I want to tell you about a woman I’ll call Nina. And I want to be honest about why her story is the one I find most difficult to tell.
It’s not because her situation is more severe than other women’s. It’s because she did everything right. And it still wasn’t enough.
Nina is 36. She’s been practising yoga for eleven years, teaching for five. She completed her 500-hour certification. She studies anatomy. She understands the diaphragm-pelvic floor connection. She can explain mula bandha to a room full of students and make it land.
She does Kegels. She does core work. She practises diaphragmatic breathing with intention. She went to a pelvic floor physiotherapist after her second child and committed to the programme. She is, by every measurable standard, one of the most pelvic-floor-aware women I’ve ever worked with.
And about two years ago, during an Ashtanga practice, she felt something shift during a jump-through that she’d done ten thousand times before. A small moment of lost control. Brief. Quiet. But real.
She finished her practice. She didn’t tell anyone. She went home, sat with it, and told herself it was a one-off. Fatigue. Hormones. Not enough sleep.
It wasn’t a one-off.
Over the following months, Nina started making quiet modifications. Jump-throughs became step-throughs. She shortened her inversions. She stopped demonstrating dynamic transitions in the classes she taught and explained it to students as “modelling modification options.”
She started arriving at the studio fifteen minutes early. Not for centering or pranayama. For a bathroom stop she didn’t used to need.