Breathe Into Me

I never believed in fate until the day I walked into Serene Flow Yoga Studio on a gray Tuesday morning in October. My therapist had suggested yoga for my anxiety—the kind that made my chest tight during meetings, that kept me awake at 3 AM running through every mistake I'd ever made. "Learn to breathe," Dr. Patterson had said. "Learn to be present in your body."

If only she'd warned me about what being present in my body would actually feel like.

The studio was in an old converted warehouse, all exposed brick and tall windows that let in soft, diffused light. It smelled like lavender and something earthier underneath—sandalwood, maybe. Gentle music played from hidden speakers, something with bells and what sounded like rain.

I was early, nervously early, clutching a brand-new yoga mat I'd ordered overnight from Amazon. The reception area was empty except for a woman behind the desk, her silver hair cropped short, reading glasses perched on her nose.

"Hi, I'm here for the 9 AM beginner class? I signed up online."

"Ah yes, Charlotte. Welcome." She smiled warmly. "Kira's class. You're in for a treat—she's our best instructor. Studio B, down the hall on your left. Shoes off here, dear."

I padded down the hallway in my socked feet, yoga mat tucked under my arm like a security blanket. Studio B was larger than I'd expected, mirrors covering one wall, the opposite wall lined with windows overlooking a small courtyard garden. A few other students were already there, setting up mats, stretching casually in ways my body had never moved.

And then I saw her.

Kira Volkov was adjusting the thermostat when I walked in. She turned at the sound of the door, and something in my chest did a complicated little flip that had nothing to do with anxiety.

She was maybe five-foot-six, with the kind of lean, sculpted body that spoke of years of practice rather than vanity. Dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame a face that was striking rather than conventionally pretty—high cheekbones, full lips, eyes so dark they were almost black. She wore simple black leggings and a cropped tank top that showed a strip of toned stomach, and she moved with an effortless grace that made me feel like a puppet with tangled strings.

"New student?" Her voice was lower than I expected, with a hint of an accent I couldn't place. "Welcome. I'm Kira."

"Charlotte." I stuck out my hand like we were at a business conference. "Charlie. My friends call me Charlie."

She took my hand, and her grip was warm and firm, her palm slightly calloused. "Charlie. Beautiful. Find a spot anywhere—we'll start in a few minutes."

I chose a spot in the back corner, safely anonymous, and tried not to stare as Kira moved around the room greeting other students. There was something magnetic about her, the way she gave each person her full attention, the way she touched their shoulders or adjusted their postures with casual intimacy.

She's just friendly, I told myself. This is yoga. People are touchy in yoga.

But when the class began and she stood at the front of the room, that same strange flutter returned to my chest.

"Close your eyes," she said. "Let the outside world fall away. For the next hour, there is nothing but this room, this mat, this breath. Inhale through your nose... and exhale through your mouth. Let go of everything you're carrying."

Her voice washed over me like warm water. I tried to focus on breathing, but I was hyperaware of her presence, her footsteps on the hardwood floor as she walked among us.

When her hand touched my shoulder—just a brief, gentle correction to my posture—I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Relax your shoulders," she murmured, her mouth close to my ear. "You're holding tension here. Let it go."

Easy for her to say.

📅 Week Three

I became a regular at the Tuesday/Thursday 9 AM class. Then I added the Saturday morning flow. Then a Wednesday evening restorative session. My anxiety was, admittedly, improving—but that wasn't why I kept coming back.

It was her.

I found myself watching Kira the way you watch a dancer or a musician—with awe at the way she inhabited her body, the way every movement seemed intentional and effortless at once. During demonstrations, she would flow through poses that seemed impossible, her body bending in ways that made my mouth go dry.

I started arriving early just to have a few minutes of conversation before class. I learned that she was originally from Russia—hence the accent—that she'd been practicing yoga for fifteen years, teaching for ten. That she'd moved to the States for a woman who'd broken her heart, and stayed because she'd built a life here. That she loved terrible action movies, drank too much coffee, and had a rescue cat named Dostoevsky.

I also learned that I was in serious trouble.

The thing was, I'd never been attracted to a woman before. At thirty-four, I thought I knew who I was—straight, practical, boring. I'd had a string of mediocre relationships with men who were nice enough but never made me feel much of anything. I'd assumed that was just how I was wired, low libido, emotionally reserved.

Kira made me question everything.

It wasn't just physical, though God knows there was that. It was the way she laughed, sudden and unguarded. The way she talked about yoga as a spiritual practice, not just exercise. The way she remembered every student's name and something personal about each of them. The way she looked at me sometimes, like she was seeing something I couldn't see myself.

In Savasana—the final resting pose—she would walk among the students, occasionally offering gentle adjustments. The first time she pressed down on my shoulders, I felt it everywhere. The heat of her palms through my thin t-shirt. The whisper of her breath as she leaned close.

"Surrender," she said softly. "You're still holding on to something. Let it go."

I wanted to tell her that what I was holding on to was sanity. That every time she touched me, even innocently, my body lit up like a switchboard. That I went home after class and lay in bed thinking about her hands, her voice, the way she smelled like jasmine and clean sweat.

Instead, I just nodded and tried to breathe.

📅 Week Seven

The private lesson was her idea.

"You've made incredible progress," she said after class one Thursday, as I lingered rolling up my mat. "But I notice you're still struggling with some of the hip openers. A lot of people carry emotion there—trauma, stress, things we don't even realize we're holding."

"Oh." I felt my face flush. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone watching closely." She smiled, and there was something in her dark eyes I couldn't read. "I offer private sessions. One-on-one, at my apartment studio. We could work on your specific challenges, go at your own pace. No pressure—just think about it."

I thought about it for approximately three seconds before saying yes.

Her apartment was in an old Victorian, the top floor converted into an airy space with skylights and plants everywhere. The "studio" was really just her living room, furniture pushed aside, mats laid out, candles casting flickering shadows on the walls.

"Tea?" she offered, and I nodded, following her into a small kitchen where Dostoevsky wound between our legs, meowing imperiously. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll just be a minute."

Comfortable. Right. I sat on her couch and tried not to notice the intimate details of her life—the books stacked on every surface, the art on the walls, the silk robe draped over a chair that made me think of her wearing it and nothing else.

Get a grip, Charlie.

She returned with two cups of something fragrant and steaming—chamomile and lavender, she said—and sat beside me. Not across from me. Beside me, close enough that our knees almost touched.

"Before we start," she said, "I want to check in. How are you feeling? Not physically—emotionally. What's present for you tonight?"

The question caught me off guard. In my corporate job, no one ever asked how I was feeling. They asked about deadlines and deliverables and quarter projections.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Nervous, I guess. Out of my comfort zone."

"That's where growth happens." She set down her tea and turned to face me fully. "Charlie, can I ask you something personal?"

My heart rate spiked. "Sure."

"Why did you really start coming to yoga?"

I considered lying. Considered trotting out the anxiety excuse, which was true but incomplete. Instead, something about the candlelight and the quiet and her steady gaze made me tell the truth.

"My therapist suggested it. I was having panic attacks. But I kept coming because..." I took a breath. "Because I feel something in your class I've never felt before. And I don't entirely understand it."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she set her tea on the coffee table and turned back to me, her expression soft.

"I know."

"You know?"

"Charlie." She said my name like it was something precious. "I've been teaching for ten years. I know when someone is present for the yoga and when they're present for something else." She paused. "The question is, do you know what that something else is?"

My mouth went dry. The room felt very small suddenly, very warm. I could hear my own pulse in my ears.

"I think... I think I might be attracted to you." The words came out barely above a whisper. "I've never... I mean, I've never felt this way about a woman before. I don't know what it means."

"It means you're human." Kira's voice was gentle. "Attraction doesn't follow rules, Charlie. It doesn't care about the stories we tell ourselves about who we are."

"What stories do you tell yourself?"

She smiled—that slow, knowing smile that made my stomach flip. "I tell myself that getting involved with students is unprofessional. That I should keep boundaries. That I shouldn't be thinking about you the way I've been thinking about you."

The air between us changed. Charged. Electric.

"What... what way is that?"

Instead of answering, she reached out and touched my face. Just her fingertips against my cheek, light as breath. My eyes fluttered closed involuntarily.

"Like this," she murmured. "Wondering how you'd respond to touch. Whether you'd let me show you things."

"What kinds of things?"

"Open your eyes, Charlie."

I did. She was close now, so close I could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, could smell the jasmine and something warmer underneath. Her thumb traced my lower lip, and I heard myself make a sound I'd never made before—something between a sigh and a whimper.

"Do you want me to kiss you?"

I couldn't speak. I just nodded.

Her lips met mine, soft and questioning at first. I'd been kissed before, plenty of times, but never like this—never with such attention, such presence. She kissed me like she taught yoga, with complete focus, reading every response, adjusting in real-time to what my body was telling her.

My hands found her waist, pulling her closer. She made a low sound of approval against my mouth and deepened the kiss, her tongue sliding against mine, slow and deliberate. I felt it everywhere—a liquid heat spreading through my belly, pooling between my thighs in a way I'd rarely experienced with men and never with this intensity.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she pressed her forehead to mine.

"We should slow down," she said, though her hands were still in my hair. "You're still figuring things out. I don't want to take advantage—"

"You're not." I kissed her again, harder this time. "I'm thirty-four years old. I know what I want."

"And what's that?"

"You. Teaching me. Showing me." I pulled back enough to look into her eyes. "Please."

Something shifted in her expression—a kind of surrender. "Okay," she breathed. "Okay."

She led me to her bedroom, which was as warm and inviting as the rest of the apartment—fairy lights strung along the headboard, plants in every corner, a bed piled with soft blankets. She lit a single candle on the nightstand, and the flame cast dancing shadows on the walls.

"Breathe," she reminded me, sensing my nervousness. "This is just like yoga. Stay present. Stay in your body. If anything feels wrong, we stop. Okay?"

"Okay."

She stood before me and slowly pulled her tank top over her head. No bra underneath—just smooth skin and small, perfect breasts. I stared, mesmerized, until she took my hand and placed it over her heart.

"Feel that? I'm nervous too. You're not alone in this."

Her heart was racing under my palm. Somehow, that made everything easier. I leaned forward and kissed her collarbone, her shoulder, the curve of her neck. She sighed, tilting her head to give me better access.

"That's it," she murmured. "Trust your instincts. Your body knows what to do."

She helped me out of my own shirt, her fingers trailing fire across my skin. When she reached behind me to unclasp my bra, I held my breath—I'd always been self-conscious about my body, my ordinary breasts, my soft stomach—but the way she looked at me dissolved any insecurity.

"Beautiful," she said simply, and I believed her.

We undressed each other slowly, taking turns, exploring. Every new inch of revealed skin was a revelation. I'd never really looked at another woman's body before, not like this—the graceful architecture of her hips, the dark thatch of hair between her thighs, the way her nipples pebbled under my touch.

She laid me back on the bed and hovered over me, her hair falling loose around her face. "I'm going to touch you now. And I want you to tell me what feels good. Communication is everything. Okay?"

"Okay."

Her hand slid down my body, over my breast, my stomach, my hip. She stroked the inside of my thigh and I parted my legs automatically, aching for her touch where I needed it most. But she didn't rush. Instead, she traced circles on my inner thigh, coming close but never quite touching, until I was trembling.

"Please," I whispered.

"Please what?"

"Touch me. I need—I need you to touch me."

When her fingers finally found my center, I cried out. I was already soaking wet, had been since that first kiss, and she hummed with satisfaction at the discovery.

"So responsive," she murmured, her fingers gliding through my folds, exploring. "Tell me—is this good?"

"Yes. God, yes."

She found my clit and began circling it with her thumb, slow and steady, while two fingers teased my entrance. The dual sensation was overwhelming. No one had ever touched me like this—with such patience, such attention. Like my pleasure was her meditation.

"You're so beautiful like this," she said. "Eyes closed, lips parted, completely surrendered. I could watch you forever."

Her fingers slid inside me, and I arched off the bed. She curled them forward, finding a spot that made stars burst behind my eyes. Her thumb kept working my clit as her fingers moved in and out, setting a rhythm that built and built and built.

"I'm—I'm going to—"

"Let go," she said. "Don't fight it. Let me watch you fall apart."

The orgasm crashed over me like a wave, huge and consuming. I cried out her name—Kira, Kira—as my body shook, as she kept touching me through it, drawing it out, wringing every last tremor from my convulsing muscles.

When I finally came back to myself, she was lying beside me, stroking my hair, smiling.

"Welcome back."

"That was..." I couldn't find words. "I've never..."

"I know." She kissed my forehead. "And we're just getting started."

"I want—I want to touch you too. But I don't know what to do."

"Then let me teach you."

She guided my hand between her legs, showing me how to touch her—where to press, where to be gentle, how to read her responses. She was wet too, evidence that pleasuring me had aroused her, and the knowledge sent a fresh pulse of desire through me.

Learning her body was like learning a new language. The soft sounds she made when I circled her clit just right. The way her hips lifted to meet my touch. The flutter of her inner walls around my fingers when I finally, nervously, slid them inside her.

"Just like that," she breathed. "Curl your fingers—yes, right there. Don't stop."

I watched her face as I touched her, memorizing every expression, every catch of breath. When she came, it was with a low moan that went straight to my core, her body tightening around my fingers, her hands gripping the sheets.

Afterward, we lay tangled together, her head on my chest, my fingers trailing up and down her spine.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Different. Like I just woke up from a very long sleep."

"That's a kind of awakening," she said. "One of many. There are layers and layers to discover—about yourself, about pleasure, about connection." She propped herself up on one elbow. "If you want to keep exploring, I'd like to be your guide."

"My yoga instructor with benefits?"

She laughed, bright and surprised. "Something like that. Or something more, if that's where this leads. No pressure. No expectations. Just presence."

"Presence," I repeated. "I think I'm finally learning what that means."

She kissed me softly, and I felt something settle in my chest—not anxiety this time, but peace. The kind of peace I'd been chasing through therapy and medication and all the wrong relationships.

It had been waiting for me all along. I just had to learn how to breathe.

⏳ Six Months Later

I no longer sit in the back of class. I've moved to the front row, where I can watch Kira teach with the knowledge of what those hands feel like on my body, what that voice sounds like when she's lost in pleasure. Sometimes our eyes meet across the room and a secret smile passes between us.

The other students don't know. We're careful about that—professional during studio hours, something else entirely after. But when class ends and everyone files out, I often linger. She locks the door. Draws the blinds.

"Savasana?" she asks, her eyes glinting.

"I could use some deep relaxation," I agree.

What follows has nothing to do with corpse pose and everything to do with the kind of surrender that only happens when you trust someone completely.

My therapist says I've made remarkable progress. My anxiety is manageable now, not gone but quieter. I sleep through the night. I've stopped running through my mistakes at 3 AM because I've stopped seeing my life as a series of mistakes.

Meeting Kira wasn't a mistake. Wanting her wasn't a mistake. All those years of not knowing myself—maybe that wasn't even a mistake, just a necessary prelude to this moment of recognition.

I am thirty-four years old, and I am finally learning to breathe.

To be present in my body.

To surrender to what feels right, regardless of what I thought I knew about myself.

Every Tuesday and Thursday and Saturday, I unroll my mat in Studio B. I close my eyes and listen to Kira's voice guiding us through poses. And when she walks among the students, adjusting postures, her hands lingering on my shoulders just a moment longer than necessary—I don't jump anymore.

I lean into the touch.

I breathe.

I let go.