We are constantly influenced by forces we cannot see. Take gravity, for example: invisible yet predictable, defined by Newton’s equation F = G(m₁m₂)/r². We trust its presence because centuries of observation, experimentation, and innovation have allowed us to harness it—flying airplanes, launching rockets, even reaching the moon. But imagine how many other forces act on us each day that do not yet have an equation to explain them. Remember, gravity was shaping the world long before Newton described the law of universal gravitation. (Aristotle even believed that rocks fell because it was in their very nature to return to the ground!)
Just because we can’t see these other forces doesn’t mean they aren’t impacting us—shaping how our bodies feel, how our minds function, and how our energy rises and falls. Yoga offers us many lenses through which we can better understand, directly experience, and refine these unseen influences. Ayurveda, yoga’s sister science, reminds us that our well-being depends on living in rhythm with the natural world.
Working with Ayurveda reconnects us to the qualities of nature—sometimes powerful and overwhelming, like a tidal wave or hurricane, and sometimes delicate and fleeting, like a butterfly landing on a rock. By observing how the five elements—space, air, fire, water, and earth—arise and dissolve through the seasons, moon phases, and daily cycles, we begin to understand more clearly what is happening within us. And in turn, as we notice these same elemental forces shaping our own bodies, we attune more deeply to the environments we inhabit.
Of course, drifting out of harmony is inevitable. Ayurveda describes these disturbances as imbalances, or unrefinement, of the doshas—the three primary energies that shape body and mind: vata (air and space), pitta (fire and water), and kapha (earth and water). When these forces fall out of balance, the effects can be immediate: stress, fatigue, confusion, digestive upset, inflammation, depression, or heaviness. One of the most profound ways I’ve learned to restore balance quickly is through the Ayurvedic Yoga Therapy vinyasas taught to me by my teacher, Mukunda Stiles. These unique sequences work directly with the doshas, offering powerful relief and helping to restore equilibrium to body, energy, and mind. Constant practice refines the doshas which is a huge upgrade to our whole system. Refinement makes us more resillent- recognition of imbalance comes more quickly as does the wisdom required to address the imbalance.
Another essential aspect of Ayurveda is dinacharya, the daily rituals that harmonize us with the natural cycles of day and night, the turning of the seasons, and the eternal flow of growth, release, death, and renewal. These practices remind us that health is not simply the absence of illness, but the presence of alignment, clarity, and vitality.
This October, I’ll be offering these teachings in the beautiful natural setting of our upcoming retreat in Lee, Massachusetts. Together, we’ll explore how Ayurvedic wisdom, therapeutic yoga practices, and the steadiness of dinacharya can become trusted allies in daily life. By weaving these practices together, we create a foundation that not only supports healing but also reconnects us to the rhythms of nature that nourish us on every level.
And on October 17th, we’ll continue the journey in the next installment of Subtle Anatomy. This is not the anatomy you’ll find in textbooks, X-rays, or MRIs. Instead, we’ll explore the chakras through the lens of Shree Vidyaa, a perspective that reveals the living, energetic structures shaping our inner world.

Maxx came in with some gait issues and a cranky shoulder. Fortunately for him, his owner is a long-time yoga student and was particularly observant in how Maxx was walking. She was able to identify where his tightness were, and she was right! We found a knot by his shoulder blade. When I started to do a “hairpull” technique on him just over the knot his breath slowed, and he relaxed into the technique.  

Here’s what his owner shared with me:
“After two fascia release sessions with Bonnie, my dog’s gait improved so much he stopped limping and could get in the car on his own. It was amazing to watch his breathing quiet and his body soften as Bonnie worked on his shoulders. He sighed, smiled, and clearly enjoyed the process.”

I’m not looking to work on more dogs, but I wanted to share this for a few reasons. First, to highlight the importance of understanding where our restrictions truly are. Pain is not always located where the structural issue is.
When Maxx first came in, he was dragging his feet when he walked and his knuckles were getting rubbed raw. At first glance, you might assume it was his ankle, but we had his mom work in his armpits to address the problem. That brought us up to the shoulders last week, which helped with his limp. We had to work our way up and see what happened.

Another important point is to notice if conditions are getting better. We tend to think nothing has improved if pain is still present. But using a benchmark—like being able to jump into a car with ease when that wasn’t possible before—helps us recognize progress. It might move slowly, buy knowing it is moving is important.
When it comes to understanding restrictions, we have to look to basic anatomy. Many assume their back is the issue when the real restriction is in the hips. Or they’re convinced it’s the neck, when the knot is in the shoulders. Sometimes it’s ankles instead of calves, or hamstrings instead of quads. You get the idea. If we misread where the weakness or tightness is, we’ll also miss the mark in how we try to address it.
In class last week, I used this metaphor: the hips are like the Midwest. If you grew up on one of the coasts, the states in between can feel like a big mass of rivers, lakes, mountains, and roads, with unclear boundaries. And boundaries matter: rules change when you cross them. It might be plastic bags in the grocery store, speed limits on the roads, or, back in the day, the drinking age.
When people complain of hip pain, they’re not always sure exactly where “the hip” is. Driving to Minnesota last month, the only way I knew I’d crossed into another state was when the GPS told me—or if a huge sign on the side of the road welcomed me. Our bodies don’t always put up clear signs when the neck blends into the shoulders.
When the pain you feel in your back is actually rooted in your hips (or vice versa), relief can often come more quickly once you understand what’s true and begin to address the source. And that understanding doesn’t come by overthinking—it comes by feeling and observing and sometimes by talking about it with your yoga teacher. Your asana practice is the perfect way to study your inner geography: Where are your hips? How do they move? Where does your neck end and your shoulders begin?
It’s a bit more complicated than just studying a chart. Think of it this way: your bones and muscles are like highways and roadways—mapped out and predictable. Your subtle anatomy is like rivers and streams—what happens in one area inevitably affects what’s downstream, it is difficult to contain, but the flow can be traced and addressed. And your fascia? That’s like flying a helicopter over the land: aside from a flight plan, there’s no clear map, no fixed flow, no road signs. Tension in fascia doesn’t always follow predictable pathways, which is why it can be confusing. So once you’ve studied anatomy, you also need to look more broadly—then come back to the yogi’s advice: feel what you feel, and let it guide you toward truth.
If you are interested in learning more about these things, join me this fall for the anatomy and fascia workshops and the yoga immersion. These courses will help you understand the boundaries and outline of your anatomy, and also the subtle movements that can assist in healing.

I began practicing yoga asana when I was about 20 years old. At the time, I was strong, flexible, and a quick learner. I could easily replicate movements I watched, which helped me progress quickly in both yoga and karate. Within two and a half years, I earned my black belt and became an instructor. Not long after moving to Bucks County, my yoga teacher asked me to start teaching for her program—despite my lack of formal training (teacher training programs were rare back then).


I am not bragging, I am just telling you what happened.
In many ways, I believe that quick advancement wasn’t great for me.
But, it is how it happened.
What do I understand about that now? I had a lot of catching up to do, and my training is not over. (Thank goodness!)

I suppose you could say it was my dharma to practice and then teach these embodied disciplines. Even though I began yoga in 1986, I can honestly say I wasn’t really practicing until 1999, when I started teacher training with Parvathi. Then in 2003, when I met Mukunda, I realized just how much more there was to learn. Before that, my practice relied almost entirely on my physical strength and flexibility. There was no depth, no current, no real juice flowing through the poses—I wasn’t plugged in! I was mostly performing. Yes, there was plenty of sweating, but that is just one kind of effort, and that physical effort is not the one that has truly served me these many decades. Ironically, now—older, less flexible, and physically weaker —I’m more engaged than ever.


Something in yoga clearly touched me at a deep level, given how much time and money I’ve poured into trainings, immersions, retreats, and workshops. Before the blessing of Zoom, I would travel wherever my teachers were teaching, never once hesitating about the cost—as long as I could find coverage for my kids. (These days, it’s more about coverage for my dog.) Of course, I always searched for the cheapest flights and simplest accommodations, because resources are often scarce.


I know how fortunate I am to feel this strong pull—this choiceless choice—to keep showing up. That, more than physical strength and flexibility, I now realize is my greatest superpower: I continue to participate. I don’t see it as praiseworthy; it’s simply the hand I was dealt. If there’s a training with a teacher or lineage I love, I’ll be there. Whether I’ve studied the material before, whether it seems repetitive or too basic—it doesn’t matter. Save me a spot, because I’m coming. I don't know why I am this way, I just am. 


But maybe it isn’t just me falling in love with the practice. Maybe it’s the practice calling me. That’s certainly how it feels at times—like I’m being pulled, and my only real superpower is that I say yes without hesitation. For that, I’m profoundly grateful. Life hasn’t always made it easy—raising kids, divorce, moving, running a store and studio, navigating all the inevitable “life stuff.” And yet, it has always worked out.


I remember when I was newly divorced and worried about not being able to afford a retreat our teacher was holding, my dear friend told me that if I ever needed money for something like that, she would give it to me. But,  she reminded me, I didn’t have to worry, because the resources would always show up. And I believed  she knew what she was talking about—she had gone through graduate school and pursued her own spiritual studies while raising three young boys on her own. And she was right: the support always has arrived.


She helped me see that when you intentionally stand in the path of Grace, the universe conspires to meet you there. It does require a leap of faith now and then—but those early leaps taught me to trust. So when the universe calls, I don’t doubt. I simply go.


Of course I send this message now because we have the immersion, and a lot of other workshops and series, coming up. If you are asking yourself should I, and the pull is strong, maybe it is time to let the pull, let grace, win. 

I love eating out! Like many people, I usually skip ordering dishes I can easily make at home. When I go out, I want to experience something new, delicious, surprising, and maybe even a little mysterious.
I am often inspired to recreate the amazing dishes I enjoy at a great restaurant in my own kitchen.
Just today, I ate at one of my favorite spots down the Shore. There’s one dish in particular I like to order—it’s absolutely delicious, and to this day, I have no idea how they make it. Part of me loves the mystery, and I am mostly content just enjoying it. But in the back of my mind, I’m often thinking, How can I make this at home?

Well, guess what? They just released a cookbook—yay! Will I be buying it? Most likely… YES!

When I first discovered yoga, it felt like one of those beautifully complex dishes you taste at a restaurant and can’t quite figure out. It was intriguing, nourishing, and left me wanting to know how to recreate it at home.
In my 20s, I had the time and energy to take four or five classes a week after work. But as life got busier—with more responsibilities on my plate—I found myself going to class less often, and I began to miss the elements of the practice that I knew brought me peace of mind.

Then I met my teacher. She was offering something special, something beyond the usual ingredients. This wasn’t a quick meal at a fast-food restaurant—this was mastery. When she offered a teacher training, I jumped at the chance. I knew that if I could understand the recipe behind this practice, I could recreate it at home whenever I wanted.

I was pregnant with my first child during that training. Then, life got even busier: two toddlers, a business, and not much time to “dine out,” so to speak. But I had the recipe—or at least the foundation of it.
Since then (my first training was back in 1999), I’ve slowly gathered more ingredients, refined my technique, and learned how to create a practice that nourishes me. As with anything you’ve practiced and honed for years, I’ve been able to pass on techniques and methods—and offer a list of “ingredients”—to help others create what nourishes them in their own space.
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Yoga teaches us that we already have what we need. Understanding how to blend it all together is the study that allows us to recreate what we know feeds our soul.

A client recently told me her therapist said she wouldn’t heal from a trauma for at least two years. I found that such an interesting—and limiting—way to frame healing, as if it has a start and end date. That might make sense if we’re talking about a cure, like a round of antibiotics the doctor prescribes: take the meds for two weeks, and the infection will clear. But healing is not the same as curing.
So what is healing?
Healing, as I see it, is a continuum. It requires patience and sincerity. It's not about returning to who you were before (unless you're using magic—or just not paying attention). According to the Yoga Sutras, the path to higher consciousness requires effort, discipline, self-study, and surrender. In other words, you have to actively participate, it requires work, and you have to let go of wanting everything to be like it was before. Every small shift in consciousness is a kind of healing. Each moment of insight, each upward movement, helps us stitch back together the illusion of fragmentation.
Yoga teaches that true healing comes when we remember we are not separate from the whole. The belief that we are seperate is the first and deepest wound. From there, life continues to fragment us in small and large ways, leaving us like a shattered mirror, reflecting much smaller parts of ourselves that are often in battle with each other. Each role we play—at work, at home, with friends, etc.— represents one of these fragments, and will most likely be in conflict with the others. While shifting roles can be skillful—and often necessary—we risk exhaustion if we forget that beneath them is one unchanging self. Once you see that, the roles can play together very nicely. 
The healing journey, then, is a return to wholeness—so we become like an unbroken mirror and see the full reflection of who we are. And that takes time. Integration is key. Without it, even profound insights remain theoretical—and those just become more shards in the shattered mirror. Integration means you know something in your bones. It becomes so real, you no longer feel the need to defend it. (Want to test that? Reflect on what you feel compelled to defend—and what you don’t.)
Healing isn’t just about one incident, trauma, or wound. If we try to heal in fragments, we’re just putting tape on the mirror. The bad news? You can’t heal selectively. The good news? You don’t have to. True healing leaves nothing behind.

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.

The first time I visited a country where I didn’t speak the language was during a short trip to Israel with my family. The next place I was completely clueless was India. In these places—unlike Germany, Italy, or Mexico—the languages were so far beyond my comprehension that I didn’t even try to decode what I heard.
Portugal was different. The past two weeks there were eye-opening, especially around communication (and in many other ways, too). I had studied a bit of basic Portuguese beforehand, and my background in Spanish ended up being both a bridge and a barrier. Sometimes it helped me crack open conversations; other times, it led me straight into confusion—especially with those sneaky false cognates that seem familiar but mean entirely different things.
When I needed to express anything complex (more than three words), I defaulted to Spanish. It wasn’t intentional—I would have rather tried to stutter out something in Portuguese, because that’s where I was—but Spanish is the most worn path in my brain after English. Still, we got by. Pantomime, facial expressions, and pointing carried us through. But it was never full communication. Something essential, of course, was always missing.
And that brings me to what I really want to ask:
How fully are you communicating with yourself?
Are you tuned in to all the ways your being speaks to you?
Can you engage in a full conversation with your body, energy, and spirit?
Messages are likely coming your way—but if they don't arrive in the “language” you're used to (words, logic, familiar sensations), you might miss them. The subtle body is always communicating, and what it has to say is often more impactful than whatever story your mind is spinning.
But we’re not really taught how to listen. We brush off this inner voice with phrases like “I had a gut feeling” or “a little voice told me,” as if those insights are rare or magical—when in truth, they’re natural, frequent, and should be a well-worn pathway in your brain.
Here’s an example:
I was recently working with a longtime client using some of the new fascia release techniques. He liked the work, sensed it was helping, but couldn’t explain why. At one point, I mentioned he should be “looking for the release,” and he said, “I don’t know what that means—I’m no good at this stuff. I’m too dense. What are you talking about?”
So I asked him to place his hands on my head the same way I was working on his. I guided him to notice what he felt.
“A pulse,” he said—certain it was the same pulse you’d feel on your wrist.
I asked: Is it even on both sides? Is it changing?
Soon, he realized it wasn’t a heartbeat—it shifted too easily and changed rhythm unpredictably. There was a different quality to it, something not easy to put into words.
I gently suggested: Maybe you’re feeling the fascia move. Maybe that’s the release. Could the pulsation you're feeling be something other than the heart?
Then I worked on him again. Remember, the only thing that had changed was his thinking—“pulse” had become “pulsation.” It shifted from a measurable medical event to an energetic experience that could now be felt and observed.
And the result? Here’s how he described his experience while we worked:
“I feel my head expanding... I’m seeing blue spheres with white lights surrounding them... so many colors... warmth... openness… aliveness…”
All from a shift in perception.
All from a willingness to listen to—and use—a new way of communicating that goes far deeper than any spoken language.

We can all learn this, and we can all begin to decode what our subtle anatomy is saying.

What Does Strength Mean to You?​

I came across two definitions of strength recently. One said: “the quality or state of being physically strong.” Another offered: “the capacity of an object or substance to withstand great force or pressure.”

Yoga practice touches on both of these definitions, no question. But it got me thinking—which kind of strength truly lasts?

Of course, it's wonderful to be able to lift heavy things, walk up hills, ride a bike for miles, or push and pull when needed. Physical strength matters—especially as we age. I remember riding bikes with my kids when they were younger, easily outpacing them. Now, they fly ahead of me without breaking a sweat. These days, I don’t feel the urge to ride faster than my children—or fast at all, really. (Yes, that’s me getting older!)

What I do want is the strength to keep practicing yoga, protect my bones and joints, and have the stamina to go on long walks. But when it's time to haul the air conditioner up to the attic? That’s a job for my strong, young son. I have nothing to prove.

The second kind of strength—the ability to withstand great force—is the one I’m more interested in cultivating now. The dictionary may have meant a retaining wall, but I see it differently. To me, that kind of strength is resilience.

Resilience, according to good old Google, is:
“the ability to adapt well in the face of adversity, trauma, tragedy, threats, or even significant sources of stress, and to bounce back from difficult experiences. It's a process of adapting successfully and maintaining well-being despite challenges.”

That sounds a lot like strength, doesn’t it?

To be resilient, we need to be flexible—not just in the muscles (though that helps)—but in the heart and mind. We need the ability to pivot, surrender, reframe, accept, and remain steady in the face of what life brings.

Can you see the kind of strength that takes?

Those of you already practicing yoga know: we’re cultivating this resilient strength every time we step onto the mat. It’s in the asana, the meditation, the self-inquiry. A complete yoga practice builds strength not just in our muscles, but throughout our entire being.

One of the reasons I often encourage students to relax more during asana is because this kind of strength—resilient strength—only arises in a state of ease and surrender. When we push, strive, and "try-try-try," we’re moving in the opposite direction. Yes, we may build physical strength that way, but that kind of strength, on its own, isn’t enough for me. It is at best temporary, and it can also come with a certain attachment that goes against what yoga asks of us.

The strength to withstand life’s forces—the ups and downs, the curveballs, the joys, the heartbreaks—that’s the kind of strength I value most as an aging yogi. And I’m grateful I started building it early. But here’s the good news: it’s never too late to begin seeking resilient strength.

And as it turns out, when we pursue that kind of strength, the physical strength often follows naturally.

Lately, I’ve been noticing something—something that’s likely not new but still worth reflecting on. We all tend to define ourselves in rigid ways, often inaccurately. It’s frustrating when others put us in a box, assigning us traits or limitations we don’t agree with. But have you ever noticed how often you do this to yourself?
I see this in students and clients all the time. I’ll suggest a pose, and immediately, someone might say, “That’s not going to work for me” or “I can’t do that.” But then, with focus and attention, they do it—and not only that, sometimes they love it.
What we say to ourselves matters. Our words shape our experience, whether we speak them aloud or not. And often, those words don’t even originate from us. They might be echoes of a parent, a sibling, a teacher, or even an old bully. Yet, every time we repeat them, we reinforce them, manifesting them into reality.
A simple example: when I walk my dog, I’m far more anxious approaching another dog than my husband or son is. If I’m holding the leash and thinking, This isn’t going to go well, it doesn’t. But if I hand the leash over before that thought takes hold, everything unfolds more smoothly. Who do you want holding your leash? We know the saying “Animals can smell fear” and they literally can. Just as we can project scent, we project other kinds of energy as well. And that energy affects how we see ourselves as well as how others see us. The word or thought is creating an environment, and that environment will uphold the energy that has created it, whether negative, neutral or positive.
Why not give it a shot? It only takes the ability to remember and observe. That’s actually a big step—just noticing, observing, that you’re doing it. I would even say that’s the first step. We have to recognize it before we can change the narrative, and most of us are saying these things to ourselves without any conscious awareness.
It can feel like an awkward stage—realizing that we’re saying things to ourselves that we wouldn’t accept from someone else. And at first, all we can do is listen and hear it. But as the practice develops, we gain the ability to replace that narrative with something new.
This isn’t just a modern idea. The Yoga Sutras address it directly—check out Chapter 2, Sutra 33. Patanjali speaks to this exact practice: replacing negative thoughts with their positive counterparts. It’s a simple yet profound shift.
So why not try it? The next time you catch yourself saying, I can’t, pause. Observe. And maybe—just maybe—rewrite the script.


Let me know what you discover.