Yoga in the Middle of Real Life

Recently, my youngest daughter was out later than expected. I couldn’t reach her. Her phone was off. I didn’t know where she was or if she was okay. I went out searching, following a trail of guesses—one of those moments where fear and love tighten in the chest. Eventually I found her. She was where I expected her to be, but she hadn’t told me the truth. Or at least, not the whole of it.

That moment was painful.

Not because she was out late—she’s growing up, and freedom matters. But because of the lying. I want our relationship to be built on trust, and when that trust isn’t there, it hurts—and it scares me. Not just for myself, but for her. Because I know that lying can erode relationships in quiet but serious ways. And beyond that, I know how much we suffer when we can’t trust ourselves.

And yet… I want to say this clearly: she’s a good person. She’s kind, she’s

thoughtful, she’s working, she’s finding her way. And I am proud of her. My distress at that moment doesn’t change that.

So where does yoga come into this?

 

I’ve been practicing yoga daily for over two decades. I was six years into practice before I became a mother, and I kept practicing through pregnancy, postpartum, and the whole long, unfolding story of raising two children.

Yoga hasn’t made me perfect. It hasn’t made me immune to anger or free from grief. It hasn’t made my relationships seamless or my emotions gentle.

But it has given me a place to return to. A framework. A set of ethical commitments. A way to come back to myself. And not just in theory—on the ground, in my body. Getting on the mat, breathing, aligning, sitting still—these things have changed me slowly over time. Not dramatically, not all at once. But steadily.

The yamas and niyamas—the ethical limbs of yoga—aren’t something I mastered in a weekend training. They’re something I live with. I try to practice ahimsa, non-harming, not only in my actions, but in my speech and my thoughts. And over time, that’s become more possible. Where I used to storm, now I pause (most of the time). Where I used to say things I’d later regret, I say less. And more often than not, I can recognize my thoughts as thoughts—not truths. I can choose not to follow every fearful story that rises.

But when my nervous system is dysregulated—like it was the other night—my thoughts can still become wild, churning, relentless. So the work continues. But I have tools now. And I use them.

Yoga hasn’t removed the mess from my life. But it’s helped me see more clearly what the real work is. It’s helped me take responsibility for my inner state without collapsing into shame. It’s helped me soften, even when things feel hard.

And perhaps most importantly—it’s helped me stay. Not check out. Not give up. Not run away from discomfort. Just… stay. With my practice. With my kids. With myself.

If you’re someone who sometimes wonders whether your practice is “working,” if you’ve looked at your messy life and thought, “This doesn’t look very yogic…” Please know: you are not alone.

Yoga is not a shortcut to peace. It’s a long, slow unfolding of awareness. And it does make a difference—just not always in the ways we’re taught to expect.

If this way of practicing speaks to you—if you want to explore yoga not as performance, but as a way of showing up more fully in your real, imperfect life—I invite you to come practice with me.