The Court of Imaginary Crimes and A Spell for Dismissing the Case

Story shared with loving permission from its leading characters , Cheryl and Glen Lamper.

When I left my marriage, home, and life behind as I knew it, I found myself inexplicably drawn to yoga.

This made very little sense. I had never been a yogi. In fact, my previous experiences with yoga had felt less like spiritual enlightenment and more like public evidence that I lacked basic motor skills. My hands and feet sweated so much I slid around the mat like a newborn deer on ice. I forgot to breathe despite breathing being one of the primary requirements of practicing yoga, let alone being alive. My balance was questionable. And occasionally, thanks to all the bending and twisting, my digestive system would choose a highly inconvenient moment to announce its presence.

In short, yoga felt a little bit like punishment, and now that I think about it, perhaps that is why I was drawn to it at this particular moment in time.

Paradoxically, what I discovered was that yoga gave me a place to grieve. In the quiet darkness of a studio, I could feel things I had been trying not to feel. I could breathe through heartbreak one inhale at a time. I could lay in shavasana with my hands on my heart and belly and practice loving myself with all the conviction of a teenager forging a parent's signature. Slowly, it stopped feeling quite so much like pretending.

And because the Universe has a sense of humor, I eventually discovered there was an empty room available for rent at the studio. So naturally, I rented it. One minute I was crying quietly in restorative yoga classes, and the next I was setting up a Reiki healing practice down the hall. Life is weird like that.

For a long time, I avoided the heated power yoga classes. They looked terrifying. The people inside seemed impossibly strong and graceful. They moved like they had signed some secret treaty with gravity that I had not been invited to negotiate.

One instructor in particular always caught my attention. Her name was Cheryl. Partly, I noticed her because she looked like Yoga Barbie come to life. Mostly, I noticed her because of her presence. She had a way of commanding attention without demanding it. She was soft, observant, grounded. You couldn’t help but see her because she saw you.

The first time I took her class, I understood why everyone loved her. There is something profoundly attractive about witnessing someone fully inhabiting their gifts. Cheryl doesn't simply teach yoga. She creates an experience. Her flows feel like journeys. Her playlists somehow arrive exactly where your nervous system needs them to. Her readings, stories, and reflections land with uncanny precision.

There are very few people I surrender to completely. Cheryl is one of them. When she tells me to exhale, I do it earnestly.

As I became a regular, I started noticing the other people who gathered around her. One stood out immediately. A tall, muscular man who looked like a Greek statue that had somehow become sentient and decided to attend power yoga. But it wasn't his appearance that made him memorable. It was his joy. While the rest of us were concentrating on not dying, he was dancing through transitions, singing along to the music, high-fiving people, grinning like life had personally invited him to the party. His name was Glen.

When I learned he was Cheryl's husband, I was delighted. I had already fallen a little bit in love with both of them. Together they seemed to create a kind of field around them. Not perfection. Not performance. Just an unmistakable sense of partnership. Of choosing each other over and over again.

One day Glen told me their love story. It involved timing, missed opportunities, waiting, courage, and eventually choosing each other after years of life unfolding in different directions. Their story gave me hope. Not because it was perfect. Because it wasn't. It reminded me that love sometimes arrives by a route we never would have predicted.

Over time, Cheryl and I became friends. She saved me a spot in class with a little gold RESERVED sign. We hugged in passing. She asked about my work. And eventually, she gifted Glen a Reiki session with me for Father's Day.

Now, there are three important things to understand. First: my healing work is intimate. Not romantic. Not sexual. But intimate. Someone lies on a table and trusts me with their fears, their grief, their hopes, and sometimes parts of themselves they have never shown anyone before.

Second: I genuinely fall a little bit in love with every client. Not the way people usually mean when they say that. What I mean is that when someone allows me to witness them deeply, I inevitably discover something beautiful about them. It is impossible not to.

Third: because of this intimacy, I take boundaries very seriously. Consent matters. Clarity matters. Safety matters. The container matters.

Glen's session was lovely. Like many sessions, it felt meaningful and connected. At the end, he smiled and said, "At one point, I almost turned to kiss your hand. I thought you were Cheryl."

And that is when my nervous system completely abandoned the plot.

Looking back, it is a remarkably innocent thing to say. At the time, however, I reacted as though I had accidentally committed an energetic felony. Immediately, I began conducting an internal investigation. Had I crossed a boundary? Had I done something inappropriate? Had I somehow failed Cheryl? Failed Glen? Failed the trust they had placed in me?

The fact that nobody else seemed concerned did not slow the investigation. If anything, it intensified it.

The next day, Cheryl texted asking how she could pay for Glen's session. I stared at the message. How could I possibly accept money after my catastrophic professional misconduct? What misconduct, specifically? Excellent question. The committee inside my head was still working on that. Instead of responding like a normal person, I spent the day marinating in guilt.

That evening, I went to yoga. When I arrived, Cheryl reminded me she needed the payment amount. I mumbled "$100" and accepted the money with the emotional energy of someone accepting a legal settlement.

Then I entered class. And there was the little RESERVED sign. Only this time, my spot was one place farther away from Glen.

Now, there are many possible explanations for this. Perhaps someone arrived earlier. Perhaps mats had shifted. Perhaps the sign had been moved three inches by a passing breeze.

I considered none of these.

Instead, I immediately concluded I had been quietly exiled. For the next hour, while Cheryl taught a beautiful class, I held a parallel experience entirely inside my own head. In reality, everyone was practicing yoga. In my imagination, I was standing trial. The prosecution was strong. The defense was exhausted.

At one point I remember thinking: I have failed Cheryl and Glen. A few minutes later another voice answered: Babe. You're way too weird for anyone to be threatened by you. Relax.

This internal debate continued through multiple sun salutations. And then, near the end of class, during pigeon pose, Cheryl came over and gently adjusted me.

The moment her hands touched my hips, something softened. Not because she was absolving me. Because I suddenly realized she had never accused me. Neither had Glen. Nobody had. The entire trial had been self-appointed.

After class, we all stood around talking. Cheryl told us about the dental work that had caused her swollen jaw. Glen told stories about coaching soccer with her. Everyone laughed. The world continued turning. Nobody appeared aware that I had spent the previous twenty-four hours starring in a psychological courtroom drama.

As I left the studio, Glen stopped me to discuss the color of his motorcycle. This felt like a promising sign. People rarely debate shades of blue with women they have permanently banished from the community.

When I reached my car, I looked down and discovered my black bra hanging halfway out of my bag. Right beside it sat the wad of cash Cheryl had given me. And suddenly I laughed.

For twenty-four hours I had been terrified that I had become some kind of villain, some harlot. Not because anyone told me I had. Because some old part of me had become convinced that intimacy must be dangerous. That receiving money for meaningful work must somehow be suspect. That closeness required justification. That warmth required explanation. That if people loved me, trusted me, or felt connected to me, I had probably done something wrong.

But maybe the real mistake wasn't a perceived energetic breach during the session. Maybe the real mistake was how quickly I turned on myself. How quickly I assumed guilt. How quickly I cast myself as the villain in a story where nobody else had even assigned roles.

I imagine I will spend the rest of my life learning how to hold intimacy responsibly. I imagine I will make mistakes. I imagine I will need to repair things sometimes. But I also hope I keep getting better at something else: Trusting that love, connection, and care are not evidence of wrongdoing. Sometimes they are simply evidence that we are human. And sometimes, if we're lucky, they are evidence that healing is happening.

Download the Spell PDF to add to your grimoire here