What Yoga Taught Me During My Hardest Year

There’s a quiet power in the moments when life knocks the wind out of you. When everything you thought was certain shifts beneath your feet, and the only thing left is your breath. If you’ve ever faced a season like that, you know it changes you.

For me, that year began with a phone call.

It was one of those moments when time fractures, when your heart races, your palms sweat, and you instinctively know that life has just split into before and after.

That was the moment I became a solo parent for a deployment that would stretch far longer than expected. It was the same month my father fell seriously ill. It was the year anxiety returned like a tide I couldn’t hold back. It was the year I started crying in Savasana.

And it was the year yoga stopped being just a practice—and became a lifeline.

The Storm I Didn't See Coming

On paper, everything was fine. I was holding it together: showing up for my kids, managing the house, answering texts, doing what needed to be done. But under the surface, I was unraveling. I wasn’t sleeping. I was short-tempered. I felt guilt, anger, grief, loneliness—often all in the same hour.

Yoga had been in my life casually for years. A weekly class here and there, a few sun salutations to stretch out. But during that hard year, I stopped going to yoga for fitness. I went because I didn’t know where else to go.

It was the only place I could sit with my pain without needing to fix it.

Lessons from the Mat

Yoga didn’t erase my pain—but it met me there. On the mat, in the quiet, I began to learn things I didn’t know I needed.

1. You Can’t Rush Healing

   1. In vinyasa classes, I used to pride myself on being quick to move—flowing ahead of the cues, anticipating the next posture. But in restorative classes, you can’t rush. You sit. You wait. You soften.

   2. And that softness started to show up in my life. I realized I was trying to rush through my emotions the same way I rushed through poses. Yoga taught me: you can’t force your way through grief. You have to breathe through it. You have to let it move through you—on its own time.

2. Presence Is a Radical Act

   1. There were days I’d lie in Child’s Pose and just cry. Not because I was weak—but because I was finally present enough to feel what I had been holding in.

   2. In a world that tells us to be strong, keep moving, keep working—choosing to stop and feel is revolutionary. On the mat, I wasn’t a caregiver, or a spouse, or a soldier’s “rock.” I was just a human, breathing. That was enough.

   3. Yoga gave me permission to just be.

3. The Body Remembers What the Mind Tries to Forget

   1. There’s a reason emotions surface during hip openers or deep twists. Our bodies hold tension, trauma, and stories long after our minds have tried to suppress them.

   2. I didn’t know I was holding fear in my chest until Camel Pose made it impossible to ignore. I didn’t know how much sadness lived in my belly until a deep forward fold made it rise like a wave.

   3. Yoga taught me to stop resisting those waves—and let them wash over me.

4. Every Breath Is a New Beginning

   1. There were days I wanted to give up. On the mat. In life. But then I’d hear my teacher say, “Come back to your breath.” And I’d realize: I’m still here.

   2. Every inhale became a reminder that life was still moving. That I still had agency. That even if I couldn’t change my circumstances, I could change how I met them.

   3. One breath at a time.

Yoga Off the Mat

As the year wore on, yoga started spilling into everything. I paused more. I yelled less. I gave myself permission to nap. I began seeing my body not as something to control or perfect—but as something wise, something sacred, something worth listening to.

I stopped saying yes to everything. I let go of friendships that weren’t safe anymore. I started journaling. I said "no" without explaining myself. I cried when I needed to. I laughed when I could.

Yoga gave me back to myself.

What I Know Now

Looking back, I don’t wish that year away. I wouldn’t want to relive it—but I’m grateful for what it uncovered. Yoga didn’t make everything better. But it gave me something that did: awareness, courage, softness, and grace.

So if you’re in your hard year, here’s what I want you to know:

• You don’t have to be strong all the time.

• It’s okay to cry in Savasana.

• You’re allowed to start again as many times as you need.

• Your breath is your anchor.

• You are not alone.

Whether your mat is pristine or covered in goldfish crumbs, whether you flow every day or sit in silence for five minutes—that’s yoga. That’s presence. That’s enough.

Final Thoughts

Yoga isn’t about flexibility. It’s not about doing a handstand or nailing your alignment. It’s about remembering who you are underneath all the roles and responsibilities. It’s about coming home—to your breath, your body, your truth.

During my hardest year, yoga wasn’t just a practice.

It was sanctuary. It was truth. It was healing.

And it still is.