On Living Bold
and Discovering Your Power
Dr. Jenny Copeland
I have a confession to make: I have only been practicing asana, the physical element of yoga, for about two years. But yoga as a whole? I think that has been present in my heart from the very beginning.
Searching
With few exceptions, I spent much of my time growing up being the skinniest person in the room. I have memories of middle school and being blown across playgrounds by the famous Oklahoma winds, earning the nickname “feather.” I was the new kid attempting to infiltrate cliques of lifelong friends. I was bright and shy, preferring reading over talking. My teeth were crooked and my knees knocked together when I walked. They did not know me, and my appearance did not meet criteria for them to want to know me.
My sense of my power and my individual voice were reflected in my small stature: I was quiet, meek, and afraid. At times, I even became invisible to others’ eyes. Bullies only confirmed this, pointing out the ways in which I did not belong and how I was ultimately powerless. They compiled notes detailing how I was unworthy to be in their presence. Some went so far as to try choking me, to physically remove my voice. The message was clear: I, my body, and my voice were irrelevant to those around me.
As I got older, the sense of powerlessness was turned inward, and I began to blame my body as the source of the pain. Although I never spoke it aloud, it was deafening in my soul. The critic took over and soon I carried the bullies within me, embodying their derision. I had an overwhelming sense of not feeling at home in my own skin. When I tried to articulate it, all I could grasp was the hatred for my body. I felt I was not enough: not pretty enough, not curvy enough, not sexy enough. I longed for a day when I would look like the girls in the magazines, when others would think I was pretty. They seemed elegant, strong, and beautiful. I was thin, unsure, and maybe even looked as awkward as I felt.
Some responded by telling me to secure my beauty by addressing my physical shortcomings: make my arms more shapely by working out, become more alluring with lip gloss, or increase my charm by styling my hair. In this manner, I could attract the attention (read: approval) of boys. A friend vigilantly guarded me against developing an eating disorder. Rather than trying to “fix” the pain by reinforcing societal ideals, she shared education and statistics of the harm these ideals can bring. She was able to bear witness, teaching me the danger of turning on my own body. More importantly, she modeled an alternative by living powerfully in her own body—a body whose size did not meet societal demands. Bold, tenacious, and a phenomenal musician, she was, and is, unmistakably a force to be reckoned with.
Even though I did not go on to develop one myself, eating disorders resonated with me deeply. I started to notice a still small voice inside that connected with these ideas, with how one could develop an eating disorder. At their heart, these illnesses make you feel as if your voice has been surgically removed. They vilify the body, depicting it as the source of misery. They made sense, and a piece of me had found my purpose for helping others. For the first time I had a direction, yet I still felt lost, with more questions than answers.
Running
I can’t remember exactly when it was first suggested I give yoga a try. I ran from yoga (as hard as I could) for a really long time. Years, in fact. I was intimidated by what felt like rooms of hopelessly cool young, white women waiting to silence my voice. They were graceful, lithe, and confident. From the images in magazines to the DVD teachers, my awkward and klutzy body felt out of step from their mesmerizing practices. This was my earliest exposure to yoga culture: it seemed an exercise created only for the perfect elite, while I felt like the outcast looking in. All I knew of yoga was cool girls bending themselves into pretzels, ultimately becoming even more fabulous. I thought of course there was no way for me to fit into that category. Like a kinder, gentler bully, yoga excluded me as much as I ran from it.
Yet even as I ran, my yoga was there. I had moments of what could only be characterized as stillness and being—when there were no worries, the critic was silent, and I was fully at home. My yoga was there on cool summer nights with those who were the first to truly see me, windows rolled down, music turned up, driving with no destination in mind. In the memory of a boy in skinny jeans, consumed by the love we had and lost. It was there when we sang about uniting under the battle call of Johnny boy at the top of our lungs. It was there when nothing stood between us and our dreams but time. Those midnight drives taught me to question everything from the government’s authority to my parents’. Those were the moments when I first began to realize I had a voice. Thanks to another strong, powerful woman, I shyly learned there was a possibility I could make my own choices and have my own thoughts, whether or not those around me agreed with them. But I was not ready. Seeing myself as inherently unworthy of it all, I ran from the chance to be and from myself.
Looking back, the pattern is clear: I had a habit of not only underestimating myself but also handing my power over to those around me. I valued my voice no more than those who tried to take it from me. I believed them. Every single one. I accepted it when they told me my voice sounded annoying, I was ugly, I was unworthy. I did not fight it. I ran. I ran in spite of these powerful women, who exposed me to feminism even before I knew it existed, who showed me the possibilities of living without fear, owning your truth, and living on your own terms. Although I hoped those possibilities could be true for me as well, I still was not ready to see that I already had what I needed.
But the truth is, I was not just running: I was searching. Having learned prior to this that I had no inherent value except for my appearance, I continued to look outside myself for validation. For someone, anyone, to truly see me: not my body, not my size, but me. Yet I was not ready to see myself. Whether it was attempting to capture the attention of some off-limits boy, getting into the right school, or generally finding approval, I simply could not see the possibilities I possessed. I was convinced I was both powerless and voiceless in spite of the enormous privilege I had been granted by society. I defined myself by what others saw in me. Being told multiple times that you are so small that “you don’t take up any space” takes a toll. I felt angry, hurt, and scared as I shrunk even further into invisibility—in my own mind at least.
Surrendering
My first yoga class, I was terrified. By this point I had spent a great deal of time reading about the philosophy of yoga, even going so far as to encourage others to give it a try and speak to its potential in treating eating disorders. Stepping into the studio for the first time, watching a line of graceful women stream out, I felt just like that gawky teenage girl yet again.
That all changed the second I stepped on the mat (okay, more like the second I stepped off the mat and could feel the effects of my practice). I felt different. Even in those first few practices, I bent and twisted my body in ways I not only thought I could not but had also been told I should not. In those poses, the poses I feared the most, I found my greatest freedom. I could feel myself coming into balance and alignment right along with my spine.
When you’re on the mat, you can’t run anymore. In fact, everything you run from will catch up with you and be acted out on the mat. Life out of sync? Vrksasana (tree pose) won’t be happening today. Anxious and unsure? Forget bakasana (crow pose). Brain won’t shut down? Good luck with savasana (corpse pose). The mat becomes your greatest classroom. On the mat, there is only you, your troubles, and your possibilities. Yoga forces you to live in your body with them. It forces you to see yourself, be yourself, and surrender to that truth. I am often struck by the still, quiet moments I once found on those midnight drives and have discovered they were not a fluke: they were the first moments of my life when I lived authentically and wholeheartedly. They were the first expression of my yoga, and I did not need asana to get there.
Yoga does not only force me to live in my body, it forces me to see me—all of me—for who I am. To do so, I had to give up the fight. I had to stop running. Here I was, waiting for the big reveal: the perfect kiss at the end of the fairy tale when I found my prince, the magnificent award in recognition of a long day at work, the light bulb going off. I was so busy searching, I never realized I was already there. I was always there, waiting to be noticed. Not by the world around me—not really. Their voices don’t matter when it comes to my truth. I had to stop running; I had to stop fighting in order to find it. Only when I was able to let go, to surrender, was I finally able to arrive.
Arriving
In coming home to my body, I am coming to know, understand, and finally realize my power—the good and the bad. To be honest, I often surprise myself with what I am able to do on the yoga mat if I stop shrinking away and living small—if I stop living the way the world sees me and begin living the way I am. So it is with my life.
This is the truth of who I am—all of me. I inhabit a thin, white body. I hit the jackpot not only genetically (giving me the body I have) but also in the experiences I was blessed to have. As a result, I am endowed with enormous unearned privilege in society. The simple fact of my body size means I am more likely to obtain a job, to find a romantic partner, to receive appropriate healthcare services, and to be able to live or breathe in public (or online) spaces without others expressing unfounded concern for my health and well-being.
In society, the act of living in a thin body means you are good, quiet, and obedient. You are appropriate, controlled, and always coloring within the lines. I took this persona on and accepted my privilege without question. I lived my life small and quiet, never speaking up, in spite of the fire growing inside of me for so long. In doing so, I harmed others with my silence and inaction. I have witnessed injustice and said nothing. I have been a racist, harming in my ignorance. I never realized the power I had to hurt others. By not speaking up, I allowed myself to become part of the problem.
Thin privilege may sound like the ultimate blessing, but the truth is that it harms women of all sizes. Although having this body gives me substantial power in society and makes my life easier in many ways, it also defines me by this single attribute. Thin privilege inherently limits my ability to be more and do more, because my worth is defined by my appearance. Those I systematically handed my power to over the years? They only saw the outside of me.
Society reduces all of us to its simplest, least offensive or challenging parts. The modern perception of yoga reduces it to an exotic workout. I am reduced to the part of my size, to being a thin woman whose only value is understood to be in her appearance. This is the least offensive part of me, as my size is inherently accepted by Western society. To be honest, I spent much of my life believing my worth was defined by external factors. I believed what others thought of me was absolute, and I remained ignorant of who I am at my core. It’s likely I haven’t changed at all, but have only grown to fully realize more and more of who I am and can be in this very moment. What I was seeking was already present within me, and was waiting only to be noticed and awakened.
In a similar fashion, the practice of yoga has shifted toward becoming an industry that has handed over much of the power for its true worth in favor of consumerism and monetary gain—the most tangible form of acceptance in contemporary society. Yoga culture, the face of yoga in society, teaches us that the practice is about bending over backward to touch our toes to our noses. In reality, the practice itself means many things to many different people. For some, yoga is a form of movement that keeps one limber and spry. For others, it is an expression of spirituality and meditation. Each of these individually is only a fraction of yoga. Yoga has the potential to be more than the sum of its parts. In its whole, yoga is a system for living, of which asana is only one piece. When taken together, it helps one find and maintain balance in their daily lives—something you will be acutely aware of when a single piece drops away even for a moment. The translation of the Sanskrit term yoga is simply “union”—the act of pursuing balance within and outside of yourself. For today, this is where I find my yoga practice: finding my edge physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Without it, my life quickly becomes out of sync.
Yoga helped me access my power, to appreciate my complexity, and to see the value of these things not just for myself but for others as well. Seeing myself as a whole person and finally realizing yoga as a whole practice has helped me understand that all things are not equal, but I have the power and the voice to do something about that. How would the stories of our time change if we were able to see yoga, see those around us, and even see ourselves as whole beings rather than bits and pieces? Imagine the possibilities if we let go of this reductionistic perspective of living that neglects the ultimate complexity and beauty of all beings, moving away from seeing characteristics and labels? What if we were able to see more than the outer shell of a person or being, and were instead able to appreciate the person, their experiences, and the greater culture this all exists within to create each unique being?
Even this understanding of yoga as an individual practice or pursuit of self-awareness is an act of living small. The very foundation of yoga has the power to address injustice and oppression when we as yogis, as a community, stop holding ourselves back with this perception. When we expand beyond our individual practices, yoga has the power to dramatically alter the world. We have the duty to act: to acknowledge our privilege, how it harms us and those around us, and to dismantle the systems of inequality. Only when we are able to see our power as it truly is and not allow society to use it to silence us can we truly be free.
Without question, the darkest moments in my life led to my greatest blessings. And I am only beginning to see the power I have. Although my previous motto was to play it safe by hiding inside a set of very well-developed armor, I ultimately created the biggest messes in my life by maintaining a facade that led others to perceive me as cold, angry, strong, and unapproachable. I now choose differently: to live my life bold, large, and authentic. The specific steps I have taken and the milestones I have reached along my journey are unimportant—truly. What is of vital importance is that my path, from the dark to the light and every bit in between, prepared me for this present moment. It empowered me with every skill, tenacious attribute, and driving force. The thin privilege I hold and the darkness I experienced have empowered me to have and use a voice where others may not. I intend to use that voice, to help others find their light.
My joy now lies in using my voice to end the war on women’s bodies and the need for external approval to establish our worth. Far from silent, I advocate for size diversity. I work to draw attention to the complexities of power, autonomy, and integrity in society so that all may find freedom. My light drives me to target the deadliest mental illness of eating disorders (my day job). The gift of my yoga teacher training (my self-care and connection) saved me from a different darkness and empowered me to continue my own growth and participate in that of others’. I hope that my own experiences will allow me to create safe spaces for all students to participate in all that yoga can be and create opportunities for yoga teachers to deepen their awareness of their power to impact people on (and off) the mat. My vision, my hope, is for each one of us to be able to define our own journeys, write our own stories, and dictate where our power may lie.
The structures of privilege and oppression are insidious, so much so that they harm even those who they purport to benefit. We all suffer by virtue of the fact that we are not all free. It’s time to listen, to hear our whole story. We decide where the power is, not the world. The choice is yours. Ask yourself: am I ready to stop living?
Jenny Copeland, PsyD, RYT, is a clinical psychologist with Ozark Center in southwest Missouri, specializing in the treatment of eating disorders. She strives to help people pursue balance within and outside themselves to find freedom in their bodies. Dr. Copeland is the cocreator of the Model of Appearance Perceptions and Stereotypes, and continues to write on the dynamics of power and privilege related to body size in hopes of creating safe spaces for all. Author photo by Amelia Hill / Hill Creative.