The other day, I came across an interesting perspective on Ashtanga Mysore practice—some described it as “lonely.” I have to admit, I was surprised. It got me thinking: how could anyone feel lonely in this kind of practice? So I sat with it for a while, reflecting on why that might be, and I kept circling back to one big question: what’s the intention behind starting a yoga practice in the first place?
The thing is, everyone’s path to yoga looks a little different. Some come to yoga for the spiritual journey, hoping to connect more deeply with themselves. Others might be seeking healing—physically, mentally, or emotionally. For some, it’s an outlet to sweat and keep fit, while others see yoga as a social activity, a way to bond with people who share similar interests.
But here’s the thing: for those who approach yoga as a personal, spiritual path, the idea of loneliness doesn’t really come into play. I mean, would we describe meditation as “lonely” just because it’s quiet and inward? Not really. In Mysore practice, the focus is so internal, almost like meditation in movement. There’s no rush, no flashy poses to impress others, just you and the breath.
What I’m noticing is that a lot of people have a perception of yoga that’s based on the visuals—the poses that catch their eye on Instagram, or the complex shapes they think define a “real” practice. Yoga then becomes more of a physical pursuit, like a sport, where it’s all about achieving that pose or outdoing what you did yesterday. It’s understandable, but this way of thinking can sometimes overshadow the true purpose of yoga.
So, if there’s any sense of loneliness, maybe it’s a sign to pause and ask, why did I start practicing yoga?
When we shift away from focusing solely on the physical, we start to see yoga as something deeper, something that goes beyond the surface of what our bodies can do. It’s an internal journey, a practice that invites us to connect within, beyond poses or competition.
And in Mysore, we’re all sharing that same quiet space, moving at our own pace. There’s a kind of silent support, a bond that doesn’t need words or eye contact. It’s not lonely at all—if anything, it’s a space for true connection.
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