Dawn Arseneau

It started with the flu.

The kind that flattens you. Fever, exhaustion, the feeling that your body has been unplugged from its own energy source. I told myself I’d get back to yoga once I felt better. Then I did feel better… and I didn’t.

One missed practice turned into a week. A week turned into “I’ll start Monday.” Monday quietly became a month.

Life filled the space. I got lazy. Comfortable. A little avoidant, if I’m being honest. Yoga was still part of who I was, but not something I was actually doing.

So when I finally rolled out my mat again, I expected relief. Familiarity. Maybe even gratitude.

What I got instead was shock.

My hamstrings felt like concrete. My hips resisted everything. Muscles I usually rely on felt weak and sore almost immediately. Poses that once felt steady now felt foreign. And alongside all of that physical resistance came something louder: frustration.

I was mad at myself.

Mad that I “let” this happen. Mad that my body didn’t just bounce back. Mad that as a yoga teacher – someone who knows better – I had allowed a break to turn into stiffness, discomfort, and humility.

That anger didn’t motivate me. It tightened me even more.

And that’s when I realized something important: My ego had come back to the mat before my awareness did.

So I stopped.

I literally slowed down mid-practice and sat there, noticing how hard I was being on myself. Noticing how much I was trying to perform yoga instead of practice it. Noticing that the voice in my head sounded nothing like the one I encourage my students to listen to.

I had to put my ego aside.

I shortened the practice. I softened the poses. I took breaks. I chose fewer shapes and stayed longer in the ones that felt accessible. I focused less on flexibility and more on sensation. Less on achieving perfect postures and more on simply being there.

And that was what brought me back.

Not discipline. Not guilt. Not pushing through soreness to prove something to myself. What brought me back was permission. Permission to return imperfectly. Permission to meet my body where it was, not where I thought it should be.

That first slow, humbling practice didn’t look impressive. But it was honest. And honesty is what keeps a practice alive.

If you’ve fallen out of your routine – whether because of illness, busyness, burnout, or life simply being life – this is your reminder: You don’t need to restart where you left off.

You just need to begin again. Smaller. Slower. Softer.

The mat doesn’t care how long you’ve been away. Your body doesn’t need punishment to return. And yoga, at its core, is always an invitation – not a test.