I stood there on the mat, sunrise beaming through the studio windows, feeling nothing but a dull ache behind my knees. It was 6:00 AM exactly, my alarm had gone off at 4:30 AM like it always does, and I’d been up since then, making sure the heat was right, the lavender diffusers were bubbling, the little towels were folded *just so*. I had five people waiting for the gentle flow class, mostly regulars, mostly women my age, some older. They look at me, you know, like I’m some kind of… earth mother, all bendy and serene. They don’t see the mortgage statement on the counter, or the fact I’m down to my last $37 in checking. We started with mountain pose, hands at heart center. My left knee, it just kinda clicks now when I extend it, a little catch that feels like sandpaper rubbing against bone. Used to be smooth, like silk. Now it’s like an old door hinge, rusty. I held my breath, tried to push through it. The sun was warm on my face, but inside, I felt cold. Like a block of ice in my chest, heavy. Then came the warrior sequence. Warrior II, my favorite. Strong, grounded. But today, my hip flexors felt like concrete. I tried to sink deeper, push my weight into my front heel, but my back knee started to tremble. Just a little at first, then more. It was like a tiny tremor, a secret shake, not visible to anyone but me, but it was there, underneath all the layers of Lululemon and calm breathing. I kept smiling, kept cueing, ‘Feel your power, ladies, feel the earth beneath you.’ My own power felt like it was seeping out through the cracks in the floorboards. I had to modify. Had to. Instead of a deep lunge, I barely bent my knee. Instead of a full extension, my arm stayed bent at the elbow, like a little chicken wing. It wasn't what I taught them to do. It wasn't what *I* used to do. One of the women, Brenda, she's maybe 60, saw me. She gave me this look, a quick dart of her eyes, like she was surprised. Brenda, who can hold a pigeon pose for five minutes straight. Brenda, who probably thinks I spend my weekends doing handstands on mountain peaks. Later, during savasana, when everyone was lying still, breathing that deep, peaceful breath, I closed my eyes and the image of my own joints, grinding, came into my mind. I saw the X-ray in my head, the tiny spaces between the bones, narrowing, shrinking. Heard the doctor’s words from last month, “degenerative changes.” Like it was a fancy way of saying, ‘you’re falling apart, love.’ He said I should take it easy. Take it easy? That’s easy for him to say, with his big fancy office and his golf weekends. I have classes booked solid, six days a week. This is how I eat. This is how I keep a roof over my head. There IS no ‘easy.’ I tried to tell my sister about it, last Tuesday when she called. She just said, ‘Well, maybe it’s time to find something new, sis.’ Something new? What, like go back to working at the diner, slinging hash and smelling like grease? I’m 47. My back still hurts from those years. This studio, this practice, this was supposed to be my thing. My escape. My *life*. I worked my ass off to get here. Paid for all the trainings, the workshops, the certifications, hundreds of hours, thousands of dollars, all on credit cards I’m still paying interest on. I just lay there on my mat after everyone left, the studio empty again, just the faint smell of lavender and sweat. I reached for my phone, scrolling through the schedule for tomorrow. Another 6 AM class. Another mountain pose. Another warrior II. My fingers felt stiff as I typed a text to a sub teacher, just in case. Just in case I can't fake it anymore. Just in case the trembling gets too much. Just in case one morning I wake up and I can't get out of bed, and then what? What then.