Men in Jeans Practicing Yoga : On Rebellion and Stillness

I can usually spot a first-timer by their pants.

Leggings, joggers, something stretchy — that's the uniform. So when a man walks into my Yin class in actual denim, I notice. Not because it's wrong. Not because it’s cute. Because it usually means one thing: this person doesn't know the uniform exists. Or he does, and he's not wearing it anyway.

Three times now, that's been a man who does what he wants. Rides what he wants. Wears what he wants. Sleeps on a mountain if he feels like it. And then, without a shred of self-consciousness, lies down on a mat and does absolutely nothing for ten minutes at a time.

Steve

Steve's been a bit of a regular at the heated studio I was sharing Yin at. He rides a motorcycle, and years ago he spent five years in India studying tantra — the kind of detail he mentioned once, in passing, and never brought up again.

One day he forgot his gear. Of course, it was the day I'd programmed ten-minute holds. I enter each class with an intention for the students, and this group had earned the challenge of holding poses longer — I wanted to meet them with something new. The class before mine was always something hot: inferno pilates, or a power vinyasa flow that left the mirrors fogged and the floor damp. Despite our efforts, the fifteen-minute transition between classes wasn't enough to cool the room back down. We didn't want it hot for Yin — but it was, 95 degrees anyway, the air thick enough to feel on your skin before you'd even moved.

That evening, Steve had no stretchy pants. Just jeans and a mat.

He held every pose like it was nothing. Not a single fidget on his face.

The stillness was real. Ten minutes into a hip opener, the room gone thick and quiet, sweat gathering along everyone else's hairline — and his face hadn't changed. Denim against a heated floor, not moving. Afterward he told me class was easy. I believed him. 

Rick (Probably)

I never got his name. If I see him again, I'm asking — but in my head he's Rick, so I'll tell you about Rick.

He unrolled his mat without ceremony, grabbed the props he needed, and settled in — jeans and all, no change of clothes, like it hadn't occurred to him that yoga required a costume.

Rick moved through the whole practice like someone who'd done this before. No hesitation, no watching his neighbor for cues. Just ease.

After class, he left quietly — no chatting, no lingering — and walked out into the parking lot toward a classic car, shiny and clean, restored with the kind of care that takes years and skinned knuckles. Was there dirt under his fingernails? I couldn't say — I was too busy staring at the jeans. He looked like he'd built the car himself, and I wouldn't have bet against it.

Yet the coolest part was still ahead. While my curiosity gawked at him strutting toward the car, I noticed the back seat wasn't empty. A German Shepherd had been waiting there the entire class — sitting patiently, ears up, eyes on the door the second it opened. This was clearly their routine. The dog was trained. They had an agreement. Was I watching a low-key version of Will Smith in I Am Legend, or John Wick before things went sideways? An hour and change, patient as anything, for Rick to come back.

I still think about that dog more than I think about Rick. 

Chris

A Saturday 8am Yin class at the Claremont studio, where I first started teaching. It must have been late spring — the kind of morning where the parking lot is still cool and the light hasn't quite committed to being bright yet.

A man walked in wearing jeans and flannel, first time at the studio, first time renting a mat. A little scruffy — not dirty, exactly, but not fresh either. That class was typically regulars. Something about him read outdoors, though I couldn't place it yet. As we flowed through the practice, I noticed the bottoms of his feet were dirty, a fine layer of trail dust ground into his heels.

He moved through the whole practice smoothly, like his body already knew what to do with itself. When class ended, he thanked me and told me he'd come straight down from backpacking Mount Baldy overnight. Ahhh. Wait, did he literally walk her from the mountain? This made sense now. He wasn't even local — in town for a college graduation, headed back to Colorado the next day. He invited me to come visit sometime.

By then I'd figured out what I was picking up on. I've spent a few nights out in the woods alone myself. There's a particular quiet that people carry afterward — not tired, exactly. Settled. You earn it by finding out what you're made of when no one's watching.

His name is Chris — I learned that later, entering his details for class registration. I later found out he's a bestselling author for leaders, a keynote speaker, and a business coach. Another impressive mystery man.

Stillness Is the Real Rebellion

I keep coming back to the jeans. Not because they're funny, though they are. Because they're a small, unbothered refusal — of the uniform, of what's expected, of blending in. These weren't men trying to fit into a studio. They just showed up as themselves and let the room adjust.

And that's when it hit me: that's exactly what Yin is.

We live in a culture that worships go-go-go. Hustle harder. Optimize your morning. Sweat it out, burn it off, prove something. Even a lot of yoga has been absorbed into that — faster flows, harder holds, yoga as one more thing to conquer before 7am. Against all of that, choosing to lie on the floor and do nothing for ten minutes is not soft. It's defiant. It says the go-go-go doesn't own you, and neither does anyone's idea of what you should be doing with your body right now.

Maybe that's why I noticed them. Not because they were unprepared. Because they were unbothered. They'd already rebelled against one uniform before they ever walked into mine — and it turns out the same rebellion, the same "I do what I want," looks identical whether you're on a motorcycle or completely motionless on a mat.

I’m not saying that the hustle isn’t necessary to chase your passions, it’s the balance that counts. To be still, on purpose, in a world built to keep you moving — that's not the opposite of badass. That might be the most badass thing there is.

More ways to connect in person

Your Body-Your Yoga Workshop 9/12
Evening Yin - Sundays at 4p
Idyllwild Yoga Festival - September 26

Who Am I?

I'm a lifelong overachiever, avid hiker, entrepreneur, and devoted dog mom who spent almost 20 years in the corporate world before realizing planned rest was just what my calendar needed. A classic overthinker (and unapologetic Gemini), I found my way to Yin Yoga through a love of growth and challenging myself—and it changed how I move through life.

I now teach Yin for people who are always doing, always giving, and rarely stopping to check in with themselves. My approach is grounded and no-fluff, rooted in extensive study of Yin Yoga and Functional Anatomy (including training with Bernie Clark), with a focus on nervous system regulation and honoring each body's unique design.

I also lead workshops in anatomy and nervous system regulation, and run Yin Yoga Teacher Trainings throughout the year. Be a part of my community by joining one of my classes, workshops, or training.