The Light in Me by Roxanna Gumiela

Roxanna Gumiela

In her retirement, Roxanna Gumiela is a trauma informed yoga instructor and  writer. She is a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and writes about her journey to wellness,  which incorporates yoga and mental health therapy. Roxanna has had works of creative  nonfiction and poetry published in We’ve Got Some Things to Say (2024), and Making Space for the Light (2026).

The Light in Me 

The first thing I noticed as I stepped through the inner door of the hot yoga studio was  the soft filtered pink glow of the Himalayan salt rock walls. The calm and peace that seemed  to exude from this light, gave me pause. I began to sense something special about this place. 

I felt the heat as I stepped through the inner door. Even before I rolled out my mat, I was perspiring. I lay down, following the lead of the other participants who were already there,  but as I lay there, on my back, the self-consciousness I always felt in a group setting began to  trickle into my thoughts. “Can I do this? Or will I look ridiculous? Will people be quietly  laughing at my attempts to fit in?” 

The very foundation of yoga philosophy is the first yama from the eight limbs of yoga,  'ahimsa', translated as nonviolence. Even more precisely, it means do no harm. Do no harm  towards others, no harm towards nature, and first and foremost – do no harm towards  yourself. You cannot be kind and caring, loving and nurturing towards others until you can be  all of those things towards yourself. I was anything but kind, caring, nurturing, and non-violent  towards myself. But I had learned early my body was not my own. 

There's a window in front of the captain's seat in our big boat. Under the window is a  shelf I am sitting on. I like to sit up on the shelf because I can see out the big window. Today it's  a lot of fun to sit up here because Mommy is washing the drapes. There are hooks that slide on  the track, and I'm pushing them back and forth. I like how they slide from one side to the other. 

It's warm today, and Daddy has stopped the boat in the middle of the big lake. I don't  have a diaper on because Mommy wants me to pee in the potty. Mommy is busy down inside  the boat. Daddy is sitting in his Captain's chair. I'm pushing the hooks back and forth, laughing,  but something makes me stop. I feel rubbing between my legs, where I go pee-pee. I look back at Daddy. He has his hand between my legs. He puts his finger up to his mouth, "Shh." 

The class began. Soft music floated through the air. I did my best to follow the  instructions offered by the soothing voice of the young, dark-haired female leading the class: arms by my side, palms facing up, legs extended out to each corner of the mat. I tried to relax my body. 

Relaxing is a difficult task for me. I feel like a spring, coiled up tight, never having been  stretched before. I wondered, was I doing it right? Was anyone watching? What were  they thinking? I hadn’t been in a group setting like this since university, and I had never  brought attention to myself in any way – sitting quietly, making notes, never speaking for fear of being wrong. 

I was the black sheep of the family: sitting at the kitchen table every night after school,  trying to understand, as my mother tutored me in math; when I was five, the ballet class performance where I was the only little girl to turn the wrong way every time, my mother  standing at the side of the stage to coach me – I never took ballet again; or the comment she  made when, at twenty-six years old, I went out and got my driver’s license, and she confessed  that she thought I’d never be able to learn how to drive. 

I closed my eyes, trying to invite ease to come to my toes, my ankles, and up through  each leg. 

I am curled up on my side, trying and trying to fall asleep. I hear the floor squeak. I  open my eyes. I see Daddy’s shadow come into my bedroom. In the dark, I lay quiet as a  mouse, not moving, barely breathing, afraid of what is about to happen. 

I worked to relax my pelvis, my abdomen, my back, and my chest. I encouraged my  shoulders to come down away from my ears, relaxing my throat, my tongue, and unclenching my jaw. 

My father, lying beside me on the bed, is not clothed. His pee-pee is standing up. One  hand is behind his head, elbow resting on the pillow, the other hand, between his legs. He says  to me, “Touch it, sweetie, touch it. It won’t hurt you. Watch, it stands up tall like a soldier,  standing at attention. Touch it.” 

I noticed and released the muscles in my cheeks, behind each eye, through my  forehead, and in my scalp. Around me, through soft eyes, I noticed the pink glow of the 

Himalayan salt rock walls. As I closed my eyes, I felt for a moment, the peace of this new experience fill my mind, my body, and my soul. 

I drank to quiet the voice inside. I drank to numb the self-loathing. But in my fifties,  after I began practicing yoga regularly, I started to realize the self-harm I was doing. I talked  about my drinking with the therapist I was seeing. She suggested, "Throw out all the booze in  your home." 

I couldn't do that, but I eventually stopped in my own way. The process was slow,  winding its way through three years, my drinking sometimes expanding, then shrinking. Even today, it continues. Rarely, now, do I have a glass of wine, and when I do, it is one glass, and a  small glass at that. Otherwise, I start to feel the numbing effect of the alcohol wash through  my blood. It brings a warmth, a tingling, and a buzz that begins to creep into my muscles,  invade my soul, cloud my brain, and steal my ability to see life with clarity. That used to be a  good thing. Now I have the strength to be in my body, feeling my emotions, knowing that my  thoughts are not me, not reality, but simply - thoughts. 

The class continued with some gentle stretching and poses that were familiar from my  video sessions: Child's Pose, Happy Baby, Downward Dog. We came up to standing. I swept my  arms up over my head, took a deep breath in, looking up towards the sky, exhaling as I  folded forward into myself, looking deep into my core, the essence of my true being. I waited for the voice, the one that tells me how I don’t measure up. How I’m not enough. I don’t know  what I’m doing. But strangely, in this moment of practice, the voice was silent. 

We moved into Sun Salutations. The pace picked up. Then the Warrior Poses: I, II, and  III, Extended Side Angle, Revolved Side Angle. Finally, the peak pose: Half Moon.

This was a challenging class. Sweat poured from my forehead, pooled between my  breasts, and streamed down my belly and my back, but I made it through.  

I met my mother outside in a park, on a day early in July. I prepared myself for what I  was going to say, writing it out so I wouldn’t forget anything. I drove to the park where we had  agreed to meet. She arrived and I walked over to greet her. We made some small talk, and  then I jumped in, “You know that I’ve been going to therapy now for about 3 years?” She nodded her head. 

“It’s taken me a long time to actually understand and to say this, but dad sexually  abused me when I was younger.” 

“Oh Roxy! What do you mean?” 

She believed me for all of a few hours. That belief dissolved when she confronted my  father. It was easier to see me as the culprit, the crazy daughter who made up lies about her  upstanding father. I wondered for many years if I had made it all up. 

Finally, the instructor slowed us down, guiding the class through some gentle  stretching: Butterfly Pose, Lord-of-the-Half-Fish, a supine twist, which led to a glorious and  well-earned Savasana. 

We lay on our backs, feet and legs falling open, arms by our side, palms facing up, eyes  closed.  

"Allow your practice to integrate," said the instructor. "Let go of thoughts; let go of 'to do' lists. For now, just be with your breath."

I felt the other students around me. I heard their breath: long, quiet inhales—breathing  in peace; long, extended exhales—breathing out love. Breathing that filled the room with a  softness, a gentle trust that melded that room of individuals together, seeming to provide a  oneness that maintained identity yet offered unity. The breath of these people I barely knew,  yet in that moment I felt a profound connection to: it filled the room with a silence so deep I  was wrapped and swaddled in comfort. 

The self-compassion I am learning to give myself began that day on my yoga mat. It started as instructors encouraged loving kindness during class: "Every day is different. One day  a pose may be easy, another day impossible to do. Some days balance may be excellent; other  days, you may not have balance to save your soul. There may be times when you feel strong  enough to do one hundred chaturangas. At other times, you find your strength only in Savasana. Know that change is the only constant in this world. There is no 'perfect'; there is only practice." 

Lying there, I was physically drained, yet I wanted more. I wanted to do it again. This was a comfort I had not felt ever before but knew I wanted to feel again and again. I would like to have stayed there forever, but all too quickly the relentless voice was back."You are not enough; you will never amount to anything; you don't know what you’re doing; you’re a pretender, a faker, a lost cause." 

Then, there was another voice, quieter and deeper inside. I had to listen intently, but I  heard it say,"Keep trying, don't give up. Follow your heart; there's more for you in this life, and  you deserve to have it. Keep practicing; keep learning. This can help. Yoga can help." I hadn’t heard this voice before. 

"Begin to wiggle your fingers and wiggle your toes. Make circles with your ankles and  your wrists," the instructor paused, giving us time to make those tiny movements. After a few  moments, she continued, "Pull your knees into your chest, and rock from side to side. When  you are ready, come up to sitting." 

Slowly, people began to sit up. Some rolled to their side, assuming a fetal position  before pressing themselves upright. Others rocked and rolled, up, into Sukhasana. I took my  time and finally sat up, cross-legged. 

On her mat at the front of the class, the instructor faced us. She stretched her arms out  to each side and said, "Inhale as you reach your arms up over your head."  We followed her. 

"Exhale as you bring your hands down to heart centre." She brought her hands down in  front of her heart in a prayer gesture. I mirrored her movements, feeling my palms together,  warm, in front of my heart. 

Bowing her head, she said, "The light in me sees and honours the light in you.  Namaste." And in that moment, I saw a flicker of the light in me. 

Today I am still practising. I am finding new ways to be kind and generous towards  myself, bringing non-violence into my life. Where I could never find that light before, it now  continues to burn.