Listening to My Body: Rest, Recovery and Practising What I Teach
Last week brought an unexpected pause. Instead of teaching, supporting clients and holding space for others, I found myself in bed with the flu - heavy, foggy and very much not in “doing mode”. I cancelled classes, rescheduled private sessions and stepped back from family responsibilities. Even knowing it was the right thing to do, the guilt still crept in quietly. That familiar feeling of letting people down, of needing to push through.
It was unsettling how strong that conditioning still was. I spend much of my work supporting people to listen to their bodies and honour their limits, yet when my own system called for rest, part of me wanted to negotiate. To override. To keep going.
“Pushing through illness isn’t resilience - it’s delayed recovery.”
Yoga philosophy met me honestly there. One of its core principles, ahimsa - non-harming - reminded me that compassion applies inward as much as outward. From a physiological perspective, ignoring illness isn’t resilience; it’s strain. Fighting infection requires significant energy, and the body responds by redirecting resources away from productivity and towards repair.
When we push on regardless, the system pays a price:
- cortisol rises to keep us functioning
- immune efficiency drops
- recovery time lengthens
- exhaustion compounds rather than resolves
Rest, in that context, became a practical expression of ahimsa.
Another teaching that felt especially relevant was brahmacharya - the wise use of energy. Illness narrowed my capacity by design. Fatigue, fever and the urge to sleep weren’t weaknesses; they were protective signals. Conserving energy allowed the body to do what it needed to do without unnecessary interference.
During that week, conserving energy meant:
- cancelling non-essential commitments
- letting go of productivity and output
- allowing healing to take priority
- accepting that “less” really was enough
There was also an invitation to practise aparigraha - letting go. Letting go of plans, expectations and the belief that everything depended on me. From a nervous system perspective, this mattered deeply. As I softened my grip, my system was able to shift out of stress mode and into the state where healing actually happens.
That shift supported:
- parasympathetic nervous system activation
- improved immune response and digestion
- deeper, more restorative sleep
- reduced internal load
Yoga also speaks of the gunas - qualities of nature that move through us all. Rajas (activity and drive), tamas (stillness and heaviness), and sattva (clarity and balance). Illness pulled me firmly into a tamasic phase. Rather than resisting it, allowing that stillness created the conditions for clarity to return.
“Rest wasn’t a failure - it was the most compassionate response my body was asking for.”
Even the breath became a teacher during that time. Slower, softer breathing. Longer pauses. Science now reflects what yoga has taught for centuries: gentle, regulated breathing supports vagal tone, improves heart rate variability and helps regulate inflammation. Each quiet breath signalled safety and supported repair.
I had to remind myself that:
- my students didn’t need me pushing through - they needed me well
- my clients benefited from presence, not depletion
- my family needed honesty, not heroics
So that week, the practice was simple. Warmth. Sleep. Fluids. Letting the house be imperfect. Speaking to myself with more kindness. Trusting that the pause was not a failure, but a necessary contraction before expansion.
If you’re reading this while unwell, exhausted or stretched thin, consider it a gentle reminder:
- you don’t have to earn rest
- pausing doesn’t mean you’ve let anyone down
- your body’s signals are intelligent, not inconvenient
I returned to classes and sessions once my system was genuinely ready - steadier, clearer and resourced. That week became a lived reminder that yoga isn’t just something we practise on the mat, but something we embody in how we respond to what life asks of us.
“Sometimes the practice is simply to stop.”
