15 hours ago
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I was 13 when a spinal surgeon gave me unsolicited career advice. “Scoliosis won’t ruin your life,” he said, peering over his spectacles, “unless you want to do bikini modelling.” As a young teenager, I hadn’t thought much about job prospects, let alone modelling, but his words stung. It also curdled my situation into a lose-lose scenario: either have a painful operation to fuse metal rods with my spine, or endure a lifetime with an abnormally twisted back.
Until this point, I’d perceived my spinal curvature in terms of the inward experience: pain. Now, I became aware of an external dimension: a disfigurement. Something to be hidden. This did me no favours as a teenager in the age of Instagram. While I declined the operation due to the risks and the extended leave from school, the surgeon’s blithe remark burdened me with shame.
His approach differed enormously from that of my childhood dance teacher, who had identified my scoliosis. After a lesson, she asked kindly if I experienced discomfort in my hips, which were visibly uneven in my leotard, and suggested I see a doctor.
This led to twice-yearly hospital visits with imposing MRI machines and cold-fingered adults who pressed stickers to my spine. The tests confirmed that my scoliosis was thoracolumbar, referring to a spinal curvature between the chest and lower back. The curve tilted my pelvis, making my hips and legs uneven.
Most noticeably, my right hip was higher than my left, causing my torso to slant sideways like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. This created an hourglass shape on the right of my waist and a straight line on my left.
Like eight in 10 cases, the cause of my scoliosis was unknown and could not have been prevented through better posture, exercise or diet. Only an operation could have rectified the spinal curve – and for years I regretted refusing it.
Under loose clothes, my scoliosis isn’t hugely obvious – unless you spot a flash of ankle on my longer leg. Summer shorts and miniskirts are more challenging, as they sit lopsidedly on my hips and thighs. Sadly, bikinis are the worst. Delicate string bottoms slide down the straight side of my waist, requiring a tight, one-sided bow that digs into my flesh and causes the front panel to gape at the middle.
For most of my life, the surgeon’s words rang in my ears every time I tied that bow. Scoliosis did not compare favourably with the filtered silhouettes on social media, nor the symmetrical waists of my friends. As I moved through adolescence, it became the jewel in my crown of insecurities, which led to disordered eating and an unhealthy relationship with my body.
The condition made me different, I believed. Lesser. Unworthy. Instead, I sought validation through academic performance, and by the time my GCSEs arrived, I’d morphed into Will from The Inbetweeners, forsaking sleep, food and personal hygiene because: “You can’t revise in the shower, Jay, the books get wet!”
A therapist wisely suggested I acquire “coping strategies” for stress and recommended yoga. The following week, I attended a class – and it was love at first sun salutation. The calm, rhythmic movement soothed my frazzled nerves and the frenetic buzzing of my mental to-do lists.
But there was something else, too. I found the sequence of chaturangas, twists and hip-openers to be far more enjoyable than physiotherapy exercises. Appointments with osteopaths and physios had become a regular part of my routine, along with the worksheets instructing monotonous daily movements. Their bullet-point lists were strenuous, joyless and, above all, time-consuming. But the punishment for neglecting them was pain.
Yoga was my salvation. Motivated by physical discomfort and a love for the practice, yoga accompanied me through university, the pandemic and a career in journalism – a welcome remedy after long hours standing in press pens.
Whether work took me to refugee camps on the Ukrainian border or following King Charles on his state visit to Kenya, my days always ended with a downward dog. Armed with YouTube and a mat – or sometimes just a hotel carpet – I could practise anywhere. And I did.
When I decided to take a break from journalism in 2025, yoga was the antidote to burnout, inspiring me to qualify as an instructor. My training prized one thing above all else: consistent practice.
I learned that yoga, which originated more than 5,000 years ago in ancient India and predated the Roman empire, was predominantly a philosophical study, with the postures developed later to prepare the body for meditation. Seen through this lens, yoga is a lifelong ritual. You work at it. Day by day. Hence the phrase yoga practice.
Thanks to my scoliosis, I’ve practised daily for more than a decade. For the first time, I felt gratitude towards my wonky spine for welding me to a revered tradition with innumerable mental and physical benefits. Instead of feeling frustrated that certain poses were, in yoga speak, “unavailable to me”, the training helped me view scoliosis in a new light. It was my motivator. My reason to get on the mat.
Now, I’m a qualified instructor at a hot yoga studio. Free of shame, I’ve even updated my website with photos of my Lycra‑clad body in various postures. It’s not quite bikini modelling, but it’s close enough for me.
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English (US) ·