OK, I’m going to say this one time and one time only so listen up.

I used to be an angry person. I used to be a very angry person who hid it very well, screaming into empty rooms and throwing punches at unused pillows.

If you think you know me, you may not believe it; but if you really know me, you know.

• When I was 8 years old, I would stomp and wail up the stairs when something didn’t go my way.
• When I was 10 years old, I broke the pencil I was holding in half because I didn’t understand the math homework, and my dad’s explanation wasn’t clicking.
• When I was 12 years old, my horse threw me off at my very first horse show and after I stopped crying, dug my nails into my hand so hard I drew blood.
• When I was 14 years old, I would yell, swear and slam doors when I was home alone if I was even remotely upset, usually about nothing really, like someone eating the last apple or leaving my bedroom closet open.
• When I was 16 years old, I was so angry and upset about not having much playing time on the volleyball team that I drove to the gym at 10 p.m and ran until I almost passed out.

Then...

When I was almost 17 years old, I went to my first yoga class.

I stepped into the dimly lit, 101-degree room, rolled out my rented mat and prepared myself for the unexpected. I listened and watched the instructor as she guided the class and me through Sun Salutation A, standing poses and final breathing. I committed every pose, every inhale and every exhale to memory as sweat pooled around my feet and my stress dissipated. I laid in final savasana and I felt…different.

I know, as a writer and as a person who loves to ask for details on every single aspect of a story (ask anyone, I’m annoying), that the adjective of “different” is sub-par at best. But the thing is, I can’t explain it, and I can’t describe it, even today—five years later. I just know that as the instructor asked me to clear my mind, think about nothing but my breathing and to try and relax every muscle in my body, I felt a wave of overwhelming peace and a heavy happiness come over me.

Call me a hippie, call me too Zen, call me any cliché yogi term, but that is what happened, and I will stand by it. I had been so angry, so sad and felt so alone for so long that the inner calm flowing through my body at the end of those 90 minutes felt like a euphoria that had always been just out of my reach. I left the studio feeling peaceful and renewed, albeit extremely sweaty and tired. I was happy. I was genuinely happy with myself for the first time in a while.

I went back the next day and then the next. I developed a practice over the next five years that became more distinctive to my personal journey through this world and to my unique strengths and weaknesses. As my practice developed, I realized I wasn’t screaming at that slow driver in the left lane or clenching my fists and swearing when things didn’t go as planned. I was using methods of breathing I had learned in class to calm my mind when I felt overwhelmed; I became more aware of my how my body moved and how all my joints and muscles felt strongest when I was aligned properly.

I practiced four to five times a week, which not only made me feel better physically but also helped me learn to not be so critical of myself and to not be so judgmental of others. People of all shapes and sizes, colors and ages practice yoga, and each person has their own unique journey to uncover. Going into that studio and being surrounded by people of all different walks of life made me realize that differently is fine—different is what makes this world beautiful and exciting.

In the sweat that stained my mat a darker green, in the small breakthrough of reaching full expression in a pose and in the big breakthrough of finally listening to my body and resting in child’s pose instead of pushing through for one more chaturanga, I found myself. I found myself in that hot yoga studio.

I learned to love my body for all it can do; I learned to embrace the little belly roll that appeared when I bent into a forward fold along with the openness and strength I felt spread across my chest and heart when I leaned back into camel pose. I learned when to push myself and when to slow down, not only in my practice but also in everyday obstacles I faced. I learned that it is 100 percent, absolutely, positively A-OK to take an hour or 90 minutes out of my day to dedicate strictly to myself.

It was in those minutes and hours where the angry gal who had been such a huge yet secretive part of my life, slowly faded into the distant background.