My love,
This may not look like yoga.
There is no chaturanga.
No playlist telling you to flow faster.
No timer counting down the seconds until you’re enough.
There is only breath.
Stillness.
A quiet pause.
The long exhale after years of holding it all in.
But make no mistake — this is still yoga.
Not the yoga of mirrors and metrics, though she has her place.
This is the yoga that finds you after the unraveling.
After the diagnosis.
After the heartbreak.
After your body whispers no more.
This is yoga as return.
As remembering.
As repair.
🜃 Svadhyaya — Self-study
You pick up a pen and ask your body what she needs.
You answer a journal prompt and realise it’s not the answer that matters, but the act of listening.
You sit with your truth — unfiltered, unpolished.
🜂 This is yoga.
🜃 Saucha — Sacred Care
You draw a warm bath, not to “detox,” but to feel whole.
You apply oils that smell like comfort and home — warm, familiar, grounding.
You clean your space not to impress, but to feel at ease.
🜂 This is yoga.
🜃 Pratyahara — Turning Inward
You lower the volume of the world.
You step away, not to escape — but to come back to yourself.
You close your eyes and meet yourself in breath.
🜂 This is yoga.
🜃 Dharana & Dhyana — Focus and Meditation
You watch a flame flicker.
You trace the breath from your nose to your belly and back again.
You hold your gaze on something still, and in that stillness, find yourself again.
🜂 This is yoga.
🜃 Soma. Rest. Integration.
You lie in supported child’s pose, your chest cradled by a bolster.
You fold into yourself in yin, and finally hear your own heartbeat.
You choose rest not as reward, but as nourishment.
🜂 This is yoga.
🜃 Ahimsa — Gentleness, Non-Violence
You speak to your body with kindness, even when she aches.
You place a hand over your chest and call it enough.
You soften where you once braced.
🜂 This is yoga.
This path does not ask for flexibility or force.
It asks for presence. For permission. For softness without apology.
This is yoga that doesn’t perform.
Yoga that doesn’t push.
Yoga that whispers instead of shouts.
So if you’ve ever called a breathing pause “just a moment” —
If you’ve ever journaled through grief, or wept in child’s pose,
If you’ve ever let your body decide how slow was slow enough —
You’ve already been here.
This is still yoga.
And you, my love, are already home.
With breath and care,
Lily
Serenity In Motion 
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