What It’s Really Like Teaching Yoga in Behavioral Health Centers

The Good, the Bad, and the Completely Unexpected

Let’s be real—this isn’t your average yoga class.

There are no candles. No soft playlists with flutes and waterfalls. No one’s sipping green juice or aligning their chakras under the full moon.

Instead, there are locked doors.
Kids pacing.
Sometimes screaming.
Sometimes sleeping.
And me, standing barefoot—or socked up, because yes, that’s a rule—trying to get them to breathe.

The Good

There’s nothing like watching a kid who’s been silent for days finally take a deep breath—and let it out.

There’s magic in the moment someone lies down and whispers,

“That’s the first time I felt calm all week.”

There are breakthroughs that happen between the inhale and the exhale.

There’s joy in watching teenagers teach each other a yoga pose I barely taught them 10 minutes ago.

There are belly laughs when someone farts in downward dog (and yes, I laugh too).

The Bad

Sometimes no one listens.
Sometimes they throw things.
Sometimes staff interrupts with meds or announcements or snacks—and it pulls everyone out.

Sometimes I leave feeling like I failed.

I’ve taught in rooms that smelled like urine, with fluorescent lights buzzing so loudly it felt like a trauma response on its own.

I’ve taught while kids cussed me out, while one cried in the corner, and another asked if yoga would make their schizophrenia go away.

I’ve been bitten, and I’ve had bodily fluids hurled at me.
Still—I stay.

The Weird

You must always wear socks. No exceptions.

I’ve taught yoga next to a fish tank where one fish was actively eating another.
I’ve had a boy insist on calling me “Coach Breath” for weeks.
I’ve played Drake during savasana.
I’ve had a teen ask, mid-meditation, “Are we ascending right now or what?”
I’ve seen kids fall asleep in child’s pose, drooling on the mat like they’ve never had rest.

I’ve had to explain breathwork using SpongeBob.
I’ve had to sit in silence because nothing else would land.
I’ve made peace with weird.

Why I Keep Going

Because they deserve this.
Because everyone deserves a moment of regulation.
Because these aren’t “bad” kids—they’re hurting, reacting, surviving.

And if my weird little somatic class helps them come home to their body for even one second?
That’s enough.

Not your average yoga class. But exactly the one they needed.