Intuitive Flow Yoga Studio

22/09/2025

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧: 𝐀 𝐉𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐈𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐡

It's easier to sit for meditation, chant, or step onto our mat when life is smooth. The breath feels steady, the mind is lighter, everything flows. But life isn't always like that. Sometimes grief hits us, our plans collapse, leaving us feeling unsure of how to proceed.

That's when many step away from our practice, wait to feel better before returning. But those are the very moments when sadhana matters most. Sadhana isn't a hobby we pick up when the mood is right. It's our anchor when life throws us a curveball so sharp that it knocks the wind out of us.

In those moments, I think of the mountain. The winds blow, the rains flood down its slopes. And yet, the mountain stays rooted. It doesn't run. It doesn't wait for brighter skies. Our sadhana makes us that mountain. Breath, asana, mantra, meditation, prayer, whatever form our practice takes, it's what keeps us steady when life tries to shake us loose.

When challenges arise, we are in a perfect state to meet our fears, not with force or charge, but with a calm, steady strength. Instead of getting lost in the stories of the mind, we can bring our attention to the raw sensation of it. Fear itself can become the teacher when we don't resist it. Where does fear live inside us? Maybe it's tightness in the chest, a knot in the stomach, or a lump in the throat. We notice it, we don't push it away. We meet it with curiosity, as if we were encountering it for the first time.

Then we remember the mountain, solid, grounded, unmoving. Fear is only the storm: wind, rain, clouds passing overhead. However intense, it cannot move the mountain. In the same way, we are not our fear. We are the ground beneath it, the steady presence that watches it come and go. Vedānta reminds us: we are not the body, not the mind, not even the waves of emotion; we are the Self (ātman), unchanging, infinite, untouched by the storm. The more we rest in that Truth, the more we discover courage, not as boldness, but as a quiet, unshakable strength that is already ours.

If we only start sadhana when trouble hits us, it's like planting a tree in the middle of a storm. It won't take root. The roots need to be there already, deep in the earth, so that when the storms do come, we can bend without breaking.

So when we feel low, we don't abandon our practice. We show up anyway, even if it's just five minutes. Even if all we can do is sit in silence with tears streaming down our faces. That is still sadhana. That is still courage. And over time, this is how we become unshakable, like the mountain, knowing storms will come and go, but they never stay.

On a more personal note, I now understand why Ramana Maharshi, one of the great sages of modern India, said that Arunachala, the holy mountain in South India, was his guru. To him, the mountain was not just stone and earth but the silent presence of Truth itself: unmoving, steady, endlessly still, yet alive with a force beyond words. When I reflect on his devotion to Arunachala, I see how the mountain embodies what Vedānta teaches us: the storms of fear and emotion may pass across the surface, but the Truth itself remains untouched. This image reminds me that the true guru is not outside; it is within. The mountain leads us to our own essence, anchored, unshakable, untouched by storms. When we unite with that inner Arunachala through sadhana, we understand why Ramana bowed to the mountain: it reflected the eternal Self. This unchanging reality is always present.

The mountain is not outside—it is who we truly are.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞—𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞.

Please read more of my articles and subscribe to https://substack.com/?

19/08/2025

18/08/2025

𝐎𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 - 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦

Last week, I visited the Niki de Saint Phalle exhibition at the Musée National des Beaux-Arts de Québec with a friend. Her art is powerful, raw, and luminous all at once. One part of the show was a video that touched me so profoundly. Niki spoke about forgiving her father for molesting her as a child. What struck me most was not only her words, but the way she said them. It was clear that her forgiveness came from the heart, not from reasoning, not from forced spirituality, but from lived truth. Her story stirred a memory in me.

Afterward, my friend turned to me and said, I don't understand how she could forgive him. Her words pulled me back to my past, to another moment when forgiveness seemed impossible.
I was waiting for the bus one day, tucked into the entrance of a building to escape the Canadian cold. I began talking with a couple, and what they shared has stayed with me for life. They told me they had forgiven the murderer of their child. At the time, I was as stunned as my friend was at Niki's story. How could anyone possibly do that? But then they explained. They forgave not for the murderer's sake, but for their own. To release themselves from carrying corrosive anger that would otherwise eat them alive.

That was my first profound lesson in forgiveness. It's not about declaring what someone did is acceptable. It's not about forgetting. Forgiveness is a way of saying: I will not let this wound dictate the rest of my life. I will not feed my spirit with resentment.

True forgiveness transforms memory. It allows you to remember differently. If you've lived through an abusive relationship or trusted a business partner who betrayed you, the point is not to wipe the slate clean as if nothing happened. The fact is to remember differently. To learn the lesson so you don't repeat it, without letting the wound keep defining you. You can carry the memory and the wisdom, without holding the bitterness.
In the case of Niki, her forgiveness was a form of liberation, not a lesson she was supposed to learn. I see Niki Saint Phalles' art as both a wound and a release. Her 'Tirs' violent performances, where plastered targets exploded in a rain of colour, made the wound visible, and the release undeniable. Her journey is much more than just a question of forgiveness. She expressed her healing through art, through anger, through creation, and finally through letting go. This forgiveness came later in her life, when she found an inner balance.

The murder of a child or child abuse is brutal to face, let alone forgive. Yet resentment, too, takes its toll. I think this couple's faith gave them a way to forgive. Niki found another way, through art, through creation, through truth-telling. What unites both paths is the understanding that resentment takes a toll. Our health, our nervous system, our joy all pay the price when we hold on too tightly to rancour. Forgiveness, on the other hand, makes you feel alive.

Hindu philosophy and yoga speak to this: to hold on to anger is to bind yourself. To forgive is to free yourself. Patañjali's Yoga Sutra (II.33, pratipakṣa bhāvanam) teaches that when a destructive thought arises, we can invite its opposite. Holding on to anger is duḥkha, suffering. Forgiveness is sukha, ease. In yoga, we also say the body remembers. Each exhale is a chance to let something go. Practicing asana with conscious breathing, supported by pranayama, can open that release even further.

For me, Yoga Nidra has been powerful. It guides us into the subconscious, where old wounds lie hidden. In that stillness, forgiveness doesn't have to be forced. It rises on its own, like the body's natural softening, like a hand finally unclenching.

Of course, forgiveness doesn't come easily. Sometimes it takes years, lifetimes. And not everyone will be ready to embrace it. But when you are, some practices can help. Some find solace in their faith, some in the Serenity Prayer from AA, for example. Others might turn to the universe itself.

Even if those words feel impossible in the face of certain crimes, the essence is this: forgiveness is less about them and more about you. And when it is real, like Niki's, it comes from the heart, fragile perhaps, but still a doorway to peace.

Standing before Niki's work, I felt forgiveness not as an abstract idea but as a current moving in me, a reminder that, like yoga, it is a practice of opening into freedom. Something that ties back to your own lived experience.

Read more of my articles on my Substack https://yoginilindamadani.substack.com/.../posts/published

10/08/2025

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐑𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐬: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐖𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

Revisiting my home country, I notice how few rituals remain. People might call themselves spiritual, but it's often a private idea, not an active part of life. Many churches are tourist stops. About one in four people has no religious affiliation at all. It's not judgment; each person's path is their own, but I can't help feeling that rituals, rites of passage, and shared sacred moments feed something deep in the human spirit.

Modern life has stripped away many of our markers for transition. We change jobs, lose people, end relationships, become teenagers and pass through menopause very often without pausing to name or honour the thresholds we've crossed. We're expected to keep going as if nothing has changed. But inside, something sacred is asking to be witnessed.

When my mother died, there were just my cousins, a priest, and a short service. It was her wish. Back in Bali, I made my own. Together with close friends, I led a fire ceremony, chanted mantras, and offered prayers to help her move on. Afterward, we sat in silence. That ceremony didn't remove the grief, but it gave it somewhere to rest.

In Bali, where I live, ritual is woven into the everyday. It isn't always extravagant, not the kind with towering temples or clouds of incense, but it keeps the heart steady. Every morning, I place offerings on my altar, on all my statues, and chant mantras. No one is watching. It's simply how I return to myself.

Offerings are made daily to the land, to the ancestors, to the unseen. Children learn to honour the sacred simply by watching their mothers and grandmothers. The rituals may be small, but the message is that every part of life is holy.

I recall a swami in India saying that if you cannot perform an agni hotra (fire ceremony with mantras), then put water in a bowl, take a spoon, and transfer the water to another bowl while chanting a mantra 108 times, and then drink water from the receiving bowl. You will feel completely refreshed, and it works. It is simple, easy and efficient.

That's the difference between routine and ritual. Routines get you through the day. Rituals bring you back to the sacred. Even cooking can be a ritual if done with reverence. The form doesn't matter as much as the intention. A simple gesture becomes holy when you give it your full presence.

There is also a ritual for letting go. We don't always need to rush to move on. Sometimes we need to mark the ending. Whether it's leaving a country, closing a chapter, or saying no to something that no longer fits, lighting a candle or burying something in the soil matters; these small acts honour the shift, letting us feel what we might otherwise avoid, and make space for what comes next.

Rituals may not solve everything, but they remind us of what endures, even when everything else falls apart. In the small, steady acts, a flame lit, a spoon of water moved from one bowl to another, an offering of flowers, we remember who we are, and what we love, even when the world forgets.

Check my other articles on https://yoginilindamadani.substack.com/

03/08/2025

💫ᴀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ✨ ᴀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇᴍᴘʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

As we progress in life, we all experience different seasons, some requiring action, and others contemplation. In one of those long seasons over the last few years, I've found myself in a slower, more tranquil space, where the drive to push is easing, making room for something quieter. It is not that I'm stuck or giving up; I am just letting things settle without rushing to control them. It can be uncomfortable sometimes, yet it is an essential passage, as I know something beneath the surface is being rearranged. The universe is clearing the way for the next chapter of my part in the divine unfolding. You may be in a season like this, too. If so, I hope these words remind you that you're not alone.

In the same way, some moments are meant for stillness, not laziness or escape, but an honest pause where you let your inner voice arise. You're not stopping because you're scared or unsure. You're pausing because you trust that something important is on the way, and you want to meet it with clarity, not confusion.

Right now might not be the time for bold decisions or big reveals. It may be a time to linger, to let the outlines blur a little, to forget what day it is and let the edges soften. That doesn't mean you're lost; you're recalibrating and quietly returning to your center.

Stillness requires trust, and trust isn't always easy. The Buddhist metaphor of the glass of muddy water has helped me understand stillness more clearly. If we agitate the water, the mud clouds everything, but if we let it sit, the mud settles, and the water clears. Contemplation is not stirring, allowing clarity to return on its own.

When we're always in motion, we miss the subtler invitations. The ones that arrive when we stop performing, stop proving, stop running toward certainty. Contemplation doesn't always come with answers, but it clears the noise so something genuine can rise.

Stillness can feel awkward, especially in a world that keeps asking for proof of progress. But transformation doesn't always come with a roar; sometimes it comes with a whisper. Sometimes it looks like stillness on the outside, but everything on the inside is different.

The Soul works like that: subtle, steady, and never loud. The invisible integration happens when we stop forcing and trust what is unfolding. It's not just your circumstances changing; it's how you meet them.

There's a rhythm to this becoming. One that doesn't follow a timeline. One that honours both the doing and the undoing. Action will come. I'm reminded of the story of the rice farmer who tried to make his plants grow faster by pulling them up at night and who ended up killing them. It's a simple lesson: growth can't be rushed. Sometimes the wisest thing we can do is stop interfering and let things unfold in their own time. You'll know when it's time. But you're not off-course if you feel unanchored, unsure, or in-between. You're in a different kind of clarity. The kind that arrives after everything else has quieted down.

So let yourself be where you are and allow what's shifting to find its place. Let old pieces fall away without rushing to replace them.

There is a time to act. And there is a time to listen.

You don't need to push. Just stay close. The next right thing will find you — and when it does, you'll know.

Until then, breathe. Be here. That's enough.

You can read all my articles on my Substack: https://substack.com/

27/07/2025

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝘿𝙖𝙮𝙨, 𝙈𝙮 𝙎ā𝙙𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙖 𝙄𝙨 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨: 𝙏𝙤 𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙅𝙪𝙙𝙜𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙇𝙚𝙩 𝙄𝙩 𝙂𝙤
These days, my sādhana is simple and yet not easy. I watch my judgments rise and do my best not to feed them. I notice the reflex toward myself and others and pause, rather than reacting. Sometimes I catch myself mid-sentence, and sometimes I don't. I'm paying closer attention, I don't run with it as long, and I stop myself more quickly.
We all judge. It's not a flaw, it's how the human mind works. The thoughts come fast: about ourselves, about others, about how things should be. Often, they land before we even realize it. From early on, we're trained to compare, to analyze, and to decide what's good and what's bad, what's better and what is worse. Judgment is built into how we're taught to think. No wonder it appears so frequently and quickly.
However, there's also the deeper conditioning, the generational patterns absorbed from our families. Some people grew up surrounded by criticism in a family where judgment was a form of interaction, or even a twisted version of care. When that's the air you breathed, it becomes second nature, not necessarily to harm, but simply because it's normal. That's where compassion becomes essential.
We don't always know the stories behind someone's actions or reactions. Patterns can go deep, and we can't interrupt them if we're too busy blaming. Awareness allows us to see more clearly, but only if we remain honest with ourselves.
The real work is not in trying to stop judgment from happening because it will, but in what we do when it does. Do we give it power? Do we spiral into a story, or pause and let it pass? That's where the freedom lives, not in rising above judgment, but in understanding that we don't have to follow every thought that passes through our mind.
One way to live without judgment is in how we speak. We can invite reflection instead of confrontation. However, this only works when it comes from humility, not ego, nor from a need to be right. People can tell the difference. Sincerity is felt.
We don't know what someone else is living. Unless we've walked their path and carried their pain, we can only guess what is going on in their mind. Judgment wants to collapse all that complexity into a single opinion. But compassion slows us down and keeps us open. It reminds us there's always more to the story. My practice is to go back to my center, without shutting down the mind and not letting it run the show either.
Non-judgment isn't passive. It doesn't mean we accept everything or avoid what needs to change. It means staying present with what's real, without rushing to label or fix it. Non-judgment invites us to listen to someone's opinion without taking it as a personal threat and watch our thoughts without unquestioningly believing them.
Non-judgment is what turns reaction into witnessing, control into connection. In contrast, judgment creates a false sense of power, as if we are in control by deciding what's right or wrong. However, that kind of power isolates by separating us from others and our own, more profound truth.
When we catch ourselves mid-judgment and stop, even for just a breath, something inevitably shifts. The nervous system softens as we are no longer bracing. By simply being here, we stop being so harsh with ourselves, and we don't need others to be perfect either. We can sit with discomfort, ours or theirs, without comparing or trying to fix it. That's when we start holding space, because we're learning to hold space for ourselves.
This isn't about lowering our standards. It's about trading criticism for curiosity and perfectionism for presence. Growth doesn't come from shame, and healing doesn't come from harshness. Peace doesn't visit when we're at war with ourselves.
Patañjali, in Yoga Sūtra 1.33, offers a radical and efficient teaching: maitrī karuṇā muditā upekṣāṇāṁ sukha duḥkha puṇya apuṇya viṣayāṇāṁ bhāvanātaḥ cittaprasādanam. The mind becomes serene through cultivating friendliness toward the happy, compassion for the suffering, joy for the virtuous, and equanimity toward the unvirtuous. Instead of envy, blame, comparison, and judgment, we're asked to hold each encounter with clarity of heart. That's true yoga. Daily-life yoga is the foundation of steadiness.
From the Advaita Vedānta view, judgment belongs to the ego. It divides, this is me, that is not me; this is good, that is bad. The sage doesn't get pulled into those opposites. He remains anchored in Brahman, the unmoving awareness beneath it all. The Hindu scriptures don't shame us for judging. They point us to a more profound truth, inviting us to act with viveka, clear discernment, but not asmitā, ego-identification. To see, but not to divide; to respond, not react.
This sādhana isn't about banishing judgment entirely. That would be unrealistic. The mind is built to compare, to scan for threat and contrast. It wants to keep us safe. But yoga reminds us that we are not the mind. We are the ones who observe the mind. And every time you catch yourself making a judgment, such as "I'm not good enough," "They're wrong," or "This shouldn't be happening," and you observe it without running with it, something loosens. You're not lost in it anymore. You're aware.
Even when the mind judges itself. "Here I go again, I should know better." You can always come back, because awareness doesn't scold, it simply notices, and in that gentle noticing, we find ourselves returning to clarity, presence and peace.
So, yes, these days, my sādhana is to stay aware of the judging mind and not let it have the final word. I catch myself in those old habits and gently return, without shame, to my breath. That's the work. And it's worth it.
You can read all my articles on my Substack: https://substack.com/

26/07/2025

A space shaped by silence.Expanded by breath.Held gently by the steady rhythm of yoga.This is what we offer.Come as you are. Leave a little more whole.🧘‍♀️ intuitiveflow.com

26/07/2025

A space shaped by silence.
Expanded by breath.
Held gently by the steady rhythm of yoga.

This is what we offer.
Come as you are. Leave a little more whole.

🧘‍♀️ intuitiveflow.com

19/07/2025

ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʜɪꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ʏᴏɢᴀ: ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴇᴀᴄʜᴇʀ ʜᴀꜱ ꜱᴇᴇɴ (ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇʟᴛ)

𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘨𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘴—𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

My first introduction to yoga was in Montreal, sometime in the late 1970s, when I walked into the Sivananda Centre and was met with something that felt ancient, solemn, and yet almost dull. The teachers wore loose-fitting orange clothes. There were no mirrors, no playlists, no brand names, just asana, breath, mantra, and stillness. Yoga was a path inward then.

By the early 2000s, a shift had begun. After I opened my yoga studio, I noticed yoga studios were popping up like mushrooms, and along came Lululemon. Then came the wave of registration standards—200, 300, and 500-hour programs, introduced by the Yoga Alliance, not to deepen the practice but to systematize it. Teachers were being given the title 'registered', creating the impression that they were professionally certified. The lineage and lived experience were all reduced to registered hour counts. What was once a lifelong path of study and inner transformation had become something that can be completed in a few weekends and added to your résumé.

Over time, the change deepened. Yoga had become trendy, and practitioners felt the need to present a particular image, often wearing tight little tops and hip-hugging leggings. Women were lured to yoga to achieve a slim, sexy, and confident appearance, bringing the body to the forefront of the practice, not just for health and flexibility but also for display.

As yoga became trendier, especially with the rise of practices like hot yoga and power vinyasa, professionals from outside the tradition began to join in: doctors, dancers, sports therapists, and psychologists. As a result, yoga therapy started gaining popularity, and with it came the push to regulate. The IAYT was created to bring structure and credibility, while also controlling how yoga was being defined. Slowly, yoga shifted from a spiritual path to something that needed to fit into clinical or professional frameworks.

Eventually, social media became essential and louder. Yoga Instagram exploded with images of impossible arm balances, hyper-extended splits, dramatic backbends, and gravity-defying contortions that are akin to acrobatics. Some of them are beautiful. Some of them are deeply skilled. But many of them are very far from the essence of yoga.

Tattoos began to appear as part of the yoga teacher aesthetic, often paired with crop tops that showcased chiselled tummies. Students were comparing bodies. Mala beads became a must-have fashion accessory in yoga classes.

Around the same time that kirtan (devotional singing) was gaining popularity in some yoga circles, there was also a strong push in mainstream studios to remove God and spirituality from yoga altogether. Anything that hinted at devotion, mantra, or traditional philosophy was seen as too religious or too Eastern. Politically correct yoga requires studios to be neutral, more marketable, and safe for everyone. But in the process, they were often stripped of their deeper meaning. What was once a sacred path rooted in the Divine was rebranded as a workout, a lifestyle, or a tool for self-improvement. In making yoga more "accessible" to everyone's sensibility, we lost something essential.

There was also a growing trend to step away from lineage altogether. Many teachers began creating hybrid styles or rebranding yoga as their own without any connection to a living tradition. Some of this was a response to scandals or a desire for independence, but in rejecting lineage, we also lost the grounding, depth, and humility that come from studying within a system that's bigger than us. Yoga became more eclectic and individualistic, but often less anchored in wisdom.

These days, what is often referred to as breathwork is typically focused on emotional release, stress relief, or enhancing one's sense of vitality. Breathwork has its place, but it doesn't replace traditional pranayama, which is more than just breath control. An ultimate tool for inner stillness and transformation, pranayama is a subtle, layered practice designed to purify the body's energy and quiet the mind, not just self-soothing. Breathwork might feel powerful, even dramatic, but pranayama was never about sensation. It's about perception.

Somatic work has brought more sensitivity, slower movement, and a deeper connection to what's happening inside. For many students and teachers alike, it's offered a way out of the push-and-perform mindset. These qualities were already part of yoga. For some practitioners, it just wasn't always the primary focus. But traditional yoga always included deep listening, inner awareness, and a grounded presence in the body. At its core, yoga has always held what we now call somatic work. It is now framed differently to meet modern nervous systems. Yoga has invariably been pointing us beyond the body, beyond the mind, beyond emotions and sensation, and far beyond the stories we tell ourselves about who we are.

Unfortunately, in modern yoga, the focus shifted from the breath to the form. From the subtle to the visible. From inner awareness to outer performance. New and more complex asanas continued to be invented, explored, and named as if greater complexity meant greater evolution.

Even the yoga space has changed. These days, a shala isn't complete without the right decor, soft lighting, and a playlist to set the mood.

Somewhere in the mix, the ancient thread began to wind down; of course, there are still lineages, teachers, and practitioners who hold the depth of the practice with care and humility. But they're quieter, less visible and less algorithm-friendly.

Every tradition evolves. However, we've certainly lost something when the outer form takes over the inner path. Yoga was never meant to be entertainment. So, where does that leave us? It could be as simple as returning to the breath and sitting with the silence, on our own. Letting yoga be what it has always been: a path to remember who and what we truly are.
Read all my articles on https://substack.com/

18/07/2025

Yoga isn’t a performance.

It’s not about twisting into a perfect shape or balancing on one hand.
It’s about how you show up—in your breath, in your choices, in your relationships.

True yoga isn’t on the mat.
It’s in how you live your life.
How you listen. How you give. How you serve.

It’s less about doing and more about being—present, awake, kind.

Come as you are.
Not to impress. Not to achieve. But to remember who you are.

14/07/2025

LETTING GO, AGAIN AND AGAIN: Why Letting Go Feels So Hard

There is a quiet moment, right between our inhale and exhale, where we are asked to trust not only in the breath but in life itself. That slight pause can feel like the scariest place to be.

We hear it all the time in yoga: surrender, let go, release control as if those were easy things to do. Surrender brings up complex feelings like resistance, fear, and grief. It asks us to let go of the false sense of control and shows us how difficult it is to relinquish specific outcomes.

It means confronting what we can't fix or predict. Saying yes to what is, even when "what is" breaks your heart: the death of someone you love, a body that no longer moves the way it once did, a relationship that ends, a purpose that no longer feels true. The money dries up. The betrayal comes out of nowhere. The aging you thought you'd outrun catches up. And you find yourself crossing thresholds you never imagined.

And still, life keeps asking us to soften, to trust, and to remain open.

The Bhagavad Gītā illustrates how Arjuna transforms his journey. His significant transformation takes place in the chaos of the battlefield, where he faces tough decisions. Feeling overwhelmed, he drops his bow and looks for clarity in the confusion. In this moment of breakdown, he turns to his charioteer, Krishna, and asks, "Help. I don't know what to do."

We've all experienced this moment. It happens when the plans we made fall apart. When the roles we thought we had no longer made sense. When grief, confusion, or exhaustion brings us down, we say: I can't do this.

And Krishna doesn't say, "Walk away." He invites Arjuna to remember who he truly is. He speaks not to the ego but to the soul. He directs him towards dharma, inner truth. And he redefines surrender: not as a loss of will, but as a return to what is authentic.

"Abandon all varieties of duty and simply surrender unto Me. I shall deliver you from all sinful reactions. Do not fear."
(sarva-dharmān parityajya mām ekaṃ śaraṇaṃ vraja – Bhagavad Gītā 18.66)

That's not just an ancient verse; it's a living invitation. Fundamental transformation doesn't happen when life is neat and predictable. It happens when everything unravels when the old stories crack open. When the identity we've clung to no longer fits. That's when something deeper can finally speak. That's when the battlefield becomes sacred ground when the soul begins to remember itself.

Control feels safer. I know that well. I like to line things up, make a plan, and keep it steady. I want to know because knowing feels like protection, and if I do this right, I can avoid disappointment. But in the end, you need to let go of your attachments to the results.

Surrendering means letting go of our mental defences, accepting uncertainty, and building trust. We need to pause and observe how we typically react. While we may want an easier and fairer journey, life often shows us that this isn't always the case.

It encourages us to see things differently and to keep faith and trust in something we cannot see but feel deeply.

In my younger years, I decided to experiment with letting go. I had just arrived in Bali, and everything was finally coming together. I had a boyfriend, a job I liked at a hotel, a small studio I loved, and a little black cat named Black Magic. Life felt good and cozy. And yet, in that comfort and security, something in me whispered: Let go. Go deeper.

So, I did. I surrendered it all up. The job. The man. The apartment. Even my cat. (That one hurt.) And within days, it all unravelled. It felt like the universe had heard me and said, 'Okay, then, let's see how far you're willing to trust.'

And it was rough. I cried. I second-guessed. I wondered if I'd made a colossal mistake. But in that space of not knowing, something opened. A new job found me. A home appeared on the land where I'd eventually build Intuitive Flow. A stray cat wandered in and gave birth to kittens in my wardrobe.

Everything returned but not the way I'd expected, like some rerouting. But here's the thing: surrender doesn't promise clean outcomes. It's not a transaction. It's a relationship. And if we stop resisting, just for one breath, something inside begins to soften, and the armour cracks. And light gets in.

Surrender is a way of life. A choice we make again and again: to stay open, to breathe, to say: I don't know where this is going, but I trust life. I trust my soul. I trust that I'm being held.

Some days, we meet surrender with grace. On others, we collapse. Surrender isn't about getting it right. It's about showing up with an open heart, even when it's trembling.

And, just like Arjuna, gaze within and say Okay. I'm ready. Please show me the way.

In peace and light,

Linda

Check my Substack for more articles: https://substack.com/