not the poses, not the stretching, not the perfectly calibrated alignment of limbs. It’s about the release. The stripping away of the noise, the pressure, the absurd expectations of a world that never stops barking for attention. It’s about stepping into the fire, enduring the crucible, and coming out the other side—lighter, quieter, somehow cleaner.

I float home, skin still slick, muscles still humming. There’s no need for words, no need for analysis. Some things you don’t explain. You just feel them.