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or me, yoga has never been just a hobby but it’s a vital part of how I navigate life after my stroke and manage the chronic nerve pain that has become my constant companion. I attend my local studio and I love the energy of a group class and the shared experience of moving together.
Lately though, I’ve realised that in those busy rooms, I often find myself just going through the motions. I’m moving from pose to pose, trying to keep up with the rhythm of the class, but I’m not always listening to what my body actually needs. I’m doing the work, but I’m not staying in the moment long enough to truly understand it.
I’ve relied on blocks and supports for a long time as they provide the physical accessibility I need to participate. But if I’m being honest, those supports have also become a bit of a comfort zone. In a room filled with other students, I don’t always feel comfortable to fall or to try something that might make me look unsteady. There’s a part of me that wants to blend in and to not draw attention to my wobbles but by staying safe, it’s also means that I’m stuck.
I’m learning that perhaps my growth sits outside of this environment.
That’s why these quiet sessions in my own environment have become so important. When it’s just me on the mat, the pressure to “get it right” disappears. There is no need to keep up or to move on before I’m ready. I’m finally giving myself permission to work on the transitions I usually avoid in class and focus on the coordination and balance that feel out of reach when others are watching.
And yes, there are plenty of wobbles. There are moments where I lose my footing entirely and I fall, but on my own, those moments can happen without making others concerned.
I find that I know what I’m supposed to be doing in the poses. I’ve heard the instructions so many times in classes. I’m learning though that knowing something and actually practicing it are two different experiences.
By creating this space to explore, I’m finally bridging that gap. I wasn’t being held back because I couldn’t do it; I was being held back because I wasn’t giving myself the opportunity to try and fail.
We all have those invisible comfort zones where we tell ourselves that we’re doing just fine where we are. We stay where we feel competent because the thought of being unsure feels like a setback. But I’m discovering that growth lives in those small, intentional moments where we allow ourselves to be imperfect. It’s in the decision to loosen our grip on what feels safe and to trust that we are strong enough to handle the wobble.
Support will always be a part of my journey, and I’m grateful for it, but I’m also choosing to make room for the messiness of trying something new. That is where I’m starting to discover what I’m actually capable of.