It was the morning after the election, and I was emotionally hungover. Not because of who won or lost (though that certainly stirred a few feelings), but because the entire ordeal had felt like a marathon I didn’t sign up for. My phone had been buzzing for weeks with campaign messages, my social media feeds were a war zone of opinions, and I had stress-snacked my way through three bags of trail mix.
I needed therapy. Not the talking kind—though that wouldn’t have hurt—but something a little more tactile. Something grounding. Something stretchy. Yoga, of course.
And not just any yoga session—this was going to be a sacred ritual, a reclamation of peace, led by my most trusted spiritual companion: my bootyful green socks.
Let me tell you about these socks. They’re not just green—they’re green like envy, like vibrant jungle leaves after a monsoon, like the optimism we all crave during election season. They’re stitched with tiny golden threads that shimmer under the right light. More importantly, they’re ridiculously comfortable. Slightly fuzzy, not too tight at the ankles, and they hug my feet like they were custom-made for my soul. I call them “bootyful” because they give my entire yoga flow a sense of sass and comfort that makes everything better.
As I unrolled my mat—purple, slightly worn, and definitely smelling faintly of last week’s lavender spray—I took a deep breath.
Inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of my diffuser, which was exhaling peppermint oil like it, too, was tired of the political circus.
I started in Child’s Pose, my forehead pressed gently to the mat, my arms reaching forward like I was begging the universe for a break. “Give me peace,” I whispered. “Give me clarity. And maybe a new Congress that actually gets things done.”
My green socks peeked out behind me, perfectly aligned, like two loyal sidekicks waiting for my next move.
I flowed slowly into Cat-Cow, arching my back and letting my spine remember it was a living thing, not a stiff coat rack of election-day tension. The socks didn’t help with the stretch per se, but I swear they cheered me on with every movement. I imagined them speaking to me in a tiny British accent:
“You’ve got this, love. Just breathe through the chaos.”
A few deep sun salutations later, I was finally sweating—not with anxiety, but with effort. My body, stiff from hours of doom-scrolling and TV debates, began to release. My shoulders softened. My jaw unclenched. My brain slowed down.
I moved into Warrior II, arms wide, legs strong, facing the mirror with the fierce determination of someone who had survived the election season. It wasn’t just a pose—it was a metaphor. I was a warrior. Not of politics, but of peace. Of healing. Of bootyful green socks.
There’s something powerful about taking your focus inward after weeks of external noise. Every breath felt like I was reclaiming territory in my mind. Every pose was a quiet act of resistance against the chaos of modern life.
Then came Pigeon Pose—my arch-nemesis. The hip-opener of all hip-openers. I sunk into it slowly, groaning slightly, but not giving up. “This is the cost of growth,” I told myself. “It’s uncomfortable, but it’s worth it.”
And just as I was trying to breathe through the deep stretch, my phone buzzed from across the room. Another political analysis. Another hot take.
I looked at it. Then at my socks.
I chose the socks.
Back to the mat.
I finished with Savasana, lying flat on my back, palms up, heart open. The election was over. The future was uncertain. But in this moment, I was still.
As I lay there, eyes closed, my thoughts wandered.
I thought about how the world keeps spinning, even when everything feels like it’s crumbling.
I thought about my neighbors—some celebrating, some mourning—and how we’ll all still share sidewalks and coffee lines and grocery stores.
I thought about kindness. How it’s easy to forget it when things get heated, but how vital it is.
I wiggled my toes inside the green socks.
And suddenly, it hit me. These socks were more than just a cozy fashion choice. They were a symbol. Of comfort. Of grounding. Of little joys that help you breathe when everything else feels like too much.
Post-election yoga with my bootyful green socks wasn’t just therapy for my body. It was therapy for my heart. For my hope.
It reminded me that change doesn’t only happen in ballot boxes. It happens in quiet living rooms, on yoga mats, in deep breaths, and small acts of self-love.
It happens when you choose peace over panic.
When you turn off the news and turn inward.
When you take care of your body so you can better carry your soul.
As I slowly sat up, hands in prayer at my chest, I whispered a final thank-you. To the universe. To yoga. To those absurdly perfect green socks.
Then I smiled.
Because in the aftermath of collective frenzy, I had found a moment of calm.
And that, my friend, is worth celebrating—no matter who wins the vote.
