How to Stretch
It was a simple cue. To fold forward, lengthening the spine. One I’ve followed hundreds, maybe thousands of times before. But this time, my hamstrings resisted. The stretch stopped short of where I remember it landing. And without warning, a wave of frustration rolled in.
Class had only just begun, but already my mind was somewhere else. Comparing, judging, remembering what once was. The awareness came with a slight sting. Not just in the body, but deeper. Something closer to grief.
I’ve practiced yoga for more than ten years. I practically lived at the studio in New York for a season, completed my teacher training, found my people, my rhythm, and for a while, my purpose. It wasn't just a habit, it was home. I remember being able to glide into postures that now feel distant. Back then, showing up to the mat was effortless. Natural.
Over time, things changed. I started going less often. At first, I explained it away. New gym routines, changing goals, shifting interests. There was some truth to that. And still, a deeper truth lingered: that maybe I had been avoiding the practice because in it, I could no longer hide from what had changed. My body, my limits, myself.
It’s far easier to gravitate toward the things that feel good, that feed the parts of identity we’re proud of. Easier to convince myself that I’m still that person from before, somewhere underneath. That I’m simply choosing differently now. But sitting in that yoga class, I began to wonder if some choices have more to do with protection than preference.
Avoidance is clever that way. It can wear the mask of mindfulness. Of strategy. Of maturity even. But sometimes, it's just fear, dressed up and given a name that makes it easier to live with.
That class became a mirror. Not just for my body, but for other areas where I’ve noticed a similar softening. Mental focus that doesn’t stretch quite as far as it used to. A conversation that tires me faster than expected. A book I want to read that sits untouched. Long flights I now hesitate to take. Languages, Portuguese, Hindi, French, that once lived easily in me, now peeking out only in small fragments.
Seeing this changing landscape within myself has been humbling. At one time, any limit was a challenge. Something to work with. Push through. Solve. The drive to overcome was a source of motivation, and, in some ways, identity.
But something has shifted. The instinct to push has grown quieter. In its place, a new kind of response is emerging. Softer. Slower. Less about returning to what was, and more about meeting what is.
Maturity, perhaps, isn't marked by how many limits are overcome, but by how many are recognized and embraced. By the subtle courage it takes to sit with the truth of one's capacity, without recoiling in shame or rushing to fix.
Midway through that yoga class, my internal narrative began to change. The judgment softened. The comparison receded. I was still folding forward, still not reaching where I used to. But something in how I met the moment changed. The resistance wasn’t gone, but it no longer defined the experience.
I began to see the limitation not as a wall, but as a doorway. An invitation into a different kind of relationship with myself. One where the body need not perform to be accepted. One where effort does not need to be proven.
In that practice, a shift: from fighting to holding. Holding the limitation closer, not as a flaw to correct but as a shape to understand. The same body, the same breath, but a different awareness.
Over time, what once felt like a limit becomes something else entirely. Not a boundary, just a shape. Not a failure, just a fact. And in seeing it without resistance, something else opens. Not wider, but deeper.
I used to think growth was about getting stronger, faster, better. Now I wonder if it's about getting quieter, softer, truer. Learningnot to give up, but to give in to what is.
The mat is rolled up. The postures are forgotten. What remains is a presence that wasn't there at the start.
And that is how I learned to stretch.
