What happens when dignity and humanity are harmed

I can’t believe this just happened, I thought. I remember crying and shaking after it did.

I was walking through downtown Portland, Oregon—a place I used to call home. Just a few weeks earlier, I had walked those same streets with a coworker, who was showing me some of the heritage trees in the area. We had passed through the southwest pedestrian trail and arrived at a copper beech tree planted in the 1800s, standing gracefully before the Portland State University library. The building's semi-circular glass window reflected both the sky and the tree—almost as if nature and architecture were in quiet conversation.

I remember feeling awe. I remember thinking, My relatives are visiting in a few weeks. I need to show them this place.

When my family arrived, I surprised them with this hidden gem tucked in the middle of the city, where tourists wouldn’t normally think to look. As we walked along the boulevard, I heard someone a few feet ahead of us shouting in our direction. At first, I couldn't make sense of what they were saying.

My partner crossed the street ahead of us. I stayed behind, talking to my cousin-in-law, who was wearing a cast, with his now-wife just behind me. As the person got closer—closer to me—the words became clearer:

“These fcking people walking in the sidewalk.”

“These fcking people taking all the space.”

She appeared to live nearby, as she was walking her dog and carrying shopping bags. Our eyes locked briefly. I saw anger in her face. Before I could react, she elbowed me hard in the stomach, throwing me off balance.

I stumbled, then froze.

I wanted to react immediately—but I couldn’t. I’m an immigrant. At the time, I was still awaiting to hear back about getting citizenship. In that moment, fear took over: If I do anything, everything could fall apart.

She turned back and yelled, “That’s what you get for being on the street.”

Someone who witnessed the entire thing shouted at her, “That’s not okay. You can’t do that to people.” My family asked if I was alright. I said I was. I said, “Let’s just keep walking.”

But I wasn’t okay. I was in shock.

By the time we reached the copper beech tree, a place that once filled me with awe now felt unrecognizable. The glass building still reflected everything perfectly—the sky, the branches, the people passing by—but I felt fractured inside. I asked if we could go home. As we walked back, my hands began to shake—visibly, uncontrollably. My breath turned shallow and fast, my chest tightening as if it could no longer expand. I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. My jaw trembled. Then the tears came as I hyperventilated.

I can’t believe this just happened.

I didn’t feel like a person anymore. I felt like a problem. I felt guilt for my existence—for being there, for being seen. It felt like punishment for my identity, and I felt a deep, cutting shame that someone could erase my belonging in just a few seconds. I couldn’t believe this was the place I call home. I didn’t want to believe that the Confederate flags I had seen months earlier on the way to Mount Hood also meant that hate could exist here—toward people who look like me.

At home, I collapsed. I cried to my husband, to my best friend, and later, to my therapist—who knew how deeply this would trigger past experiences of physical harm and profound stress.

Later that night, we went out to eat. I wanted to feel normal, but my body and nervous system weren’t ready to let go. There was something I still needed to do. I called the police and filed a report, knowing the person likely wouldn’t be found. Weeks later, I even drove back to the area, hoping to see her again so I could report her immediately—but I never did.

Friends encouraged me to file additional reports with the parks department, and so I did. I may never get the closure I want, but I have hope knowing that there is a record of what happened. I hope that, if this person harms someone else, their actions won’t go unseen.

This month's full moon invites reflection—not just inward, but outward.

Ahimsa, the yogic practice of non-harm, is often spoken of in relation to gentleness: how we speak to ourselves, how we move our bodies, how we soften our thoughts. But ahimsa is also about how harm shows up in the world, and how fear, dehumanization, and violence ripple through our communities.

In a time when ICE raids, detentions, and questionable policies continue to instill fear in immigrant families, many of us are carrying this tension quietly in our bodies: Hypervigilance. Silence. The instinct to make ourselves smaller in order to stay safe.

Yoga reminds us that healing is relational. That safety is co-created. That liberation is not individual. That ahimsa can expand beyond the mat and into solidarity. And that non-harm looks like protection, accountability, and care.

The practice of yoga isn't just a practice of stillness—but truth. May this luna llena illuminate our shared humanity and guide us toward a world where everyone is allowed to take up space, walk freely, and exist without fear.