I was 22 when I moved to a different US city and needed a new yoga studio. I discovered a place that believed in eastern mysticism – perfect for an open-minded spiritualist, which was how I saw myself at the time. I walked in and a young woman was very excited to see me. She paid attention to my every word, making me feel cared about. I then met with a “master”, who informed me I was in very poor energetic health and needed to sign up right away. The classes were quirky. We’d do 40 minutes of exercise and meditation to a mix of new age flute music and Michael Jackson. It was far less pretentious than the yoga studios I had visited before. I decided to join for the haggled price of $100 (£79) a month. During my second class, the teacher gave me a healing massage, rubbing my chest with both hands. I started to cry. A friend had killed herself a few weeks before and I was probably more emotionally raw than I realised. As I got better at yoga, the masters told me I had potential. Wit...