Hi, I’m Emma Smallman, based in Birmingham, UK—originally from the Lake District, where my journey began in very different surroundings. For 14 years, I worked with Geese Theatre Company, using drama in prisons and recovery settings to help people explore change and personal responsibility. It was deep, transformative work—and it led me to places I never expected.
One of those places was yoga. What started as a personal healing tool during a tough period quickly evolved into a path of service. During my first teacher training in Morocco, someone mentioned the Prison Yoga Project (PYP). I looked them up as soon as I got home. Their mission resonated with me immediately, and I eventually joined one of their first 200-hour online trainings in Trauma-Informed Yoga for Social Justice and Leadership.
That training gave me the tools—and the confidence—to start teaching in communities I cared about. I began leading sessions at Lindale Homes, a substance misuse recovery centre, where I still teach today. What started informally in a park has become a vital part of the centre’s 12-week recovery process. Yoga, meditation, even dance fitness—it’s all part of how we connect, move, and heal together.
Around the same time, I began teaching at Crowley House, a probation hostel for women leaving prison. The population is often in flux, but the moments of connection are powerful. One woman in particular stands out: she began with chair yoga, certain her health conditions would hold her back. Over several months, she transitioned to mat yoga and even joined a full-day retreat. Her first downward dog brought both of us to tears.
It’s not always easy. There are interruptions, resistance, and the weight of trauma in every room. But I aim to meet people where they are and offer what they need—whether it’s stillness, movement, or simply a safe space to breathe.
Last year, that work took an unexpected turn when EMD UK, the national body for group exercise, asked if one of my students would participate in a report on the social value of group fitness. I connected them with “Tanya” (name changed), a regular at my Crowley House sessions. In a Zoom interview, Tanya spoke about how yoga had helped her anxiety, reduced her asthma symptoms, and even encouraged her daughters to get moving. Her story became a featured case study in the report.
Then came the moment I’ll never forget: I was invited to the House of Commons to speak at the report’s launch. The goal was to bring Tanya’s experience—and the voices of others like hers—into a space of real influence. I didn’t prepare a speech. I simply stood before a room of MPs, fitness professionals, and policymakers and channeled the stories of the people I serve.
It was deeply moving. I spoke last, after a series of presentations, and the emotion was tangible in the room. The feedback afterward was overwhelming—curiosity, connection, and a shared sense that this work matters.
On the train ride home, I cried. Not just from pride, but from gratitude. I never set out to become a yoga teacher. Yet here I was, bearing witness to the lives of people society often overlooks—and being given a platform to amplify their experiences.
There are many of us doing this work—quietly, consistently, in prisons, hostels, and recovery centres. I’m just one thread in a much larger web. But that day in Parliament reminded me: our work is being seen. And when people in power hear these stories, it can shift the conversation.
With UK prisons more overcrowded than ever, practices like trauma-informed yoga are not just helpful—they are essential. I’ll keep showing up, sharing movement and presence in whatever way I can. And I’ll keep telling these stories—because they deserve to be heard.
