How Yoga Helped Me Reclaim My Body and Heal From Shame

This is the first article in a mini-series titled:

“7 Unexpected Ways Yoga Transformed My Life (and Helped Me Find My Why)”

In this series, I share seven inner metamorphoses — some gentle, some painful — that yoga brought into my life. From invisible wounds to tiny victories, each article explores a facet of this deep reconnection: body image, emotions, breath, values, and more. It’s raw. It’s real. And if it helps even one person feel less alone, then it was worth writing.

Thank you for reading 🙏

A bit of context...

Sports have always been a pillar in my life.

But for a long time, I approached physical activity with an obsession for performance, discipline, and control.

HIIT, cardio, strength training... Everything had to be intense, sweaty, efficient.

I was chasing the burn. The adrenaline. The idea of pushing through no matter what.

I demanded my body to obey.

I wasn’t living in my body — I was using it.

And to be honest?

My body and I weren’t exactly best friends.

I mistreated it. Pushed it. Ignored it.

I looked at it with distrust. Sometimes even with shame. Comparing it to others. Judging it harshly.

Not because it was objectively deformed or outside the norm.

But because I had internalized a harsh, demanding external gaze.

A gaze that wasn’t mine... 👇

🌪️ It all started with a wound

As a child, I loved eating. Everything. With appetite, joy, and consistency.

I picked from everyone’s plates, I even ordered the adult menu at restaurants...

My grandmother still fondly recalls an afternoon at Part-Dieu (the HUGE shopping mall in Lyon) when I devoured an ice cream, a crepe, a waffle, and what I called at the time a “sausage crust” (a hot-dog, in Emma-4-years-old language).

Then one day — I must have been five or six — my mother was angry with me. I no longer remember why.

But I remember exactly what she blurted out at the end, completely out of context:

“And you know what? If you keep stuffing your face like that, fatty, you’re going to balloon up.”

Shock.

I froze, unable to respond. Then, once the words sank in, I ran to my room, slammed the door, and sat against it, feet braced to block anyone from entering.

I sobbed uncontrollably. My mother apologized over and over, but... it was too late. The poison had already taken root.

The wound was raw and gaping.

In life, especially during childhood, we experience various emotional wounds that shape our identity and behaviors.

Lise Bourbeau, a Canadian author and expert in personal development, wrote the best-selling book "The 5 Wounds That Prevent You from Being Yourself". She describes each wound as a trauma that appears during key moments in childhood.

These wounds, though invisible, shape how we relate to the world — and most importantly, to ourselves. They deeply influence our self-worth, the way we eat, move, and judge ourselves — and therefore, affect our physical well-being.

When you're hurt early in life in your relationship to your body or love, you often develop protective strategies... that can turn into prisons.

After reading Bourbeau's book, I recognized myself in the wounds of abandonment, rejection, and injustice, especially in how I coped with my mother’s harsh words that day.

You won't be loved if you eat too much. → AbandonmentIf you're "round," you’ll be rejected. → RejectionWhat she said was horrible and unfair! → Injustice

And slowly, a little voice settled in:

"Watch out! That's too much.""You didn’t exercise enough today.""Look at your thighs compared to Alice's... you’re huge."

That rigid, critical voice (the mask that typically forms in response to the wound of injustice, according to Bourbeau) became my internal guide...

Toxic, yet impossible to ignore.

Everything related to food and my body became entangled with shame.

Words like "fat," "bloated," "round," "chubby," "huge" became tiny blades that stabbed my gut every time they popped up in a conversation.

Imagine the discomfort when my grandma, smiling, would retell the story of the "sausage crust" in front of everyone...

That inner critic, that inner judge, convinced me I had to stay in control — of my shape, my appetite, my impulses.

All to match some ideal...

The ideal my mother held the day she voiced her worry about my body.

That ideal, that external truth, became my inner compass for years.

It took me time (and quite a few therapy sessions!) to realize...

That voice? It wasn’t really me.

I wasn’t the one saying I had to "tone up," "earn my body," or "be better."

It wasn’t even truly my mother’s voice (we talked about it years later — she doesn’t even remember the incident).

But the scar was there. Subtle. Deep.

And for a long time, it shaped my relationship with food and movement.

Teenage years… and the adult I’ve become

Middle and high school were, for many of us, the worst years of our lives.

They’re packed with physical and emotional changes that feel impossible to handle — and on top of that, our self-image and confidence are constantly shaken. Not just by our own harsh inner critic, but often (and sadly) by the judgment of others.

Let’s not forget that our teenage bullies are often deeply uncomfortable in their own skin, projecting their fear and shame onto others.

Self-esteem often crumbles just as we start growing, changing, and watching our bodies morph under the heat of hormonal chaos.

For me, these years — capped by a particularly painful breakup — sent me even deeper into self-criticism. And indirectly, into sport. It became my outlet. My anchor. My refuge.

It turned into a non-negotiable routine. A way to stay on the “right path.”

Then came a certain coronavirus… and lockdowns.

Most people gained weight. But me? Not a chance.

With the rigid discipline I’d imposed on myself and the demanding gaze I kept on my body, it wasn’t even an option.

Back in university, I had discovered HIIT (High Intensity Interval Training): high-impact, intense, fast, and efficient. Exactly what I needed at the time. Plus, you could do it anywhere — as long as you had a two-meter by one-meter space (and no neighbors below), you were good to go.

That workout style stuck with me for years.

It was how I stayed in control.

How I "justified" what I ate.

But in truth, I was draining myself.

Because that wasn’t love.

That was a conditional contract with my body.

If it didn’t perform, I hated it.

My (hesitant) first steps toward gentleness

The first time I tried yoga was in high school.

And honestly… I didn’t like it.

My judgments came fast:

“Too slow.”“Not real sport.”“It’s for hippies or bored housewives.”

I left the class frustrated and annoyed, feeling like I hadn’t worked out enough. I was full of bias and totally convinced it just wasn’t for me.

Years later — already deep into therapy and learning to reconnect with my body — I discovered pilates.

What fascinated me immediately was its origin story: it was developed in prison. Joseph Pilates, held in a camp during WWI, created his exercises in a tiny cell. Just his body, a sharp awareness of movement, and no equipment.

I stumbled into pilates around the same time I was doing HIIT. I’d joined a gym near my house, initially for a “fit-dance” class. On my first try, I was swept up by the instructor’s contagious energy — the rhythm, the vibe, her way of moving us with joy… I was hooked.

Week after week, I kept coming back. Eventually, someone whispered to me with a knowing smile:

“You should stay for the next class — same teacher, it’s pilates. You’ll love it.”

I was skeptical. In my mind, “gentle movement” meant “not real exercise.” But I gave it a shot… and I’m so glad I did.

Right away, I felt something different. Slower, yes — but deeper. And at times, even more intense than fit-dance!

I ended up doing both classes, back to back, every week with surprising joy.

Then came wave two of Covid.

Gyms closed. Classes stopped.

But my motivation didn’t.

I kept going online — drawn by this new relationship to movement: more mindful, more respectful, more grounded.

Pilates or HIIT, depending on the mood… and how much noise I could get away with 😅

(In my tiny flat in Lille, jumping around meant instant neighbor rage. So pilates and mat workouts became my go-tos.)

🤸‍♀️ And then… tadaaaa… yoga entered the chat!

Little by little, I began to listen to my body.

“What do you need today? A powerful session or a slow stretch?”“Okay. Let’s go with that.”

I slowly dipped a toe back into yoga.

Not as a workout — as a path.

A soft question whispered to myself:

“What if I tried something slower… something more aligned with who I’ve become?”

At the time, I was deep in professional bore-out. I had hit a wall (I talk about it here), and I’ll share more in an upcoming piece about values and alignment.

I was drained. Lost. But curious.

And yoga felt… possible.

Not because I had suddenly “found faith” — but because I was finally ready to stop forcing and start listening.

And that’s when something started to shift. In my practice, yes — but especially within.

🌱 The beginning of something new

Slowly, my relationship with my body softened.

My body isn’t a machine to optimize.It’s not my enemy.It’s my companion.

Yoga helped me change the way I looked at myself.

I stopped loving my body only when it performed.

I started loving it just because it was alive — whether tired or energized, stiff or flexible, slow or radiant.

I still practice HIIT (gotta love that post-session dopamine 💪), but not to “burn,” compensate, or punish.

I do it because it feels good.

And as someone who needs discipline and daily movement (can’t help it 😅), I’ve found yoga to be a gentler, wiser rhythm — a balance between what my mind wants (“go go go!”) and what my body can offer.

When I’m tired, I no longer beat myself up for not doing “real exercise.”

I give myself something else: some stretching, a long-held pose, a deep savasana.

And that’s more than enough.

No comparison. No judgment. Just me, with me.

In yoga classes, I often close my eyes.

I focus on my breath, my grounding, the tiny messages my body sends me.

I don’t look at others.

I’m not trying to do better.

I’m trying to do right.

It’s me, my body, and the love I offer it.

Sometimes that means yin yoga. Or slow, silent stretching.

Because that’s what I need in that moment.

Because I’ve learned to listen to what’s there — instead of forcing a rhythm from somewhere else.

It’s not “intense workouts” or “gentle yoga.”

It’s a respectful mix. A joyful body ecology.

And even if that old phrase — “you’re gonna balloon up, fatty” — still echoes faintly in the distance,

Today, I see it differently.

From afar. Like it’s no longer really about me.

I no longer feel I have to deserve my body.

I thank it.

I honor it. Celebrate it. Even when it trembles. Even when it resists.

This journey toward body acceptance isn’t easy.

But every step matters.

And for me, yoga was one of the most precious.

Because yoga taught me how to love my body unconditionally.

And honestly? That’s huge.

If this resonated with you…

If this article spoke to you — if you’re also walking a path toward more softness with your body — I’d love to hear from you.

Feel free to comment, message me, or share these words. Together, we can create spaces of listening and acceptance.

Whether you’re new to yoga or well on your way, please remember this:

You don’t have to earn your body.You’re allowed to love it.Right now. Just as it is.

And by the way — yoga isn’t just silent poses held for ten seconds.

There are so many yoga styles out there!

Dance yoga, aerial yoga, power yoga, acroyoga…

If you’re curious — go for it. Give it a try.

You’ve got nothing to lose, just a new experience to live 😇

And I’ll gradually introduce you to different practices — so you can find the one that feels right for you.

Thanks for reading.

And see you soon for the next article 💛