I’ve been doing this 10-minute practice of mindful movement every day for a couple of weeks now. Fourteen days of setting a timer, meeting my body in simple movement, and starting the day with presence instead of just launching straight into doing.
It doesn’t sound like a big thing on paper. Ten minutes. But something has started to change in how I move through the rest of my day. I’m finding that I’m actually noticing my body at times I used to ignore it completely. Moments that would have just blended into the background are starting to feel a little more alive, a little more available to me.
One of those moments happened on the drive to the coast.
It’s about a five-and-a-half-hour drive. (I still count travel in hours—Wisconsin roots.) At some point into the drive, after I’d been on the road awhile, I started to pick up on how much I was shifting around in my seat. I’d lean a bit to one side, then the other. I would slowly slide forward, then push myself back again. None of this was dramatic, but once I saw it, it was clear that my body was trying to get my attention.
Then I noticed my hands.
One hand was clenching the steering wheel on and off. I’d grip, then loosen, then grip again. My fingers felt a little tight. My breath had changed too—more shallow, with little pauses where it felt like I was holding it without meaning to. All of this was happening while, on the surface, I was just driving like normal.
Before these 10-minute sessions, I don’t think I would have caught any of that. I would have kept going, maybe turned up the radio, told myself I’d stop “later,” and pushed through. My body would have been having an experience and I wouldn’t have really been in on it.
This time, I noticed.
I didn’t launch into fixing mode. I didn’t tell myself, “Relax your shoulders, slow your breath, sit up straight.” Instead, I did what I’ve been practicing every morning: I became aware of what was already happening.
I noticed my seat under me. I noticed the shape of my back against the chair. I noticed my hands on the wheel—how they wanted to clench—and just acknowledged that. I didn’t force them to soften; I just stayed with the fact that my hands were telling a story my mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
Somewhere in that noticing, a simple thought arose: “Maybe it’s time for a break.”
That was the important moment. Not the break itself, but the part where I realized my body was speaking up and I actually heard it. I realized I had a choice. I didn’t have to prove anything to myself by driving straight through. I didn’t have to override what I was feeling.
A little further down the road, there was a turnoff with bathrooms and a place to stop. I pulled over, got out of the car, stretched my legs, moved a bit, and let my system reset before getting back on the road.
It was a small pause in the grand scheme of things. But it felt significant because I could also feel how easily I could have missed it. I almost talked myself out of it—almost told myself, “You’re fine, just keep going.” That old pattern is still there. The difference now is that practice is giving me enough presence to see the pattern while it’s happening, not just after the fact.
The shift wasn’t really about the rest stop or even about feeling the ground under my feet, although that helped. The deeper shift was this: I was more in my body in that moment. I could see what was happening inside me, and from that seeing, I could choose.
That’s what these 10 minutes of mindful movement each day are starting to do in my life. They’re helping me remember that I actually have a body, that it has information for me, and that when I notice that information, more options open up. Instead of going on autopilot, I can pause. I can decide. I can respond.
Presence, for me, is becoming less about doing something “right” and more about being able to say, even in the middle of a long drive: “I notice what’s happening in me right now. And I get to choose what I do next.”
Presence deepens not by doing, but by noticing what’s already here.
Wishing you wellness,
Keri Sawyer
PS – you’re welcome to join me in my journey if 90 days of presence, Facebook live every morning through Jan 30 at 5:30am PT:
A three-part exploration in somatic healing and presence
There are seasons when healing doesn’t come from thinking differently, but from feeling differently — from allowing the body to guide us back toward safety, steadiness, and connection.
This three-part series explores how movement, awareness, and presence can transform the way we experience ourselves from the inside out. Each piece builds upon the last, tracing a gentle arc through Hope, Faith, and Trust — not as abstract ideas, but as embodied experiences that live in muscle, memory, and motion.
Part 1:Embodied Hope – Finding Possibility in the Body
Part 2:Embodied Faith – Staying in the Middle Space
Part 3:Embodied Trust – Living From Inner Steadiness
Together, they form a movement-based journey through resilience — one that honors the body’s wisdom as a teacher, not a problem to solve.
Part 1: Embodied Hope – Finding Possibility in the Body
Part 1 of our “Embodied Pathways” series — exploring how Hope, Faith, and Trust unfold through conscious movement and presence.
When life feels like too much, hope can seem like a word for other people — too far away, too bright, too ideal. Our minds grasp for reasons, for meaning, for something to fix the ache. But the body knows another way. It knows movement, texture, rhythm. It knows that even when we can’t think our way toward hope, we can sometimes feel our way there.
The Body’s Way of Remembering
Hope doesn’t have to mean happiness or certainty. It can begin as the smallest spark — the possibility that how we feel, both emotionally and physically, might shift. That possibility lives in the body.
A hand that unclenches. A spine that lengthens after hours of collapse. A single moment when you realize you can move differently than before.
These small shifts tell your nervous system, something is changing. And that message alone begins to open a door. It’s not about fixing the chaos — it’s about remembering you have some power within it.
The Science of Hope in Motion
When we move, the body and brain communicate constantly. Movement activates neural pathways that restore integration — connecting feeling, thinking, and sensing parts of the brain. This re-connection is how agency returns. The body learns: I can do something. I can affect how I feel.
Trauma and prolonged stress often take that sense of agency away. Movement, especially gentle and conscious movement, rebuilds it. Hope, then, becomes less an emotion and more a physiological state — the embodied memory that change is possible.
When Hope Feels Out of Reach
For many, the word hope can carry pressure. When life has been defined by endurance or loss, hope might sound unrealistic or even unsafe. That’s understandable. Embodied hope asks for nothing more than a willingness to notice — to sense one small difference between how you felt a moment ago and how you feel now.
That difference — however subtle — is the doorway. It doesn’t erase pain, but it adds movement to it. It says, there is still a way forward, and it begins here.
A Practice: Finding Hope Through Subtle Movement
Take a quiet moment. Notice any part of your body that wants to move — even slightly. Maybe your fingers shift, or your shoulders tilt, or your gaze softens. Let that impulse unfold naturally, without judging or forcing it.
As you move, notice what changes. Does your sense of balance, warmth, or awareness shift — even a little? That small difference is the beginning of hope: the lived experience that things can change, however modestly.
I’ve walked every single morning for well over a year — and that one simple act transformed me.
Not just physically. But emotionally. Energetically. Spiritually.
Something in me softened. Realigned. Came home to itself.
Maybe it was the salty ocean air that whispered me awake. Or the steady rhythm of the waves that matched my breath.
Maybe it was simply the ritual — the quiet, mindful movement of walking with awareness, day after day. Each step became a meditation. A returning. A remembering.
Some mornings, I walked alone — fully present to the world around me. Noticing the way the light moved through the trees or how the ocean moved the sand.
Feeling the earth beneath my feet. Breathing in deeply. Listening — not just to the sounds of the ocean, but to the stirrings within.
And on other days, I walked with my husband, my children, or dear friends. There is something sacred about walking with — About being in motion together, side by side, without needing to speak.
A kind of presence that words can’t reach. A connection born not from conversation, but from shared experience.
That’s mindfulness, too. The simple act of doing something with full attention. Mindfulness isn’t always sitting still on a cushion. Sometimes, it’s the feeling of cool air on your skin. The sound of your child’s footsteps beside yours. The knowing that this moment — this exact one — is where life is happening.
And those moments… they add up. They shape who we are. They change how we relate to ourselves and to the people we love. Because: Our choices matter. Our presence matters. How we show up in our bodies and our lives — it all matters.
I found happiness not in a breakthrough, but in the quiet repetition of mindful practice. In choosing to be with myself and others, fully. In learning to listen — to nature, to my breath, to the rhythm of life itself.
Having a clear sense of self — even if it’s something as simple as a daily walk — can change everything.
So: Know yourself. Find your still point — even in motion. Practice presence like it’s sacred. Because it is. And when you find that inner balance — that mindful rhythm — Protect it. Return to it. Honor it. Not because you should. But because it’s how we stay whole in a noisy world. It’s how we reconnect — to ourselves, and to each other.
Even though you’re doing the work of recovery, do you still feel restlessness or unease inside? When we leave the body out of the picture, parts of recovery can feel incomplete.
Your body carries the weight of stress, pain, and memories from difficult experiences. For many of us, addiction became a way to cope with this weight. And even after stepping into recovery, your body may still feel unsettled—tight in your chest, restless in your legs, or on edge in your gut, as if safety is out of reach.
This can make it hard to feel calm or connected. Rooted in Recovery brings together trauma-sensitive yoga and the journey of recovery—intertwining them as a way of creating safety, balance, and connection. It offers a pathway back into stability—a way to feel grounded again in both your body and your life.
Balance, Stability, and Flexibility
Think of a tree. Its roots reach deep into the ground, giving it balance and stability even when strong winds blow. In recovery, you also need roots—steady practices that help you stay grounded through cravings, emotions, and life’s storms.
But trees also bend with the wind. Without flexibility, they would break. In the same way, recovery asks not only for steadiness but also adaptability—meeting change without fear.
Balance in the moment. Noticing what steadies you right now, helping ease intensity in your body.
Stability over time. Maintaining stability practices that feel useful to you so your foundation stays strong when life feels shaky.
Flexibility in change. Meeting the strong winds of life with resilience and adaptability, instead of bracing against them.
From Fear to Presence
In recovery, knowing yourself can feel complicated. Your past may carry shame or regret. Your future might stir anxiety or fear of relapse. Both can pull you out of the present, leaving you disconnected from your own body.
Rooted in Recovery shifts this pattern. Its gentle, mindful movements open the present moment—right here, right now.
Meeting your body in this way creates a chance to experience what is real. Developing a felt sense of yourself—noticing how your body feels in this moment—can bring forward a powerful recognition: you are not your past, and you are not your future. You are here, now.
This awareness supports recovery because it:
Softens fear of who you’ve been or who you might become.
Builds steadiness in the present.
Provides experiences of safety in your body that you can return to again and again.
Weathering the Storms
Imagine standing before a storm. In the past, storms may have overwhelmed you, leaving your body frozen or bracing against what might come.
Through Rooted in Recovery, you can begin developing inner resources—skills and practices that shift how your body responds to stress. Instead of numbing or pushing away, you might pause, notice the storm rising, and respond differently. It could feel like steadying your breath, softening your shoulders, or anchoring through your feet—small choices that keep you present.
This shift supports recovery at its core:
Balance. Meeting intensity in your body with steadiness.
A steady sense of self. Discovering that you can navigate what comes.
Resilience. Facing change with both steadiness and flexibility.
Stability Through Connection
Addiction often thrives in isolation, while recovery grows stronger in community. Rooted in Recovery supports not only grounding in your own body but also a sense of connection with others.
Like trees in a forest whose roots intertwine, practicing in community can remind you that you don’t have to walk recovery alone. Being with others can help your body feel supported, steady, and connected.
Pathways Back to Self
All of these practices—balance, presence, resilience, and connection—come from intertwining trauma-sensitive yoga with the lived experience of recovery. Together, they create gentle pathways back to yourself, helping your body become a safer and steadier place to be.
Noticing
Noticing is the beginning of grounding—like first seeing a tree rooted in the earth. It is the awareness: “I am here. I have a body.”
In addiction, many of us disconnected from our bodies—sometimes even rejecting them. Simply noticing that you have a body, and that it’s here with you, can be a breakthrough. Like roots reaching into the soil, noticing nourishes your connection and lays the foundation for stability.
Meeting
Meeting is like the first tender roots reaching deeper into the soil. It begins with curiosity—becoming interested in a deeper connection with your body.
Meeting creates space for safety—where being in your body can begin to feel more approachable and manageable. Here, you may notice choices—moments of sensing what feels steady, nourishing, or easeful.
Like a young tree settling into the ground, meeting yourself in this way can be the beginning of stability and grounded growth.
Connecting
Connecting is like the trunk of the tree strengthening—linking roots to branches. It reflects forming relationship with yourself, turning toward your body with compassion instead of avoidance.
Here, noticing choices begins to deepen into starting to make choices based on the felt sense of your body. These choices may be small, but they represent trust building within you—trust that you can find steadiness again and again.
Connecting can feel like shaking hands with yourself—a gesture of acknowledgement and respect. Like the trunk of a tree supporting its branches, connecting provides the steady core from which healing can grow.
Rooting
Rooting is like the deep, steady roots of a mature tree. It reflects your body as an anchor—strong enough to hold steady and flexible enough to move with the winds of life.
Rooting may bring the realization that change is possible. Like a tree swaying with the wind, you might notice that the way your body feels can shift. With trust built inside, you can face change—and even create it.
Rooting transforms “I can get through change” into “I can create positive change.”
An Invitation to Grow Roots
Recovery is like planting a tree—you need care, nourishment, and steady ground to grow. Rooted in Recovery helps create that ground through these Pathways Back to Self:
Noticing – beginning to recognize presence in your body.
Meeting – becoming curious, finding safety, and noticing choices.
Connecting – starting to make choices guided by the felt sense of your body.
Rooting – discovering your body as an anchor, steady and flexible enough to meet the winds of life.
These pathways support movement from hope to trust. They open the possibility of facing cravings and struggles not with fear or avoidance, but with grounded presence.
Through Rooted in Recovery, your healing may become more than surviving day to day. It may grow into a rooted, balanced life—steady enough to weather storms, flexible enough to adapt with change, and strong enough to keep growing toward the light.
Wishing you steadiness and connection, Keri Sawyer
P.S. If you feel ready to explore these pathways in community, Rooted in Recovery classes are available at openviewyoga.com, a Trauma-Sensitive Yoga Virtual Studio. This is an invitation to step into gentle practices that support stability, balance, and reconnection.
Life experiences can leave lasting imprints on our bodies and minds. Stress, loss, or trauma can sometimes make us feel unsettled or disconnected—not only from others, but from ourselves. At times, our bodies may not feel predictable or steady, and that can make it difficult to trust our own signals or feel grounded in daily life.
Trauma-Sensitive Yoga offers a gentle, compassionate practice that isn’t about perfect poses or pushing through discomfort. Instead, it’s about noticing what’s happening inside and making choices based on a felt sense of the body. Each movement is an invitation to come back to yourself in a way that feels steady and empowering.
Cultivating Safety Within
When we carry stress or trauma, our bodies can sometimes feel unfamiliar or hard to predict. A racing heartbeat, sudden tension, or a sense of numbness may seem to come out of nowhere. These experiences can make it difficult to feel safe in our own skin.
Trauma-Sensitive Yoga introduces gentle and consistent practices that support a more reliable relationship with ourselves. Each movement is offered as an invitation. You choose what to explore, what to leave out, and when to pause. Over time, these body based choices create something powerful: a steady, more predictable sense of self. Instead of bracing for what might come next, we begin to notice that we can meet our experiences with curiosity and choice. That sense of steadiness becomes the ground for healing.
From Powerless to Possibility: The Role of Agency
Agency is more than just the ability to make choices—it’s the recognition that our choices matter. In Trauma-Sensitive Yoga, we learn that the way we move, breathe, and notice our bodies can actually change how we feel in the moment. A single decision to pause, stretch, or take a breath can create a shift in our bodies, helping us move toward presence.
Over time, these small moments of choice remind us of something even bigger: we are not stuck. We can influence how our bodies feel, and in doing so, we begin to influence the trajectory of our lives. Agency gives us the capacity to move from surviving toward thriving—one intentional choice at a time.
When we discover agency—the ability to shift how we feel and the course of our lives—we create the foundation for stronger, more authentic connections with others. Healing begins inside and ripples outward, carried forward on the currents of connection.
Strengthening Relationships Through Inner Steadiness
As we begin to build a greater sense of safety and agency within ourselves, it often shifts how we relate to others. When we feel steadier on the inside, we can show up in our relationships with more presence and ease.
We might notice moments where we can pause and respond more thoughtfully instead of reacting right away. We may find it feels a little easier to share honestly, because we’re more connected to our own voice. Over time, we can begin to create boundaries that respect both our own needs and the needs of those around us.
The healing we cultivate inside doesn’t stay inside—it ripples outward, helping us build relationships that feel safer, stronger, and more authentic.
Practicing Together: The Power of Non-Verbal Connection
Another unique part of trauma sensitive yoga is the experience of practicing alongside a facilitator. It’s not a teacher–student dynamic where one person instructs and the other follows. Instead, both the facilitator and participants are practicing together—each noticing sensations in their own body in the same shared space.
This creates a non-verbal connection that can feel deeply healing. To move and breathe alongside someone who is modeling healthy presence, respect, and choice—without judgment or pressure—offers a new experience of relationship. It’s a way of being with another person that is safe, grounded, and mutual.
Over time, this experience can carry into future relationships. Practicing non-verbal presence with someone trustworthy helps us learn that connection doesn’t have to mean control or fear. It can mean mutual respect, safety, and authenticity. This new template of relationship can become a foundation for building healthier, more supportive connections beyond the yoga space.
Currents of Connection
Trauma-Sensitive Yoga is more than movement—it’s a practice of rebuilding our relationship with ourselves and, through that, creating deeper connections with others. By cultivating safety, predictability, and agency, we nurture qualities like trust, openness, and compassion that allow relationships to grow in healthier, more supportive ways.
Healing begins within, but it doesn’t stop there. Like water flowing outward, each time we practice presence, each time we choose what feels right for us, each time we meet ourselves with kindness—it extends into our relationships and communities.
As yoga teachers and facilitators, it’s easy to believe that we are responsible for giving our students an experience—a moment of calm, a sense of peace, a meaningful release. This belief often comes from a sincere place of wanting to help. But what if we paused and asked: Am I creating space for an experience, or am I trying to give one?
There is a profound difference between the two.
Giving someone an experience can unintentionally become a kind of imposition—a subtle message that we know what should be happening for them. Allowing someone to have an experience, on the other hand, honors their internal wisdom. It shifts the role of the teacher from director to compassionate companion.
Many of us have been trained—explicitly or implicitly—to give an experience. We’ve been taught to lead from the front, to cue with certainty, and to keep the room flowing. There’s nothing inherently wrong with this approach, but it’s important to name it. When we stay in that mode too long, we can unintentionally bypass a deeper opportunity: the chance to help others access their own, real-time experience of self-awareness and choice.
And often, we teach from what we’ve been taught. We repeat language, patterns, and cues because they were given to us—sometimes without pausing to ask whether they are truly aligned with our own felt sense of teaching. This isn’t a failure; it’s a starting point. But over time, the invitation is to turn inward. To ask: Am I guiding from my own embodied knowing, or from someone else’s map? Am I creating space for others to connect with their own journey of breath and movement—or am I unknowingly scripting it for them?
When we as facilitators practice introspection, we begin to notice when our guidance is rooted in someone else’s facilitation versus when it emerges from a relational, responsive moment. We stop trying to control or perform, and instead begin to co-create space that is alive and real.
Creating Conditions for Introspection, Not Outcomes
Yoga, at its heart, is an introspective practice. When we try to create a specific experience for others, we risk overlaying our own needs or assumptions onto their process. We might be subtly responding to our own desire to feel useful, meaningful, or liked—and that’s human. But it’s not what creates the deepest healing space.
In many Western yoga spaces, the emphasis has shifted toward following the teacher, floating away on music, and turning off rather than tuning in. That’s not necessarily wrong—it can be restful and enjoyable. But when practiced exclusively, it may disconnect us from the very source of yoga: a living relationship with body, breath, and awareness.
Learning to explore movement as meditation—choosing from the inside out rather than performing—can be a profound experience. And it’s one that only you can have. In that truth, no experience is wrong. Meeting yourself where you are in the moment is the most honest and healing practice there is. And if following along with a class feels right in a given moment, then that is your truth in that moment—and it’s absolutely valid.
Instead of putting something onto our students, we can ask:
Am I giving or guiding based on what I think they need?
Am I allowing space for something organic to arise?
Can I trust the process enough not to control it?
The Role of the Facilitator: Trust, Not Control
The facilitator’s role isn’t to create a perfect experience. It’s to create a safer container where experiences can emerge, shift, and be explored without judgment. It’s to offer tools, not prescriptions; presence, not pressure.
When we drop the need to control outcomes, we make space for something more profound: the reawakening of internal trust. And that trust—in one’s own body, sensations, and timing—is the foundation of lasting, embodied healing.
In the end, being non-directive isn’t about doing less. It’s about doing differently. It’s about honoring our students’ ability to feel, to know, and to heal in their own time.
How We Show Up: Our Energy, Tone, and Intention
Being a facilitator in a non-directive space also means looking at how we show up energetically. Are we arriving with an agenda, even unconsciously? Are we hoping to do something to the room? Or are we willing to be in the experience with our students?
Your tone of voice, pace, and presence communicate just as much as your words. A tone that doesn’t rush, a grounded presence that doesn’t seek to fix or guide too quickly—these cues help co-regulate the space. They say: “You’re safer here. I’m not here to shape your experience, only to support it.”
It’s okay—beautiful, even—to have your own experience while facilitating. You’re not outside the container; you’re part of it. The more relational the space feels, the more students tend to feel that they can be in their own truth.
How to Support an Experience
Supporting others in having an experience means shifting our role from instructor to space-holder—one who opens the door, but doesn’t dictate the path. It means trusting that each person’s process is meaningful, even when it’s quiet, non-linear, or looks different than what we might expect.
Inviting body awareness This begins with gentle language that draws attention inward. For example, saying “You might notice where your body makes contact with the ground” invites someone into a felt experience without judgment or demand. It reconnects them to the here and now and builds the foundation for embodied presence.
Welcoming all experiences This involves affirming that all experiences are valid, not just the calm or centered ones. Saying something like “You’re welcome however it is that you are showing up today” helps remove the pressure to feel a certain way. It tells students: you don’t need to be fixed or improved—you just get to be.
Creating room for self-directed movement True support includes options. Instead of one way, we can say, “You could stay in this shape, come out, or move into something else if you would like.” This honors autonomy and nervous system safety. Choice creates space for curiosity, self-trust, and real-time inner listening.
Allowing the moment to be what it is Perhaps the hardest and most vital piece. Trusting that the experience someone is having is valid—even if it doesn’t look the way you imagined—is the heart of non-directive work. This practice means releasing your own agenda and standing in the belief that each person’s body knows the way, even if it unfolds differently than your own.
This way of teaching is less about choreography and more about collaboration. It says: “I trust you to know what you need—and I’m here with you”
Opening vs. Directing
One of the most practical and impactful ways to embrace a non-directive approach is through the language we use. Instead of short, directive commands like “inhale,” “exhale,” “stand tall,” we can begin to speak in full sentences that offer invitation and possibility:
“You might notice the sensation of your breath as it moves in and out or perhaps you notice a sensation in your mid back.”
“You’re welcome to explore standing and extending through your spine or you might notice your feel against the ground.”
“You might stay here or adjust in any way that that works for your body in this moment.”
This language leaves room for the person to stay in choice, to listen to their body, and to respond in a way that feels safe and attuned. It is not passive; it is spacious.
Exploration becomes meaningful when it comes from within. When students feel a posture or movement arising from their own body’s cues—not because we told them to—they’re more likely to connect to that experience as real, as theirs. This kind of internal ownership supports deeper embodiment and trust.
Invite the Shift: Discovery, Not Direction
When the teacher is grounded, centered, and genuinely having their own experience within the practice, it quietly gives others permission to do the same. This inner steadiness isn’t about performance—it’s about presence. When students feel the authenticity of a teacher who is attuned to their own body and breath, it models a way of being that feels safe, honest, and possible. In this way, the teacher’s inner state becomes part of the healing environment, not through control, but through shared humanity and embodied leadership.
Non-directive yoga classes are more than just a teaching style—they represent a fundamental shift in both philosophy and power dynamic. Rather than the facilitator holding all the power, they intentionally create a space where students are empowered to reclaim it for themselves. In this kind of class, the teacher doesn’t offer answers or outcomes—they offer presence.
This shift invites each practitioner to listen inwardly, respond authentically, and trust their own process. It encourages students to be their own guide within the practice, supported—not shaped—by the facilitator. In this shared space, the teacher and the student meet as humans: both exploring, both learning, both growing.
Creating non-directive spaces in yoga is not just a shift in language or style—it’s a shift in philosophy. It’s a commitment to honoring the autonomy, wisdom, and inner timing of each individual. It reminds us that our job is not to deliver transformation, but to make space for it to unfold. In this space, healing becomes more than a possibility—it becomes a personal, empowered, and embodied truth. And that’s what yoga, at its most authentic, is all about.
Wishing You Wellness,
Keri Sawyer
PS – My next blog will explore attunement—how we connect with ourselves and with others in grounded, embodied ways. It’s about more than just presence—it’s about meaningful connection. We’ll look at what it means to truly listen inward and feel seen in relationship. Stay tuned—this is a conversation that invites reflection, curiosity, and care.
A Path Toward Harm Reduction, Compassion, and Sustainable Practice
In the world of yoga, Ahimsa is one of the most beautiful — and essential — concepts to embody. For those of us offering yoga in trauma-sensitive spaces, understanding Ahimsa as a living practice can profoundly shape the way we work — with others, and with ourselves.
What Is Ahimsa? Where Does It Come From?
Ahimsa is a Sanskrit word often translated as non-harming or non-violence, but its meaning extends far beyond the absence of physical aggression. It is the first of the five Yamas, or ethical precepts, outlined in the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali—a foundational text in classical yoga philosophy. The Yamas serve as moral and relational guidelines, offering a framework for how we engage with the world, with others, and ultimately, with ourselves. As the cornerstone of this ethical path, Ahimsa is not just a rule to follow—it is a way of being.
While Ahimsa certainly includes refraining from violence or harm, it also asks us to examine subtler forms of harm: harsh language, judgmental thoughts, emotional neglect, or the ways we may override our own needs or those of others in the name of productivity, perfection, or control. It invites us to become more aware of the impact we have—not just through what we do, but how we do it. Our tone of voice, our body language, our assumptions, and even our inner dialogue can all become expressions of either harm or healing.
To live Ahimsa is to choose presence over reactivity, compassion over control, and kindness over critique. It’s about cultivating safety, empathy, and care—not only for others, but for ourselves. When practiced with sincerity, Ahimsa becomes a powerful tool for transformation. It encourages us to slow down, to listen deeply, and to approach every interaction with the intention of doing no harm and, ideally, fostering peace.
Ahimsa means more than avoiding overt harm—it means intentionally creating environments where people feel seen, respected, and free from coercion or judgment. It challenges us to step out of power-over dynamics and into relationships that center dignity, choice, and mutual respect. Whether we are leading a yoga class, holding a conversation, or simply moving through the world, Ahimsa invites us to become conscious stewards of safety—living our values not just on the mat, but in every breath, interaction, and intention.
In practice, Ahimsa invites us to cultivate:
Compassion for ourselves and others — recognizing that all beings are doing their best within the conditions of their lives, and that kindness is not a weakness, but a strength that sustains connection and healing.
Empathy for lived experiences different from our own — allowing us to listen with humility, bear witness without judgment, and stay open to perspectives that may challenge our assumptions or broaden our understanding.
A spirit of inclusion and respect toward all people — regardless of background, ability, identity, or circumstance. Ahimsa asks us not only to make space, but to honor the unique presence each person brings, creating environments where everyone feels a true sense of belonging.
A commitment to reducing harm — not only in obvious or physical ways, but also in the quiet, often-unseen ways that shape how people feel in our presence. This includes our tone, pace, language, body language, and even the energy we carry.
Ahimsa, when embodied fully, becomes more than a practice—it becomes a way of relating. It asks us to move through the world as gentle disruptors of harm and steady builders of trust, inviting others into spaces where they can breathe, soften, and be. It calls us to be intentional, not perfect; attuned, not performative. And above all, it reminds us that safety and care begin not just in our words, but in how we show up.
Ahimsa is the heart of healing. Bring it to the mat.
When we bring Ahimsa into trauma-sensitive yoga, it becomes more than a guiding principle—it becomes the very foundation for every decision we make. It informs how we structure our sessions, the language we use, the pace at which we move, whether or not we offer physical touch, how we sequence practices, and even the tone and energy we bring into the room. Ahimsa becomes the invisible thread that weaves through every aspect of facilitation—not as a rigid rulebook, but as a living inquiry: “Does this support safety? Does this honor the person in front of me? Does this reduce harm?”
Many clients arriving to trauma-sensitive yoga are navigating the ongoing impact of trauma, adversity, systemic oppression, and marginalization. For some, the body may not feel like a safe place to inhabit. Trust in others—or even in themselves—may have been profoundly disrupted. In these circumstances, the traditional yoga classroom may unintentionally replicate patterns of disempowerment if not approached with care. That’s why Ahimsa in trauma-sensitive practice is not just philosophical—it is an active, embodied form of harm reduction.
And I use the term harm reduction very intentionally. Because the truth is: we cannot singlehandedly undo the violence, neglect, or injustice many people continue to face outside our spaces. We live in a world where harm is not just historical—it is present and ongoing. We cannot control the systems or people that marginalize, oppress, and re-traumatize. But what we can do is take full responsibility for the space we hold. We can ensure that the spaces we facilitate do not add to the burden of harm—and that they actively support healing, agency, and dignity.
This means honoring each person’s autonomy—offering choice in every aspect of the practice, and resisting the urge to fix, force, or direct someone’s process. It means pacing our sessions in ways that honor nervous system rhythms, and using invitational language that empowers rather than instructs. It means recognizing that silence can feel soothing for some and threatening for others, and adjusting accordingly. It means being aware of how our own energy—whether anxious, distracted, or controlling—can shape the room, and grounding ourselves before we ask others to ground.
Ahimsa in trauma-sensitive spaces also means acknowledging our own positionality, privileges, and blind spots. It asks us to be in a continual practice of reflection, education, and humility—so that we do not unintentionally center ourselves, speak over others’ truths, or ignore the larger context in which healing is or is not possible. It means being open to feedback, willing to repair when harm does occur, and committed to evolving—not from a place of guilt, but from a place of deep care and accountability.
Ultimately, when we center Ahimsa in trauma-sensitive yoga, we are saying: “I see you. I will not rush you. I will not override you. I will not pathologize your pace or your silence. I will meet you where you are, and I will walk beside you—not ahead of you.” This is how we transform yoga from a set of techniques into a sanctuary. This is how we resist systems of harm—by offering a counter-experience of care, of agency, of possibility.
We may not be able to change the world outside our rooms overnight—but in the spaces we do hold, we can plant seeds of safety and connection. And those seeds matter.
How Does Ahimsa Show Up in Trauma-Sensitive Practice?
Predictability and Safety Creating clear structure, offering choices, using consistent invitational language — so clients know what to expect and feel empowered.
Warmth and Empathy Meeting each person with compassion for where they are in their healing journey — and avoiding assumptions about their experience.
Consent and Respect Offering true choice around participation, postures, and breath — honoring each person’s autonomy.
Non-Judgment and Inclusion Welcoming all bodies, identities, and histories — understanding that trauma is often tied to systems of oppression and exclusion.
Facilitate from a place of peace—embrace Ahimsa as your foundation.
As yoga teachers, therapists, and caregivers, we are not immune to the weight of the work we hold. The very nature of supporting others—especially in trauma-sensitive spaces—can place us at risk for burnout, secondary trauma, and compassion fatigue. That’s why Ahimsa must begin with how we treat ourselves. It cannot be reserved only for how we speak to students or structure a class; it must be embedded in how we listen to our own bodies, honor our limits, and care for our nervous systems. When facilitators practice Ahimsa inwardly—choosing rest when needed, extending self-compassion in the face of mistakes, and releasing unrealistic standards of perfection—they bring a different energy into the room. Their presence becomes more grounded, attuned, and trustworthy. A teacher who is nourished, centered, and kind to themselves is far more likely to hold space that feels truly safe and warm for others. On the other hand, when we are depleted, disconnected, or locked in cycles of self-criticism and over-responsibility, that unspoken tension can permeate the space we offer, subtly shaping the experience of students and clients alike. If we want to be vessels of healing, we must first turn that healing toward ourselves—again and again.
A sustainable, life-long practice of harm reduction can include:
Self-compassion & care when we feel depleted
Mindful boundaries to balance our energy
Honoring our own nervous system’s needs
Regular reflection and support to process vicarious trauma (secondary trauma through working with others)
Ahimsa toward self allows us to stay present and effective in this work—not driven by guilt or exhaustion, but by clear-hearted compassion. When we care for ourselves with the same tenderness and respect we offer to others, we begin to sustain—not deplete—our ability to show up fully. This doesn’t mean we won’t feel stretched or challenged; it means we are rooted in something deeper than urgency or self-sacrifice. Practicing self-directed Ahimsa helps us discern when to step forward and when to step back, when to hold space and when to seek support. It allows our energy to be guided by purpose, not pressure, and lets us model what regulated, ethical, and compassionate care can truly look like. In this way, self-Ahimsa isn’t indulgence—it’s a necessary act of integrity that protects our capacity to serve with clarity, presence, and love over the long term.
Choose compassion every step of the way—your practice will follow
For those of us walking the path of yoga long-term, Ahimsa is not a box to check — it’s a lifelong meditation and reflection. It’s not something we master and move on from, but rather a living, breathing commitment that evolves with us. As our bodies age, our roles shift, and our inner landscapes change, so too does our relationship with non-harming. Ahimsa asks us to listen more deeply, soften where we once pushed, and honor the wisdom of rest just as much as effort. It becomes a compass—not only in how we treat others, but in how we speak to ourselves, inhabit our practice, and navigate the world with integrity and care. In this way, Ahimsa isn’t just part of the yoga path—it is the path.
Compassion calls us to:
Keep learning
Practice humility
Listen to those whose experiences differ from our own
Be open to feedback and self study
Be willing to change when harm has occurred, even unintentionally
Teach from a place of inclusion, curiosity, and care
Create spaces that don’t just reduce harm—but awaken safety, dignity, and resilience.
In trauma-sensitive yoga—where old wounds may surface and healing often arrives in fragile, nonlinear ways—Ahimsa is our anchor. It’s more than a philosophical idea; it’s a lived commitment to creating spaces that honor the dignity, agency, and nervous systems of every person who enters. We cannot control the broader forces that continue to shape our students’ lives—past or present—but within the sacred container of our classes, we can choose to become instruments of harm reduction. Through our cues, our silences, our pacing, our presence, and our willingness to truly see each person, we model care, predictability, empathy, and deep respect. And when we offer that same Ahimsa inward—toward our bodies, our teaching, and our growth—we not only avoid replicating harm, we become trustworthy guides. In doing so, we help create the conditions where healing doesn’t have to be rushed, forced, or explained—it can simply unfold, one breath, one moment at a time.
Stepping into Wellness 