Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Jason
Stretch, Surrender, Spiral
I’m ten minutes late for the fucking yoga class Reese insisted I try today. Something called somatic release flow—a magical combination of breathwork, movement, and emotional excavation that’s supposed to “unlock trauma stored in the body.”
So, basically, I stretch until I cry. Cool.
I’d love to say I’m late because of traffic. Or because the brace slowed me down. Or the iced-over sidewalk outside my building that someone undeniably got paid to salt and absolutely did not.
But no.
I’m late because I didn’t want to come—and I’m not sorry.
Yesterday’s PT session with Reese pushed me harder than I was ready for. By the time I got home, all I had left was a throbbing knee and a body that refused to settle. Tylenol didn’t help. Neither did the hot shower, ice packs, turmeric tea, or that foam roller Reese insists works miracles.
I’m over it. All of it. What’s the point of all this bullshit if it’s just a slow, humiliating descent into ‘maybe’?
I shove through the sliding glass doors of Laferty Performance & Recovery, with the posture of a man who hasn’t slept, hasn’t stretched, and has no interest in manifesting anything but a donut and a nap.
The speakers are pumping a playlist that sounds like it was curated by my mother—who loves Enya, drinks bone broth out of crystal tumblers, and still swears her Himalayan salt lamp cured her TMJ disorder.
The front desk receptionist, who’s new and looks overly dewy, probably named Willow or Sage, looks up with the strained smile usually reserved for chronic latecomers and minor criminals.
“Room C,” she chirps, tapping the screen with pink nails. “They’ve already started.”
Of course, they have.
I give her a nod that translates to Yeah, I’m an asshole with zero bandwidth to apologize, and keep walking.
The hallway feels longer than usual. My brace clicks with each uneven step, a quiet cue that I’m crutchless today—on purpose—Dr. Park’s idea of progress. “Step one,” she called it. “Trust the knee. Rebuild the neural pathways.”
Honestly, I think it’s some kind of vengeance because I didn’t do her fucking homework. Though I’m trying.
I really fucking am, but every footfall feels like a dare. Every pressure shift is a whisper in my head: This is the one. This is the step where you fall again. Where it all breaks, and this time, it’ll be permanent.
By the time I reach Room C, I’m sweaty—not from effort, but from the sheer act of existing.
The door creaks as I slip inside, and the room is already dimmed. Warm eucalyptus clings to the air like someone set off a humidifier and an organic spa had a baby. The instructor’s voice floats over a gentle acoustic guitar.
“And as you settle into pigeon pose, allow your hips to open and any stored grief to release from the fascia.”
Grief. From the fascia.
Kill me now.
Everyone’s already mid-pose, folded into themselves like serene little pretzels of healing. I scan the room for a corner where I can die in peace, then limp toward the back, trying not to draw attention.
Spoiler: I fail.
The mat I grab smells faintly of eucalyptus, peppermint, and maybe a past-life regression. I lower myself slowly, wincing as my knee decides to protest, just loud enough to make someone glance my way.
The instructor says nothing when she notices me—no chipper welcome or breathy namaste. Just a quiet nod acknowledging me before she shifts back into her flow like she’s used to late arrivals and men who look like they’d rather be getting a root canal.
Which, for the record, I would.
I lie back, staring at the ceiling, already regretting everything.
The music is a soft acoustic guitar with maybe a pan flute buried in there somewhere.
The lights are low. Someone two mats over is deep-breathing like they’re trying to summon inner peace and a second orgasm.
It’s distracting. It’s weird. It’s also the most impressive core control I’ve seen in weeks.
The instructor’s voice drapes across the room in a slow, even tone.
“Let your body guide you. Movement without judgment. Breath without resistance.”
Movement without resistance.
She’s clearly never worn this brace.
I shift my leg, and the hinge clicks once—a sharp, metallic reminder that I’m still dragging part of my past around with me. I exhale, sit up, then reach down, fingers sliding under the Velcro strap. It makes that familiar rip of sound that earns me one startled glance from across the room.
Yeah. I’m that guy now. This is worse than a cell ringing in the middle of the movie theater.
I loosen the rest quietly and pull the brace free, setting it beside me like a sleeping toddler I don’t want to wake. My knee feels naked. Exposed. Like it might call bullshit and buckle just to prove a point.
I close my eyes. Try to breathe. Try not to think about the fact that I already miss the support—the illusion of safety.
But I came here for something, didn’t I?
Fuck if I know what it is.
The instructor cues a ‘gentle’ spinal twist. I follow, slow and cautious. My hip protests, my quad flares, and my knee? It screams. Not pain exactly, but something tight. Protective.
I breathe through it.
Or try.
“Let your body guide you. Movement without judgment. Breath without resistance.”
I try.
I really do.
But all I can think about is how my hamstring feels like it’s hanging on by a thread, my brace is one wrong stretch from carving into my shin, and I’m surrounded by people who look like they genuinely enjoy this. Like this hour of controlled torture and inner release is the highlight of their week.
I don’t belong in this room. I don’t belong on this mat. And whatever fascia-related grief I’m supposed to be releasing? Yeah, it’s still very much in residence—unless I don’t have one, and this woman is making shit up.
Seriously, I’m supposed to let this woman guide me into emotional release?
She catches me staring. Not in the ‘he’s checking me out’ way. More like ‘he looks like he wants to bolt and I’m debating whether to call him out’ way.
Her gaze lingers. One beat. Two.
Then, she offers a slight nod. Nothing more. And somehow, that pisses me off more than if she’d welcomed me with a “Namaste, wounded warrior.”
I lie back, staring at the ceiling, feeling the tight pull behind my knee and something else low in my stomach. Something not entirely welcome, given that I’m supposed to be focusing on healing, breath, fascia grief, or whatever.
I close my eyes and try to follow the instructor’s voice. Her tone is low and fluid, more like a slow drag than a motivational speech.
“Let your body move without judgment. Let go of control and allow space for trust.”
Trust.
Yeah, sure.
Let me just uncoil over a decade’s worth of trauma and internalized performance anxiety while my knee buzzes with betrayal.
Fuck me sideways.
This is gonna be a long class.
The instructor cues a gentle spinal twist.
I follow—kind of. I do it slowly and cautiously, like my joints are trying to predict sabotage.
My hip complains. My quad tenses. My knee?
It doesn’t scream this time, exactly. More like it throws a silent tantrum. Not pain. But tight. Guarded. Bracing itself for a fall that hasn’t happened yet.
I try to breathe through it.
Inhale, hold, exhale—like I’m not picturing myself snapping in half halfway through a stretch, which someone named Willow could do in her sleep.
Next up is cat-cow. The instructor demonstrates—fluid, effortless. I attempt to copy her.
Hands flat to the mat. Shoulders shaking like I’m on the losing end of a push-up challenge. I arch my back and try to drop my head, but I stop when my weight shifts even a centimeter toward my knee.
This is a fucking no.
Hard no.
Not happening.
There’s no way I’m putting pressure on it. Not even for a second. I can’t. Won’t.
The instructor glances over and doesn’t say anything immediately, which I appreciate. My entire body is already broadcasting ‘I hate this’ loud and clear.
She moves closer, voice low and even. “You can rest in Savasana if that feels safer. It’s still part of the practice.”
I almost laugh. I’m not sure what Savasana is, but I came here to move through trauma or whatever the brochure said, and five minutes in, I’m being benched.
Again.
She points to some diagrams on the wall and says to lay down.
I want to get the fuck out of here.
But still, I nod and roll onto my back. Legs out. Arms down. Savasana it is.
The mat isn’t soft enough. The room is too warm. The air smells like eucalyptus and acceptance. And I’m lying here like a fraud in stretchy pants.
I stare up at the ceiling—dark beams, a few soft lights glowing from sconces along the wall. The kind of light that’s supposed to calm your nervous system.
Mine’s not buying it.
My body’s still wired for impact, and my brain’s busy cataloging every time I’ve tried to recover and failed. Clinics. Trainers. That one surgeon who called me a “challenging case” like I wasn’t sitting right there.
I close my eyes. Not for stillness. Not for the presence the instructor keeps reminding us of. I just shut it all off for a second so I can get enough strength to go to my next appointment before I give up for good.