For as long as I can remember, yoga intrigued me, but only from a distance. It was something I admired in theory, but in practice, I dismissed it. I told myself I didn’t have the time. Slowness, stillness, presence? Those were luxuries I couldn’t afford in a life built around doing, fixing, pushing forward. At least, that’s what I believed for a long time.
Yoga invited concepts I had learned to avoid: unity, stillness, listening. And to be honest, those things terrified me. Not because I didn’t want them, but because deep down, I didn’t know what I would find in that silence.
Denying the Past and Paying the Price
I grew up thinking my childhood was normal. Only much later did I realise that what I had experienced wasn’t typical, and even then, I resisted naming it. What’s the point of digging through the past? You can’t change it. You just move on, right?
So I kept moving. I focused on achieving, proving, becoming. I convinced myself that forward was the only way. But the further I pushed, the more anxiety and depression crept in like shadows I couldn’t outrun. I came to accept them as part of who I was, along with the perfectionism, the need to control, the fear of stillness.
I didn’t yet understand that what I was actually running from wasn’t the past itself, it was how it lived inside me. In my body. In my reactions. In the way I held my breath when emotions came close.
The idea that healing might come not from escaping the past, but from welcoming it into my story, integrating it, didn’t even cross my mind.
The Body Remembers
In yoga, the hips are often called the “junk drawer” of the body, the place where emotional stress, tension, and trauma collect. The first time I read that, I rolled my eyes. Emotions… in the hips? Come on.
But the more I tuned into my body, the more it made sense.
Anger clenches the jaw. Fear tightens the shoulders. Grief sinks into the chest. And if we never learn how to release that tension, where does it go?
I began learning about the psoas muscle, deep in the pelvis, and how it connects the upper and lower body. Tied closely to the adrenal glands, it plays a key role in the fight, flight, or freeze response. When we experience threat, real or perceived, that muscle contracts. And if we never feel safe enough to release it… it stays contracted. Holding the memory of fear even when the danger is long gone.
“Most of us don’t think of ourselves as animals. Yet, by not living through our instincts and natural reactions, we aren’t fully human either.”
Peter Levine
Then came the moment I’ll never forget: Pigeon Pose. Just me, my mat, and a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion that knocked the breath out of me. I wept. Loudly. Unexpectedly. And even as it scared me, it also felt like something important had cracked open.
I didn’t understand it fully at the time, but that moment was a turning point. It was the first time I truly listened to what my body had been carrying all along.
From Control to Surrender
Of course, my mind didn’t like this new development. It tried to reason it away, to label it, to discredit it. How could a simple stretch bring up so much emotion? My inner critic had a lot to say.
But eventually, I began to understand that this resistance was part of the process too. I had spent so many years intellectualising emotions, only allowing them to exist if they were convenient or rational. Yoga didn’t ask me to explain anything. It simply invited me to feel.
That, for me, was the hardest part and the most healing one. Letting go of the need to understand everything. Trusting the wisdom of the body, even when it didn’t make sense.
I slowly began to realise:
True healing doesn’t come from control. It comes from surrender.
From being present with whatever arises. From learning that the body knows things the mind doesn’t and if we allow it, it will guide us home.
Letting Go, One Pose at a Time
Over time, hip-opening poses became less dramatic. Sometimes I held them for minutes, sometimes only seconds. Other days, I didn’t feel like doing them at all. I let myself shift, some days craving grounding, others craving strength, even the occasional calorie burn. But no matter the reason I stepped onto the mat, I always left with more clarity.
Yoga never became a chore. It became a place to meet myself. A space where I learned to listen. A space where I saw not just the stiffness in my hamstrings, but also the stuckness in my emotions. I saw the parts of me that were still afraid. The ones that longed for softness. The ones that needed more encouragement than I had ever given myself.
Each practice became an act of remembering. Of choosing presence. Of gently letting go.
A Gentle Word of Caution
I want to say this gently but clearly: embodied practices like yoga, meditation, or mindfulness can stir up deep things. If you have unprocessed trauma, and so many of us do, the silence can feel louder than the noise.
The stillness can shake loose memories or emotions you thought were long buried.
That’s not a reason to avoid it, but it is a reason to move slowly. To go gently. To make sure you’re supported. Whether through a trauma-informed therapist, trusted friends, or simply someone who can hold space – don’t walk the path alone. Healing isn’t about forcing your way through. It’s about allowing what’s ready to rise – to rise in its own time.
There’s No One Way
I know yoga might not be everyone’s path. Maybe your way is different. That’s okay. Healing isn’t linear, and there’s no universal formula. The important thing is to listen. To your body. To your heart. To what feels safe, and right, and real for you.
For me, yoga became a doorway. Not to perfection or enlightenment, but to presence, softness and truth. Not every practice is profound. Some are quiet and some feel like nothing at all. But little by little, with every breath and every pose, I learned how to come home to myself.
And that, for me, is the greatest healing of all.
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