T
hree to four times a week, you’ll find me on a yoga mat.
It’s not just exercise. It’s something I consciously prioritise in my week and for a long time, that felt incredibly uncomfortable to admit.
Yoga began as a way to move my body and manage the nerve pain that has been part of my life since my stroke. Movement and gentle stretching along with breathing always help.
But the benefits go far beyond the physical.
Yoga has become a space where I can simply be. A place where I can process, digest, and quietly work through whatever life is throwing at me that week. There’s something powerful about stepping into a room with a community of people who share similar values around wellbeing, presence, and self-care.
The connections that grow in that space are unexpected gifts.
For a long time after my stroke, prioritising this time for myself felt selfish. I’d look around at friends and colleagues working full-time jobs, raising children, juggling families, careers and responsibilities. And there I was, blocking out time several times a week just to lie on a mat and breathe.
It felt indulgent. Especially when I knew how much support I had around me. I work part time, don’t have children, have a cleaner, a support worker, and what sometimes feels like a zillion different supports helping me navigate life.
So how could I justify needing more space?
For a long time, guilt sat quietly in the background of my yoga practice. But over time something became very clear; that without that space, I crumble.
When I don’t give myself the opportunity to slow down, breathe, stretch, and reconnect with myself, everything else becomes harder. I notice my energy dip, my patience shorten, my pain flares, and my ability to show up in the world reduces.
Yoga isn’t a luxury for me. It’s part of how I stay steady. Accepting that hasn’t been easy but with time I’ve learnt that taking care of myself isn’t selfish, it’s necessary.
And the reality is that when I honour what my body and mind need, I am far more effective in every other part of my life. It means I can show up better in my work and relationships.
What once felt like indulgence has become something far more important: maintenance. Recovery, even many years after my stroke, means learning to give myself permission for the things that help me stay whole. And that permission often looks like a yoga mat, a quiet room, and an hour where I can simply breathe.