The point of perspiration

What we gain by embracing the sweat

Lysippos, Apoxyomenos (a Greek Scraper), c. 330 B.C.E.

On Saturday I went to a heated yoga class. About 15 minutes into it, I began to sweat.

At first my skin was dewy with moisture. I got the lubed look of an erotic dancer about to go under the lights or a bodybuilder about to enter the posing round. I could see my calves glisten during Warrior One.

My mind drifted to a podcast interview that was on my schedule, where I would share my political journey over a two-hour interview. I felt nervous about it. Would I fumble my words? 

After several more poses and vinyasas, sweat began to drip on my mat. I wiped my forehead with a towel. Drip, drip, drip. My sweat glands began to pump. 

My mat looked like a waxy green leaf collecting raindrops in a storm, and I imagined bees gathering to drink from them. What if I am under-caffeinated and tired during the podcast interview? What if I’m over-caffeinated and buzzing? What if I have to go to the bathroom?

I wiped the sweat off the mat, but the drips continued. I checked my watch to see how many minutes were left in the class. 42 more minutes. Ugh! What if they ask gotcha questions? How will I feel when the interview comes out?

The instructor, a trim guy with a ponytail, led us through a series of balance poses. I started vibing with the sitar music.

Then something shifted. 

I don't know how it happened. I have no memory of it.

All I know is that I forgot about the sweat. I stopped caring about it. I no longer looked at my watch thinking, how many more minutes until this class is over? I dropped all thoughts about the podcast interview. I surrendered to the poses. I let it flow. 

And then the class was over. It flew by.

Later in the day, I asked myself: What even was that? It seems to happen in every yoga class — the sweat starts to pour and then, like a switch turning, something shifts and I completely lose myself.

That’s when this concept hit me — the point of perspiration.

I’ve been trying to unpack it ever since. 

The point of perspiration, I conjecture, is the gateway into flow state. It is the magical rainbow you cross before time becomes timeliness and effort goes on auto-pilot. You get lost in it, whatever it is. And you’re still sweating. You’re still working. It is the threshold between conscious effort and subconscious surrender. 

Does that sound right?

And, doesn’t this happen in many endeavors? 

In parenting, the point of perspiration is dealing with another diaper blowout and not even realizing how gross it is. You just do it. You’re on auto-pilot. You’re a diaper-changing machine.

In work, the point of perspiration is that moment when conscious effort turns hazy. You lose yourself in the project. The next thing you know, it’s dark out and you forgot to eat dinner. 

In writing, the point of perspiration comes after those excruciating first hundred words, which took forever to write and read like crap. But then something shifts and the next four-hundred words flow with ease.

The purpose of sweat is to regulate body temperature. The hypothalmus in the brain screams Alert Alert! to the sweat glands when the body temperature rises. I’m not sure how the body goes from sweating to flowing, but it always seems happen. This is reassuring, in a way.

So, what if I change my attitude toward it?

I often feel anxious about getting to the point of perspiration, whatever the task may be. It’s like facing a steep hill I have to walk up. The anticipation sucks. That is where I was with the podcast interview during that yoga class.

But what if I looked forward to the point of perspiration instead of getting anxious about it? What if I trusted the podcast interview go well instead of overthinking it?

I don’t think I’ve ever regretted taking a yoga class after the fact, but I’ve often hated being there. Sometimes I start a class thinking, Oh God, this again! 

Aren’t the best things in life like this though? 

The point of perspiration keeps us cool as we push through the challenges of parenting, writing, working out, or whatever. It is nature’s oxycontin but, like, in a good way. 

The work is grueling. But some time after the point of perspiration is crossed, you lose yourself, and then you’re so glad you did it. 

That’s what happened in the podcast interview when it finally happened. When the journalists first turned on the mic, I froze and my personal introduction was extremely awkward. Several questions later, I lost myself to the conversation. It felt natural. At one point I nearly choked up. It was all ok.

So in my next yoga class, I am going to welcome the moment when my dermis comes alive and my glands sweat and ooze. Let the salty sweat flow! I will think to myself, until I do not think at all.

Please click the heart icon if you liked this essay. Special thanks to

CansaFis Foote

Rick Lewis

and Emma C. for reviewing drafts.