For much of my life, I held on tightly—to ideas, to expectations, to control. This habit showed up not only in how I approached challenges but also in how I related to myself and others. It wasn’t just a metaphor; my body mirrored this inner tension. My hamstrings were perpetually tight, no matter how much I stretched, and my shoulders and neck often felt rigid and locked, as if bracing against something unseen. I didn’t realise just how deeply this tendency ran until I began to reflect on the changes I had undergone in recent years. It wasn’t just my body that had softened; my mind had, too.
The ancient text, the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, teaches that growth often requires two complementary forces: abhyasa (consistent practice) and vairagya (detachment or letting go). These principles aren’t confined to yoga—they are universal truths. For me, learning to balance persistence with surrender has been a long, unfolding process, but it is one that has profoundly reshaped the way I view myself and the world.
This wasn’t my first introduction to yoga. I had practiced it before, years ago, but back then it was mostly a physical exercise for me. My relationship with yoga reflected the rigidity I carried in other areas of life. I approached the poses with a sense of control and a desire to master them, often resisting the discomfort that came with growth. Yoga at that time was something I did, not something I felt.
When I returned to yoga after a few years of self-healing and emotional growth, something was different. During those years, I had confronted old wounds, softened my defensiveness, and started letting go of the need to control everything around me. This time, yoga felt less like an effort to achieve and more like an opportunity to listen. The change wasn’t just about my body—it was about my attitude toward life.
I used to think that progress was about effort—working harder, holding on tighter, and pushing through no matter what. This mindset came with a sense of control, but also with a great deal of resistance. When things didn’t go the way I planned, frustration and self-criticism often followed. This resistance showed up in subtle ways, too: in conversations where I felt the need to have the last word, in relationships where I tried too hard to fix what couldn’t be fixed, and in my inability to let go of old wounds. It also showed up on the yoga mat. My hamstrings resisted forward folds with all their might, my shoulders refused to soften in downward dog, and my neck clung tightly to its stiffness.
But life, much like yoga, has a way of teaching us what we most need to learn. Over time, I began to notice the futility of grasping for control. It didn’t bring the peace I was searching for—it only created more tension, like a tightly wound spring. And just as the Sutras describe, the tighter we hold on, the harder it becomes to move forward.
The shift didn’t happen overnight. I think it began when I started to embrace moments of stillness and reflection, allowing myself to simply be. At first, this was uncomfortable. Letting go felt like giving up—like admitting defeat. But gradually, I started to see that surrender wasn’t weakness; it was freedom. The more I let go of the need to control, the more I felt myself softening—not just emotionally, but in how I approached challenges, relationships, and even my own physical limitations.
On the mat, this shift showed up in small but profound ways. Instead of forcing my body to comply, I learned to meet it where it was. I breathed into the discomfort, letting the resistance teach me rather than fighting it. Slowly but surely, my hamstrings began to release, my shoulders softened, and my neck found new freedom of movement. The same thing was happening within me. The more I surrendered to the process—both on the mat and in life—the more I realised that progress isn’t about force but about creating space for growth to happen.
I’m still learning this balance. There are times when old patterns creep back in—moments of frustration or fear. But now, I see these moments differently. They’re no longer obstacles; they’re openings. They ask me, not to fight harder, but to listen more closely.
And so I wonder: Is flexibility about letting go, or is it about becoming? Perhaps it’s both. Or maybe the answer isn’t the point at all—it’s what I’ll uncover along the way.