When I first started practicing yoga, I assumed that my yoga teacher – perched as she was in a lofty pretzel of enlightenment – was waaaay beyond attending yoga classes. She (I wish I could remember her name, because I’d love to write her a thank you note for introducing me to this sublime juju) was the paragon of an accomplished yogi – bendier than the bendiest Wendy, sparkly of eye, rosy of cheek, unwavering of tree pose – and I often imagined her religiously omming out on her mat every day at home.

But as for yoga classes? Oh ho ho no, classes were for us lowly beginners, teetering and tottering as we were through that hour-long session, waving our limbs around like forsaken dung beetles.

Now that I teach yoga, I realise how daft that assumption was.

I go to a yoga class every week with Charanpal, who’s an amazing yoga teacher. I go because I love being part of a community of like-minded souls. I go to be held in my yoga practice – a sweet change from my daily morning practice at home. I go because I always leave the class feeling fresh and renewed (despite a little achey sometimes!). And I go because stepping into a student role for a while helps to keep my own teaching fresh. It keeps me alive to what a yoga class feels like from the other side, from my class’ perspective.

I can’t see myself ever not going to yoga classes – they’re pure joy!