I just completed another 2-day workshop in Myofascial Release using the John Barnes method—and I have to admit, I’m hooked. I had planned to take these seminars before COVID, but like many things, those plans got shelved. My goal was to get a shiny new tool to offer those of you dealing with chronic pain, limited range of motion, and that all-too-familiar feeling of “sticky” joints.
Assisted Fascial Release has already worked wonders for many clients, but I knew I needed something more—and I got far more than I expected.
Even after my first training back in May, I was seeing incredible results. My son even admitted that “this new stuff is doing something.” After several sessions, he shared that it was helping to ease his migraines—which, to me, is worth the cost of the trainings! And also, when a 25-year-old guy asks his mom for bodywork, you know something’s working. 
Imagine my surprise this past weekend when I realized I hadn’t been doing it right! Not wrong exactly—but not fully aligned with the primary principle of the method. In my first training, the instructions I heard was “hold for at least 120 seconds.” That seemed daunting, but those of you who came to those early sessions stayed with it and we got through it together. What I learned this weekend blew my mind: the real release doesn’t even begin until after the 120-second mark. The first two minutes are just the lead-in to the fascial system. We are to hold a technique for at least 5 minutes.  (I checked with the instructor about what I misheard. She wisely told me that is why people repeat seminars, we only take in 30% of what is being said. Hmmm... sounds like something I would tell a student...)
This weekend, receiving the techniques held for five full minutes felt like forever—in a really good way. When I was the one applying a 5-minute technique to others, the five minutes felt like 30 seconds.
I started thinking about something Dr. Robert Schleip said recently: to create real change in the fascia, stretches should be held for a minimum of 120 seconds—and ideally for 3 to 5 minutes. He even suggested in a recent video appearance that one hour would be ideal—if you can find someone willing to do that!
Of course, this isn’t news to most John Barnes-trained myofascial release therapists. But for us yoga practitioners—especially those not practicing Yin or Iyengar—it may raise an eyebrow. Those styles, known for longer holds, are becoming increasingly rare around here (after all, us East Coaster favor faster-paced Vinyasa and Ashtanga-inspired practices. Who has time to lie around for five minutes per pose, right?)
If you’ve been to one of my trainings, you’ve probably heard me say this before, but it bears repeating: stretching muscle alone does not significantly increase range of motion. Strengthening muscles, proper structural alignment, and calming the nervous system all contribute to a release—which is what will quickly shift and expand ROM. And now, studies are confirming that real gains to ROM and sustained changes to the fascia come when we gently tug on the fascia and maintain tension for 3–5 minutes (or more).
So what are we actually doing in a yoga asana class with all the movement, balancing, stretching, and contracting if we are not elongating the fascia? We are still doing a lot! We’re hydrating our tissues, preventing adhesions, and maintaining fascial fluidity. We’re lubricating joints, moving prana, relieving stress, toning muscles, deepening our self-connection, training our minds, and raising awareness. Yoga isn’t just about increasing ROM, and it certainly isn’t a waste of time—but it helps to understand what we’re actually achieving on the mat.
If you have restricted ROM somewhere and are coming to a Vinyasa class, don’t expect those limitations to change quickly. In fact, quite honestly, it may get worse if you’re stressing that area—especially in a competitive class environment where the instructor is encouraging you to go to your max (verbally or through hands-on assists).
To address range of motion issues, you may be better off in a therapeutic class or SSR. Even better—a one-on-one session to address your specific issue. But don’t stay home either! The group asana classes you’re attending are helping maintain your range of motion—and your overall ability to move. Just practice with intelligence. And if you feel like holding a pose longer, remember: you’re always welcome to do that at any time. I might just have the whole class join you.

A few weeks ago, I was walking in the woods when I happened upon a chipmunk. I didn’t notice it until it moved—then its white spots suddenly flashed into view. A moment later, I saw a deer. While it stood still, it was completely camouflaged—at least to me. (My dog, however, noticed it instantly, which is what tipped me off.)  As the deer bolted, its white tail flared up like a flag, almost as if to say, “Hit me here with your bow and arrow.”
That got me thinking: Why does nature give animals such effective camouflage, only to build in what seem like flaws? Maybe the animals themselves believe they’re invisible and safe—until they move at just the wrong moment and expose themselves.

And then I started thinking about us—about our karma. We do so many things to stay safe and secure: we wear seat belts, eat well, save money, build routines, even lean on superstitions. For a time, it feels like we’re protected. And then something unexpected sideswipes us, and we think: What did I do wrong? If only I hadn’t…

But maybe it’s not about doing something wrong. Maybe, like the deer and the chipmunk—both hidden until they aren't—our lives unfold as part of a much larger pattern. Maybe the "flaws" in our protection, like the flaw in the camouflage, aren’t mistakes at all.

It might sound bleak—but maybe it’s not. Maybe what we call misfortunes—the things that derail our carefully made plans—aren’t punishments or failures. The Bhagavad Gita suggests that these events are part of our karmic stream. They aren’t random. They’ve been written into the story of our lives from the beginning.

I’ve never liked the term “teaching moments”—it feels too shallow. Yes, these experiences help us mature and grow wiser, but maybe they do more than that. Perhaps they’re how we become who we’re meant to be. Each unexpected turn shapes us.

My teacher used to compare life to a rock tumbler: rough stones tossed and jostled with force until they come out polished, revealing them to be the gleaming gems they always were.
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If we cling to our camouflage—if we hold still just to avoid being seen, avoid being vulnerable—we might miss the polishing altogether. We might miss the chance to become who we truly are.