Lost and Found Anew: An Ashtangi Mom

Isn’t it ironic that the last post on my blog was about finding my voice again? Then I disappeared for years.

I stopped writing during the pandemic, when everything felt too heavy and uncertain. I had so much to say, but none of it felt meaningful enough in the face of everything that was happening. When I finally published that post, I thought I had reclaimed my voice—that I truly understood how sharing my experience mattered, no matter what.

And then I got pregnant and had my son. The world shifted completely. I was caught in a storm in my own mind. I felt lost. I stopped using social media altogether—not because I didn’t believe my voice mattered, but because I simply didn’t have the strength to share it.

But what did help was reading the words of other mothers. Especially one Ashtangi mom who wrote honestly about her postnatal depression. Her story helped me make sense of what I was going through. During my pregnancy, I found comfort in the posts of another Ashtangi mom sharing her struggles—and through her vulnerability, I found understanding.

Before getting pregnant, I thought I knew who I was. But the process of pregnancy, childbirth, and early motherhood threw that identity into a blender. I spent years trying to tape the pieces back together, only to realize: my old self was no longer there. In her place, slowly, gently, emerged someone new. Someone I now see as my adult self.

I remember practicing one day, struggling through asanas that once felt like second nature. A fellow Ashtanga teacher, also a mom, looked at me and said, “I remember what this is like. The old you is gone—and now it’s about finding the new you.” That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out these past few years: a different version of me. Softer. More vulnerable. But also stronger in deeper, quieter ways.

My practice is no longer what it used to be—powerful, energetic, and quite advanced for my body at the time. Now, I’m rounder around the edges, softer in the middle, but more grounded within. I thought I had lost my fire. That inner spark that had burned so steadily seemed gone. I tried to keep it alive, to force it back into being—but it had changed. What I didn’t realize then was that I was struggling with depression during pregnancy, and it deepened in the early years of motherhood.

If I could have, I would have stayed under the covers forever. But I had to get up—for my beautiful baby, for my growing, vibrant toddler who has always been full of life and energy. I felt absent during many moments, and I didn’t want to be that mom. So I fought. I fought to be present. To meet each day with openness and care. After years of therapy and medication, I feel like I’m on the other side now, looking back with tenderness. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

I think I burned myself out by clinging too tightly to the image of who I used to be. I wanted to be the loving, present mother and the advanced Ashtangi with unwavering dedication. But maybe this was the 7th series—the most advanced practice of all—that my teacher Sharathji used to speak about with a smile. I still carry his words with me.

Throughout my pregnancy, I didn’t let go of the practice at all. I was terrified that if I did, it would disappear. After my son was born, I tried to be the mom who could do it all. I’d wake up before dawn to squeeze in my practice, but my baby had other plans. He wasn’t the kind of baby who sat peacefully in a bouncer while I flowed through my poses. No matter how early I woke up, the moment he sensed I wasn’t next to him, he’d wake.

So I had to let go of what I thought the practice should look like, feel like, or be like. I had to learn a new way. My way. I began listening more closely—to what my body needed, what my mind needed, what the moment called for. Slowly, gently, I softened.

Today, my practice doesn’t resemble what it did when I started this journey 13 years ago. But it’s still here. On the days when I can create even a little space to step on my mat, I don’t rush to get through “my full practice.” I move. I breathe. I am. I’m no longer sure what “full practice” even means. Maybe it’s exactly what I did in that moment. And that’s enough.

I hope to stay with this practice for my whole life. Whether I do full intermediate, a few standing postures, or just sun salutations—it doesn’t matter. As long as I show up. As long as I’m present.

It has been a journey—being a mom and an Ashtangi. I don’t know where this path will lead. But that’s okay. What matters is today.

I have two hours before kindy pick-up. So now, I will roll out my mat and take some time for myself. To reconnect. To tune in. To be.

I’ll hold my drishti and resist the urge to tidy the house or load the dishwasher. Because if I wait for the perfect moment, practice may not happen at all. Time is limited—and I can’t do everything. But I can be here. Now.