When the Studio Feels Heavy
Some classes seem to move on their own, where energy flows naturally, and I feel almost swept along for the ride.
And then there are those classes that feel heavy—classes I have to carry, step by step, hoping to spark even the smallest sense of momentum.
Tonight, it was one of those classes.
I walked in ready to teach—but the room felt heavy almost immediately.
The energy wasn’t hostile or overtly negative.
It was just... flat like walking into a room where warmth has quietly slipped out and left only the echo of your own presence.
Corrections didn’t seem to land.
Student responses were minimal.
At times, it felt as if I was speaking into a space that wasn’t giving much back.
There is a particular kind of fatigue that comes from this as a teacher.
Not physical, but relational.
I found myself thinking: What am I doing here?
And yet, I stayed. I reminded myself to be present, even when it felt hard.
I adjusted my approach, searching for a way in.
I kept going, because sometimes that’s all you can do.
I carried the class, even when it felt like I was the only one moving.
There are moments in teaching when you realize the work is no longer about momentum or visible progress, but about steadiness—continuing to offer clarity and direction even when it doesn’t feel like it is being fully received.
About halfway through, I made a shift.
Instead of pushing for technical changes that didn’t seem to land, I redirected the focus to something more accessible:
the use of the eyes,
the direction of the head,
the coordination of the upper body.
Nothing abstract or out of reach.
Just clear, intentional choices in space.
And slowly—very slowly—the room began to change.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
There was more openness.
More presence.
More generosity in the movement.
It took nearly the entire class to feel it.
But it came.
And I left, reminded of something I don’t always want to admit:
Not every class is a breakthrough.
Some classes are carried.
And that, too, is part of the work.