I completed my yoga teacher training in 2021 and like many newly qualified teachers, came away excited to teach and eager to keep learning. But alongside that excitement was a growing sense that 200 hours had only scratched the surface of what there was to know.
I understood things like alignment in Warrior II. I knew how to guide students through a vinyasa sequence and coordinate movement with breath. But I kept finding myself asking questions that I couldn't quite answer. Why do we do it this way? Does it really work like that? Is there actually evidence behind this, or is it simply how yoga has always been taught?
Some of the explanations I encountered felt surprisingly dogmatic. There was often a strong emphasis on what to do, but not always a convincing explanation of why.
The more I taught, the more I noticed other gaps in my confidence too.
For example, we're often encouraged to ask at the start of class whether anyone has any injuries or health conditions. But I never felt entirely comfortable with that. Personally, I wouldn't want to announce my health concerns to a room full of strangers, so why would I expect my students to?
And even when somebody did tell me about a shoulder injury, vertigo, pelvic pain or another health concern, what was I supposed to do with that information? My class plan was already written. I couldn't realistically create twelve different ad hoc classes for twelve different people, adjusting in real time to suit a multitude of needs.
What I was really looking for wasn't twelve different answers for twelve different students. It was a way of navigating that complexity with greater confidence. I wanted to know how to hold space for people with very different needs without feeling that I had somehow failed if I couldn't accommodate every single one perfectly.
I wasn't looking to become a healthcare professional, but I was becoming increasingly aware that the people in front of me were bringing far more into the room than tight hamstrings and stiff shoulders.
Eventually, that curiosity led me to the Yoga Therapy Institute.
I signed up for the Foundation course thinking it would help answer some of those questions. At 100 hours, it felt like a sensible place to start. Even if I decided not to continue towards the Diploma, I knew I'd learn something useful.
What I didn't expect was how much it would change my teaching almost immediately.
Nor did I expect that some of the most valuable lessons would involve unlearning things I'd only recently been taught.
That wasn't always comfortable. I'd come to Foundation because I wanted to challenge my understanding of yoga, and suddenly I found myself questioning assumptions I'd only just begun to feel confident about. Looking back, though, that was exactly what I had been searching for.
Foundation didn't just give me new information; it gave me permission to think more critically of the yoga world, ask better questions and become more comfortable with uncertainty.
Most surprisingly of all, it transformed the way I teach ordinary yoga classes long before I was anywhere near qualifying as a Yoga Therapist.
1. There's a whole person behind every symptom
One of the biggest shifts for me was realising just how easy it is to reduce people to the thing they've told you about.
If a student mentions back pain, it's very easy to start thinking about backs. If somebody tells you they have a knee problem, your attention immediately narrows to knees. Yet every symptom, diagnosis or injury belongs to a whole person whose life extends far beyond the sixty minutes they spend in our class each week.
As yoga teachers, we often know remarkably little about the people standing in front of us. We might have a brief conversation before class while they're rolling out their mat or a quick chat afterwards while they're putting their shoes back on. Yet behind those few minutes sits an entire life that we know almost nothing about.
There may be work stress, family pressures, financial worries, poor sleep, caring responsibilities, grief, anxiety, relationship difficulties or health concerns that have never been mentioned. There may be experiences that shaped the way they move, breathe or relate to their body. There may be things they haven't even connected themselves.
Foundation encouraged me to become much more curious and much slower to make assumptions.
It also helped me realise that some of the most valuable moments don't necessarily happen during the yoga itself. I've watched students arrive looking burdened, anxious or confused and leave looking noticeably lighter. Sometimes that's because of the practice. Sometimes it's because somebody listened.
I've come to believe that those conversations can be just as therapeutic as the yoga itself. Not because we are providing answers, but because we are creating space for somebody to think out loud, feel heard and perhaps see their situation from a slightly different perspective.
2. Sometimes the most useful thing you can offer is a question
Before studying Yoga Therapy, I think I assumed that expertise meant having answers. Now I think it often means asking better questions.
Recently, a student was telling me about ongoing pelvic and hip pain. She mentioned various medications, diagnoses and treatment options, most of which were well outside my area of knowledge. A few years ago, I might have felt inadequate in that situation because I didn't know enough. Now I see it differently.
I don't need to know everything. I don't need to diagnose anything. I don't need to solve the problem. What I can do is help somebody explore their own experience.
As we talked, I found myself asking simple questions. When did the pain first start? Had she experienced it before? What was happening in her life at the time? Had anything changed?
The interesting thing was that she began joining dots for herself. She started noticing patterns and possibilities that hadn't occurred to her before.
By the end of the conversation, she had arrived somewhere useful, but not because I had given her an answer. If anything, I had simply helped her organise her thinking and find her own answer.
Foundation taught me that there's a difference between steering somebody's process and steering their outcome. One empowers people to arrive at their own insights. The other risks replacing their judgement with yours.
That lesson has influenced not only how I teach, but how I listen.
3. I've become much more interested in safety than performance
If there is one theme that now runs through almost everything I teach, it's safety.
Not because I want people to be fearful of movement. Quite the opposite. I want them to feel confident enough to make sensible decisions for themselves.
One of the things I say regularly in class now is, "Take the option".
If your body needs a modification today, take it. If a prop would make the posture more accessible, use it. If resting is the right choice, rest.
There seems to be an assumption in some yoga spaces that modifying a posture somehow means you're doing less. Increasingly, I've come to believe the opposite.
If I know a movement isn't right for a particular student and I see them choosing a more appropriate variation instead, I don't think they're doing less yoga; I think they're doing more. They're listening to their body rather than trying to keep up with somebody else. I don’t just give permission to students to take options; I congratulate them for doing so.
I often remind students that they aren't competing with the person on the mat next to them. They aren't competing with me at the front of the room. They're not even competing with a younger version of themselves from ten years ago or even last week.
If you're forcing yourself into something that you know isn't serving you because everybody else is doing it, that isn't really yoga. It's competition.
One of the unexpected gifts of Foundation was recognising that giving people permission to do less often results in them getting more from the practice. When people stop worrying about keeping up and start paying attention to themselves, something shifts. The practice becomes more honest, more sustainable and, ultimately, more useful.
4. Simple doesn't mean basic
Like many teachers, I used to feel pressure to make classes increasingly creative.
I wanted interesting transitions, fresh sequences and new ideas. I worried about repetition. I worried about students getting bored. I worried that simplicity might somehow be interpreted as a lack of knowledge or imagination. Foundation really challenged that thinking.
Some of the practices I now value most are incredibly straightforward. A gentle release for the lower back. A simple breathing technique. A small movement repeated slowly and mindfully. The sort of thing that might not look particularly impressive if you walked into the room halfway through.
What changed wasn't necessarily the practices themselves. It was my confidence in them.
I began to understand that complexity and effectiveness are not the same thing. Some of the most powerful therapeutic tools are simple precisely because people can remember them, repeat them and use them outside the classroom.
I no longer feel the need to prove my creativity every time I teach. Sometimes the simplest practice is exactly what somebody needs. Sometimes the thing that creates the greatest shift is also the thing that looks the least remarkable.
5. People arrive carrying more than we realise
Perhaps the most unexpected thing Foundation changed was what I notice when people walk into a room.
Before, I think I mainly noticed whether someone looked new to yoga. Now I notice much more.
I notice people scanning the room before they settle on a place for their mat. I notice the tension they are carrying in their shoulders and jaw. I notice how quickly or cautiously they move. I notice the slight apprehension that often comes with entering any unfamiliar environment.
The trauma-informed elements of Foundation taught me that people don't arrive as blank slates. They arrive carrying the day they've had, the week they've had and sometimes the year they've had.
Even the most experienced yogi in the room may be arriving feeling vulnerable. They may have spent the day caring for other people, worrying about their health, dealing with work pressures or simply trying to hold everything together.
That awareness has changed the way I start classes.
I spend much more time helping people arrive before asking them to do anything particularly demanding. A gentle shake, some simple movement, a moment to settle and reconnect with the body can make an enormous difference.
Previously, I might have seen those things as little more than a warm-up. Now I see them as an important part of the practice itself.
They help people transition from whatever has happened outside the room into the experience of being present inside it. They create a sense of safety and permission to let go, even if only for an hour. Our nervous systems don’t have an on/off switch and this simple insight has made me a much kinder yoga teacher, and my classes more welcoming for it.
And increasingly, I think a soft landing is one of the most valuable things yoga can offer.
6. The healing belongs to them
Perhaps the most important thing Foundation has taught me is humility.
There are moments as a teacher that feel incredibly rewarding. A student suddenly makes sense of something they've been struggling with. Somebody notices a pattern that has been hiding in plain sight for years. A conversation prompts them to ask a question of a healthcare professional that leads them towards a diagnosis, treatment or explanation they might not otherwise have found.
Those moments are wonderful, and it would be dishonest to pretend they don't bring a huge sense of satisfaction. After all, most of us become teachers because we want to help people.
But one of the things Foundation has taught me is to keep my ego firmly in check when those moments happen.
The insight belongs to the student. The decision belongs to the student. The healing belongs to the student.
I may have helped create the conditions in which those things became possible, but that is very different from taking ownership of them.
I've seen enough within the wider yoga world to know how easily teachers can drift into believing they are the source of somebody else's transformation. Foundation challenged that idea completely. Again and again, we were reminded that people are not passive recipients of healing. They are active participants in their own wellbeing.
If a student discovers a connection they hadn't previously noticed, asks a question they hadn't thought to ask, or finds a way forward that reduces their suffering, they deserve the credit for that.
As teachers, we can facilitate that process. We can create a safe environment. We can ask thoughtful questions. We can share practices and offer possibilities. But ultimately, the journey belongs to the person walking it.
In a world where yoga teachers can sometimes be placed on pedestals, I find that perspective incredibly grounding and, in many ways, it makes the work easier. There is far less pressure to have all the answers when you understand that your role is not to provide them.
My role isn’t to fix people; it’s to create a space in which people can become more curious about themselves, feel safer in their bodies and reconnect with their own wisdom.
That might not sound particularly dramatic, but it has completely changed the way I teach. And for that reason alone, enrolling on Yoga Therapy Foundation was one of the best decisions I’ve made as a yoga professional.
