The Beauty in the Breakdown — What Grey Gardens Taught Me About Yoga, Dharma, and Dust

There’s a scene in the documentary Grey Gardens where Little Edie, draped in a curtain like couture, talks about her lost chances, the world she could have had, and the deep connection she shares with her mother. She walks like royalty, her every gesture theatrical and regal. She looks like a fancy hijabi girl — the kind I grew up seeing in my Muslim community, covered not only in modesty but in majesty. When I first watched the film, I actually thought Edie was a hijab-wearing woman. There was something elegant, sacred even, in her head wrapping. Once I realized the reality — that she was poor, sick, and struggling — my admiration grew. She became, to me, one of the most stylish, fashionable hijabi-looking icons I had ever seen, even though she wasn't religious at all.

I’m inspired by her softness and elegance. The way she chose to deal with her truth fashionably. How she made theatre out of suffering. Even when she resented her mother, she also showed her tenderness. There’s a scene in the fictionalized version of the story where the mother says, “You don’t see yourself like others see you,” meant to break Edie’s spirit — implying she’s delusional, tasteless, lost. Edie runs away, crying. But she returns. Whole. Loving. As if all she needed was a moment of silence, of dignity. Maybe something in her knew how fabulous she would look to someone like me, decades later. How she would become the most eccentric, artistic, and mythical hijab-non-hijab muse. How she made glamour out of misfortune — and in doing so, created a legacy.

Edie & Edie

The first time I watched Grey Gardens, I felt uncomfortable. I wanted to look away. It felt voyeuristic to witness such disarray. But slowly, something else emerged. Not pity, not even fascination, but a kind of recognition. Their chaos mirrored the parts of myself I usually keep hidden: the dreams that never manifested, the habits I can’t break, the fears I paint over with productivity.

We often treat spiritual practice like a method of renovation: clean your space, clean your mind, clean your act. In yogic philosophy, saucha (purity) is praised. And yes, there is truth in order, beauty in clarity. But what if the mess, too, holds meaning? What if the divine can live in the dust?

Edie and Edie were once society women, kin to Jackie Kennedy. Yet the same fate that lifted some to royalty left them in ruin. Or so it seemed. Because ruin, too, can be a form of resistance. A story that refused to be rewritten, a life that refused to be palatable. Grey Gardens isn’t about sadness; it’s about survival. Not sanitized, but sacred. Not fixed, but fiercely lived.

There’s something deeply yogic about this. The Sanskrit word tapas means discipline, but it also means heat — the friction of transformation. These women, eccentric and strange, lived in that heat. They didn’t escape their suffering, but danced inside it. They created rituals from chaos. Costumes from scraps. Stories from silence. This is yoga, too.

And what of destiny? Edie Beale dreamed of Broadway, but ended up famous for a crumbling mansion and raccoon roommates. Does that mean she failed? Or does it mean that dharma isn’t always about the life we planned, but the life that insists on being lived? She didn’t get the stage she wanted, but she got the spotlight anyway. That’s grace, isn’t it? The kind that makes art from accident.

Edie jr. Grey Gardens

Even Jackie, the cousin from Camelot, couldn’t save them in the way we imagine. She fixed the roof but didn’t force a transformation. She didn’t fix their truth. You can even say she was there for them as they are. Sometimes compassion is allowing people to live their version of life without trying to make it tidy.

In yoga, we often say "let it be." But we don’t always mean it. We want stillness to be pristine, silence to be sweet. But real silence has texture. It has ghosts. It echoes with grief and laughter and the strange timeline of the soul. What Grey Gardens shows us is that beauty is not only what’s curated. Sometimes beauty is what remains when the performance ends.

And isn’t that what the body is, too? A home in disrepair, carrying stories, sorrows, spontaneous bursts of grace? We try to cleanse, align, tone, and tidy our physical forms. But the body, like the Beale estate, isn’t just a temple. It’s also a terrain of memory and mystery. To honor it is not always to fix it. Sometimes it’s simply to witness it.

As I write this, I remember a quote I heard recently: "Everyone’s life is awful. It’s just that we know our story in full detail and know very little about others." Maybe that sounds bleak, but I find it strangely comforting. Because if everyone suffers, maybe we don’t have to pretend. Maybe we can stop competing for who has it worst or best. Maybe we can simply meet one another where we are: a little broken, a little brilliant, and completely human.

So next time you unroll your mat or step into silence, bring your whole self. Not just the part that wants to grow. Bring the part that never made it. The part that’s still grieving. The part that wears skirts on their head and sings into the chaos. That part belongs too.

Your Dharma doesn’t need polish. Your life doesn’t need proof. Let it be art. Let it be enough.