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It didn’t happen in an advanced pose.
Not in a deep backbend or a strong arm balance.
It happened on a random Tuesday morning (Thank you Mars) here at AntwerpYoga a very long time ago.
Halfway through the Primary Series of Ashtanga. Nothing special.
My body felt heavy. My mind even heavier.
I remember wanting to skip parts of the practice. To move faster. To get somewhere (but I didn’t).
And then, almost unnoticed, there was a pause.
A breath I actually felt.
Not controlled. Not forced. Just there.
That moment changed something.
Not on the outside.
But internally, something softened.
Most of us begin yoga through the body.
We learn where to place the foot.
How to align the hips.
When to inhale, when to exhale.
And for a while, that feels like the practice.
But if you stay, really stay, you start to notice something else.
The way you react when the pose becomes uncomfortable.
The way your mind negotiates, resists, judges.
The way you push or pull back.
That’s where yoga shifts.
From something you do
to something you observe.
There’s a moment in almost every class.
You’re in a pose. It doesn't even have to be extreme or impressive.
But something in you wants out.
And you have a choice.
Push harder.
Escape the sensation.
Or stay.
Not to prove anything.
Just to notice.
Notice the tension.
The breath.
The thoughts that come in.
This is where the practice lives.
Not in how it looks.
But in how it feels.
And more importantly, in how you relate to that feeling.
At some point, the breath stops being a technique.
It becomes something you return to.
A deep anchor in the middle of movement.
Or, more importantly, in the middle of discomfort.
You notice how it shortens when you resist.
How it deepens when you soften.
And without trying to fix anything, you begin to understand yourself a little better.
Not intellectually.
But physically. Directly.
Yoga has a way of removing distractions.
Not all at once. But slowly.
Until you’re left with something very simple:
yourself, as you are in that moment.
Some days that feels calm and steady.
Other days restless, impatient, distracted.
The internal practice asks you to meet all of it.
Without immediately trying to change it.
That’s not always comfortable.
But it is honest.
One of the most subtle shifts in yoga is this:
You stop practicing to become someone else.
And you start practicing to be with who you are.
That means:
And instead, staying with what is actually happening.
Some days that feels open.
Some days it doesn’t.
Both are part of the same practice.
From the outside, yoga can look like movement.
But the real practice is often invisible.
It’s the moment you choose to stay one breath longer.
The moment you notice your reaction instead of acting on it.
The moment you soften where you usually tense.
No one sees that.
But that’s where the shift happens.
Later that day, something small happens.
Someone says something that would normally trigger you.
Or your schedule changes unexpectedly.
And there it is again.
That same pause you felt on the mat.
A breath.
A little more space.
You don’t react as quickly.
Or as sharply.
Nothing dramatic.
But different.
This is how the practice moves into your life.
Quietly. Gradually.
Yoga, in the end, is not about mastering the body.
It’s about understanding your inner landscape.
How you respond.
How you hold.
How you let go.
And slowly, over time, creating a bit more space in all of it.
Not perfect space.
Just enough.
Enough to breathe.
Enough to notice.
Enough to choose differently.
And maybe that’s why yoga is an internal practice.
Because the most meaningful part of it
was never meant to be seen.
See you on the mat for your urban exhale...
Namas-té, Ine
