11/03/2026
Today I’m starting something new that has been quietly calling me for a while.
After 22 years of teaching yoga, there are so many moments and people who have shaped my journey. Small experiences on the mat that have stayed with me and taught me something about life, resilience, and the human spirit.
So I’ve decided to start sharing some of these stories.
I’m calling this series
“Reflections from the Mat.”
This is the first one.
I hope these reflections might resonate with you in some small way, wherever you are on your own journey. 🌿
What 25 Years of Teaching Yoga Has Taught Me About People
Over the past 22 years of teaching yoga, there have been many moments on the mat that have stayed with me. When you teach for that long, you realise that it’s not really the poses you remember most, it’s the people who choose to show up.
Some students pass through your classes quietly, while others leave a lasting impression on your heart.
One moment that will always stay with me happened about fifteen years ago when I was teaching a busy vinyasa-style class here in Cyprus. Just before I was about to begin, a couple walked into the studio. They looked to be in their sixties. The man was wearing dark sunglasses and holding a white stick.
My first instinct was that they must have walked into the wrong room.
I went over to them and asked if I could help. The woman smiled and said, “Yes, this is where the yoga class is, isn’t it?”
In that moment, I felt a wave of nerves ripple through me. I remember thinking, What on earth am I going to do here with a blind man in a vinyasa class?
The woman must have sensed my hesitation because she gently said, “It’s okay, I’ll keep an eye on him.”
But something inside me shifted in that moment. I thought of my own mother caring for my father after his stroke, and I realised something important.
I shook my head and said softly, “No. I think you need this practice more than he does. Let me guide him. You just enjoy the class.”
We began the practice. I placed him near the front so he could hear my instructions clearly. When someone loses one sense, the others often become stronger, and this man listened with incredible focus. He followed every cue, every movement, simply through sound and awareness.
There was only one moment when he needed guidance. As we came up from the floor, he found himself facing the back of the mat. I leaned in and quietly suggested he turn around 180 to face the front.
And that was it.
The rest of the class flowed beautifully. He moved with such presence and trust, guided entirely by the rhythm of the breath and the sound of my voice. His wife, meanwhile, had the rare chance to simply breathe and take time for herself.
At the end of the class I felt deeply humbled.
I remember turning to the rest of the students and asking them, “Do you think you could do this whole practice with your eyes closed?”
Most of them laughed and shook their heads.
But that moment reminded me of something profound: even in darkness, there is light. When we learn to listen really listen we can discover a deeper awareness within ourselves.
More recently, I was invited to teach a group of people living with Alzheimer’s. I arrived with no expectations and no real plan other than knowing we would practise gently, seated in chairs.
As I looked around the room, I saw a sea of beautiful faces. Some participants moved along with me, some simply smiled, and others quietly wiggled a finger or a toe. The movements were not perfectly in sync, but that didn’t matter.
What mattered was their presence.
At the end of the session, I invited everyone to place one hand on the belly and one hand on the heart. Together we took five slow breaths.
The room became very still.
I looked at the woman who had organised the session and asked her, “Can you feel that?”
She nodded quietly. There was a powerful sense of calm and connection in the room.
And once again, it wasn’t only about the participants themselves. It was also about the caregivers who spend so much of their lives supporting others. For a few moments, they too were able to pause, breathe, and be held by the space.
When I first started teaching yoga in my twenties, the focus was often on strong physical practice vinyasa flows, challenging sequences, the pursuit of mastering the postures.
But over the years my understanding of yoga has evolved.
Now I see more clearly that the real heart of the practice isn’t just the asanas. It’s the presence we bring, the connection we feel, and the way the practice helps us navigate life’s uncertainties.
In times of change and unrest, people seem to connect more deeply with the philosophy behind yoga. They begin to understand that yoga isn’t about perfection. It’s about returning to the breath, to the body, and to the present moment.
After 25 years of teaching, the greatest lesson yoga has taught me about people is this: they keep showing up.
Through challenge, through uncertainty, through life’s many transitions, people return to the mat again and again.
And every time they do, they remind me why this practice matters.
In love and gratitude 🙏
