In my yoga practice the other day, the teacher said to us whilst moving towards a balancing pose:
“So yogis just to let you know, my balance is so off when my brain is scattered, which is today. Iso have no hope of holding this pose.”
In that split second, I felt a familiar tightening in my chest. If the poised, grounded yoga teacher couldn’t hold the pose, what hope did I have?
I’ll be honest, hearing her words led to my old, nagging whisper of discouragement flaring up, much like the chronic nerve pain I’ve lived with since my stroke. It’s the voice that tries to convince me that a wobble is actually a failure, and that if the expert can’t find her footing, I should probably just give up.
And at certain times, that’s exactly what I would have done. I would have quietly stepped back, felt the weight of my limitations, and let the moment sink me. But then, something shifted. I realised that her admission wasn’t a warning; it was a gift. By showing us her own struggle, she was reminding me that balance isn’t a destination you reach and then stay at forever. It’s a constant, messy, beautiful act of adjusting. Even for the people like her who teach it. Her wobble normalises the very thing I’ve been fighting against in my own body.
I decided right then to choose a different interpretation. Instead of letting her words flatten me, I used them to fuel me. I reached for the sturdy blocks that have become my best friends on the mat, and I embraced the wobble. I did this wholeheartedly and unapologetically. And for the first time in a long time, I actually smiled whilst doing it.
Yoga has become such an essential anchor in my life after the stroke. It isn’t about a perfect performance or looking like the person on the cover of a magazine; it’s my therapy and the way I manage the pain that follows me like a shadow. There are days when my mind feels scattered and my limbs feel heavy, but the mat always meets me exactly where I am, even when that place is shaky and imperfect.
What I’m slowly learning is that someone else’s honesty doesn’t limit my potential. Instead, it actually frees me to be where I am. A wobble isn’t an exposure of weakness; it’s a profound reminder of the strength it takes to keep trying. We don’t always get to control the words of others, but we do get to choose what we make them mean.
That day, I chose to accept myself and my wobbles and walked out of that studio realising that being “off balance” is sometimes the only way we learn how to truly stand.
How can you embrace your wobbles and grow from another’s words or actions limit you?