𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐅𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐲 𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠

Every fibre in my body is sore. But not in the way I’ve known before—not the dull ache of exhaustion, nor the burden of stress pressing into my shoulders, nor the restless fatigue of carrying too much for too long. This is a different kind of sore. A deep, reverberating kind. The kind that doesn’t just sit in your muscles but settles into your bones. The kind that tells you something inside has shifted, that space has been made for something new.

To mark my 50th birthday, I chose to spend over a month in India, immersing myself in the intensity of a 300-hour yoga teacher training—an experience that would push me physically, mentally, and emotionally beyond anything I had imagined. But if I’m being honest, when I first considered doing this, what I really wanted was something simpler. I wanted someone to tell me where to be, what to do, and to feed me three meals a day without me having to make a single decision. I was exhausted. Decision fatigue had settled into my bones as much as anything else. After years of constant pivoting, of carrying the mental and emotional weight of building and rebuilding, of holding space for others while barely holding myself together, I just wanted a break from thinking. I wanted stillness. I wanted to let go.

And yet, what I walked into was not passive stillness but an active unravelling. A stripping away. This past month has been a reckoning. A complete physical, mental, and emotional reset. No alcohol, no sugar, no coffee—nothing to numb, distract, or escape. The strict schedule left no space for indulgence, no room for avoidance. From pre-dawn meditation to hours of asana, philosophy, and chanting, every moment demanded presence. Every layer of resistance, every habit of avoidance, every story I’ve told myself about who I am and what I can endure—squeezed out of me, one deep twist at a time.

And I won’t lie—some of it has been brutal. The intensity of practice, the relentless discipline, and the way my body has been stretched and adjusted past its limits left me rubbing A535 into my back just to make it through another morning. The exhaustion of moving through days so full they demanded my entire being. The discomfort of an uneven mattress, cold showers, and simple meals. And yet, somewhere in the rhythm of it all, something shifted.

The not-so-perfect accommodations that once felt inconvenient slowly became my refuge. My little space of stillness. The daily rituals—stepping onto the terracotta ground, feeling the morning air on my skin, walking along the cliffs toward the Shala as the Arabian Sea crashed below—became something sacred. The ocean, in its endless movement, felt like an extension of my own breath, whispering its own lessons of surrender and renewal.

I will miss the midday swims, saltwater soothing my aching muscles, and waves carrying away the heaviness of each practice. I will miss the song-like cadence of my teachers’ voices as they guided us through asana, the resonance of mantra chanting vibrating through my chest, reminding me that sound is not just something we hear, but something we feel. I will miss the quiet that lingers after practice when breath and body merge, and for a fleeting second, there is no past, no future—only the fullness of being here, now.

Perhaps it was this stillness, this forced presence, that made the news of my grandmother’s passing settle into me in a way I never could have prepared for.

She was 103 years old—a woman of quiet strength, of deep wisdom, of unwavering presence. And there I was, half a world away, my body aching, my spirit raw, grieving her loss in a place where grief had nowhere to hide. But in many ways, being here—being in this practice, in this sacred space—was exactly where I needed to be.

Because grief, like yoga, demands presence. It moves through the body just as much as it moves through the heart. It finds you in the stillness, in the breath, in the spaces in between. And while I couldn’t be there to hold her hand, I felt her everywhere—with every sunrise over the sea, with every grounding step on this red earth, with every deep inhale that reminded me I was still here, still becoming.

The past five or so years have been relentless. Change after change, pivot after pivot. Building, breaking, rebuilding. Moving forward without fully processing what had been left behind. But here, in the disciplined rhythm of practice, in the stillness between breaths, in the relentless intensity of this training, I have been forced to stop running. To sit with it all. To feel it, fully.

Turning 50 isn’t just another birthday—it’s a passage. A crossroads. A moment of reckoning and renewal. The world tells us that by now, we should have everything figured out, that our identities should be settled, and that reinvention belongs to the young. But I have seen midlife for what it truly is—an invitation. An opening. A chance to unbecome everything that no longer fits and step fully into what does.

And grief is part of that. So is transition. So is letting go.

Because yoga has never just been about the postures. It is about the way we realign—on the mat, yes, but also in our lives. It is about how we sit in discomfort without running. How we learn to breathe through the unknown. How we soften into the spaces that scare us.

This journey has been humbling, heart-opening, and profoundly transformative. It has broken me open and put me back together, piece by piece, breath by breath.

And so, with a heart full of gratitude, I offer my deepest thanks.

𝐓𝐨 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐚—for your contrasts, your chaos, your wisdom, your relentless ability to hold a mirror up to those willing to see.

𝐓𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬—for your patience, your knowledge, your unwavering belief in this path. Your voice, your presence, and your wisdom have been a guide not just on the mat but in the depths of my being.

𝐓𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬—for your camaraderie, your shared struggles, your laughter in the midst of exhaustion. For the silent understanding that we are all unravelling and becoming together.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲, this breath, this moment—thank you. For enduring. For surrendering. For reminding me that the journey is never about arriving, but about being fully present as we unfold.

I leave this training not with all the answers, but with the trust that I don’t need them. I leave knowing that I am still becoming. That midlife is an invitation. That reinvention is not reserved for the young but for the brave.

And maybe that is the real lesson. Not how to perfect a posture, but how to hold ourselves in the midst of change. How to stand steady in the unknown. How to move forward with grace, with strength, and with the deep, undeniable knowing that the best is not behind us.

It is still ahead.

In magic, love, friendship and adventure

Penny Light