I have been teaching in schools for over twenty-five years. Over
the last few years, I have also been teaching yoga and its philosophy to
students and clients from different walks of life. With time and experience,
one lesson has returned again and again, sometimes gently, sometimes painfully:
Effort does not always lead to the outcome we expect.
As teachers, we prepare sincerely. We plan lessons, guide
students, repeat instructions, motivate, counsel, and correct. Yet, despite our
best efforts, students do not always perform the way we want them to or the way
their parents expect them to. When this happens repeatedly, stress and
frustration naturally arise in the mind.
Over the years, I have come to understand one simple truth:
Teaching is our responsibility, but learning is the student’s journey.
Earlier in my career, I believed that if I tried harder, gave
more time, and invested more emotional energy, results would surely follow.
Experience slowly taught me otherwise. I realized that while I can guide
sincerely, I cannot walk the path on behalf of my students. This understanding
came through moments of disappointment, self-doubt, and emotional exhaustion.
The same reality exists in professional life. One may be
sincere, disciplined, and deeply committed to work, yet efforts often go
unnoticed. Sometimes there is no appreciation, no acknowledgement, and no
encouragement from those in authority. This hurts not because we are weak, but
because we are human. What creates stress is not the lack of
appreciation, but the belief that our worth depends on it.
Yoga philosophy helped me see my work differently. It teaches
that our responsibility lies in right action, not in controlling outcomes or
approval. When I shifted my focus from recognition to inner integrity,
something changed. The stress reduced not because circumstances improved,
but because my relationship with effort changed.
Teaching yoga revealed another important lesson. Despite
repeated guidance, many yoga students compare themselves with others. They try
to perform difficult asanas simply because their friends can do them, without
understanding their own body’s structure, strength, or limitations. Each
body is different—its history, flexibility, strength, and capacity are unique.
Forcing the body to imitate another is not progress; it is a
subtle form of self-harm. Yoga, at its core, is a practice of awareness, not
competition.
As a yoga teacher, I guide, demonstrate, and caution. But I have
also learned an important boundary: I cannot live inside another person’s
body.
When I started carrying responsibility for choices students
continued to make despite instruction, it created unnecessary stress. Letting
go did not mean I stopped caring. It meant I stopped carrying what was not mine
to carry.
Letting go is not indifference; it is wisdom. Comparison,
I have learned, is one of the greatest sources of suffering today. Students
compare marks, teachers compare recognition, professionals compare positions,
and yoga practitioners compare bodies. Social media silently strengthens this
habit. The moment we compare, we disconnect from our own journey.
Through years of teaching and practice, my understanding of
Ahimsa has deepened. It is not only non-violence toward others; it is also
compassion toward oneself. Self-blame, unrealistic expectations, emotional
suppression, and constant pressure to perform are subtle forms of inner
violence. Ahimsa begins when we stop being harsh with ourselves.
Acceptance does not mean giving up, and letting go does not mean
becoming careless. It means recognizing the boundary between effort and
control. I continue to teach with sincerity. I continue to guide with
dedication. But I no longer punish myself when outcomes do not align with
expectations. At the end of the day, I ask myself simple questions:
Did I act with honesty?
Did I teach with awareness?
Did I respect my limits and the limits of others?
If the answer is yes, that is enough. To
students, teachers, and professionals reading this: life will not always move
according to your plans. People will not always respond the way you hope.
Effort will not always be rewarded immediately.
This is not failure, it is reality. When
acceptance and letting go become part of daily practice, life becomes lighter.
Teaching becomes sustainable. Work becomes meaningful. Yoga returns to its true
essence.
This, for me, is the real practice of yoga not only
on the mat, but in everyday life.
References:
1. Bhagavad
Gita. (2002). The Bhagavad Gita (E. Easwaran, Trans.). Nilgiri Press.
(Original work composed c. 2nd century BCE)
2. Patanjali.
(2009). The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali (S. Bryant, Trans.). North Point Press.
(Original work composed c. 400 CE)
3. Desikachar,
T. K. V. (1999). The heart of yoga: Developing a personal practice. Inner
Traditions.
4. Palmer, P.
J. (2017). The courage to teach: Exploring the inner landscape of a teacher’s
life (20th anniversary ed.). Jossey-Bass.
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