I started practicing yoga nine years ago because I wanted to look sexy. I bought B.K.S. Iyengar’s Light on Yoga, and taught myself the asanas, following his suggested courses in the appendix. Within a few months of regular practice, I could see and feel the results. I was strong, limber, and best of all, my stomach was flat -- a state it hadn’t enjoyed since puberty. I was an immediate convert.

But a convert to the sport of yoga, not its practice. I treated yoga almost exclusively as an athletic discipline. I held each pose for the longest period of time suggested and pushed myself to progress to the most advanced poses rather than deepen my understanding of the basics. I didn’t even bother to read Iyengar’s introduction, in which he articulates some of the basic philosophical principles of yoga practice. Nor did I bother to find a teacher until a good six years after I bought the book. I was doing Sirsasana (headstand) for years without instruction. Once I did find a teacher, I still ignored her advice: I practiced inversions at home at all times of the month, figuring that the rationale that kept women from going upside down while menstruating was a sexist holdover from ancient Indian culture. I did standing poses when I was sick, and if I felt at all pressed for time in my practice, Savasana (corpse pose) was the first to go. When I got pregnant for a second time, I kept up my athletic sequence, dismissing the idea that I might try taking things easy for a while.

Then at ten weeks of pregnancy, I went in for routine checkup and listened in vain for that rapid fetal heartbeat. The nurse squirted on more gel and pressed the Doppler wand into my belly at every conceivable angle, and still, the only sound was the slow drumbeat of my own stubborn pulse. The fetus had died inside me weeks earlier, and I hadn’t even known. Two days later, I was in the hospital for a D&C.

Still, a week later, I was back at my goal-oriented practice, pushing myself as hard as ever. I had to lose the extra pounds I’d put on, weight I felt I’d gained for no good reason. I didn’t tell my yoga teacher that I’d miscarried until a month after it happened. When I did tell her, she suggested I focus on restorative poses for a while, to help myself heal, but I ignored her advice. Enough time had passed, I figured. I felt fine. And besides, restorative poses wouldn’t help me lose any weight.

I was also determined to get pregnant again, as soon as possible. I charted my cycle fanatically, taking my temperature every morning, monitoring my cervical fluid and checking my cervical position each time I sat on the toilet. When the signs indicated that ovulation might be close, I insisted that my husband and I “try” every night. Sex became a chore, and when O-week, as we called it, was over, neither of us was interested in making love for the rest of the month.

Over a year later, I still wasn’t pregnant. Yet I continued to ignore advice to focus on restorative poses during ovulation. I’d gotten pregnant before and had a healthy daughter while swimming, biking, jogging, and practicing yoga -- why couldn’t I again?

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