There’s nothing mystical about why yoga and movement practices work—though many traditions drape them in symbols and rituals, which may serve some by creating sacred focus. But the truth is simpler. We don’t need to name the postures or intellectualize the process. We just need to breathe and move. To settle the body. To stir up stored anxiety. To rattle the cage. To let the feelings rise and pass through us. The breath is the vehicle of transformation.If a teacher becomes too noisy or self-indulgent, distracting us with stories about their life instead of guiding us inward—kindly take them aside and smack them with a sweaty towel. Then remind them, gently but firmly, “This space is for the student’s healing. Why the hell are you talking about your ex-girlfriend during standing bow?”
Movement stimulates breath. Breath regulates the nervous system, even under stress. It doesn’t always work on the first try—or the first 375. This is a practice. A difficult one. It comes in waves, when we’re ready, after we’ve shown up, failed, and returned again and again. In movement, we release stuck energy. Sometimes, the stretch in a hip will trigger a memory—like the birthday your father missed. Or the pain you’ve buried. You might cry on your mat. But this is not regression—it’s progress. Unlike laying in bed paralyzed by sorrow, movement holds a second force: forward momentum. We are simultaneously processing and strengthening, grieving and healing.
This duality is the power of embodied practice. We’re not escaping into physicality to avoid feeling. Nor are we drowning in emotion without a way out. We are learning to hold both. This is true yoga. This is true healing. When people ask me how to let go of resentment, I say: move and breathe. Move with the emotion. Breathe with the memory. Stretch through the sadness. Keep going. Whether it’s yoga, tai chi, martial arts, showering, walking, dancing—just move and stay present. The body is not separate from the mind. They are one system. I am not just my thoughts. I am the observer. I itch, ache, sweat, breathe—I am alive.
Consciousness in the Body: A Love Letter to Form
I wrote in my journal 25 years ago:
“What a terrible misfortune it would be to have only a mind and no body. To exist in limbo with no senses, no brain, no frame of reference. No direction. Just thinking—forever. Suffering. Discomfort without end. Thank God I have a body. Now I can move. Now I can breathe. Now I can feel. I can participate in life. I can affect the universe. I can affect consciousness.”
Later, I added:
“Now that I have a body and a thinking mind, I must temper my desires. I must heal from the wounds this body and mind have carried. I must organize my philosophy around non-harm and compassion—so I don’t suffer, and so others don’t suffer because of me.”
This is the responsibility and the gift of embodiment: to use our senses, our awareness, and our will to grow. To refine our practices. As we mature, we must minimize the waste of energy, the waste of life. Instead of deciding whether today is a “yoga day,” we make it automatic. Just as we breathe, we move. On rest days, we move lightly—some deep breathing, maybe a few squats, maybe a walk. But the practice stays alive. Because we need it—every day.
Writing as Movement of the Mind
And for the mind’s sake—we write. We express. We don’t wait for someone to answer the phone. That moment might be too late. We can’t wait for the perfect friend to process with. The anxiety will consume us. When the pressure rises, we open the journal. We breathe. We return to presence. In this way, movement and writing become our self-healing rituals.
Movement is not just exercise. It’s therapy. It’s emotional processing. It’s grief work. It’s regulation. It’s spiritual practice. It’s evolution in action.
Every time we breathe deeply through discomfort, we signal to our nervous system:
“I am safe. I am here. I am capable.”
This is not fluff. This is not woo-woo. This is the foundation of healing—for addiction, for trauma, for the restless mind. Without movement and breath, we stay trapped. But with them, we become free.
The Final Practice
Later, at the very end of life, if we can only move our eyes, we focus on eye movement and breathing through anxiety sensations. If our eyes stop moving but we are conscious, we now have only the breath left. Where we direct our thoughts next is the sum total of our life’s karma—cause and effect accumulated over decades. When the breath finishes moving within us, death is next.
Now, here’s the mistake most humans make: they want to know what happens next. They fixate. They worry again about something that cannot be answered—and doesn’t actually matter. Not now.
The question is not: “What comes next?”
The real question—the only one worth asking—is:
“What now?”