5 Things My Injury Taught Me About Yoga

A few years ago, if you'd asked me what yoga taught you, I would have talked about discipline, commitment, breath, and the importance of showing up for practice.

Then I injured my hands ... then my shoulders ... and now my elbows.

A year ago I was diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome. What followed was surgery, recovery, and the uncomfortable reality of being unable to practise in the way I always had. As someone who guided and practised Ashtanga regularly, it felt as though part of my identity had been taken away. I was distraught.

Looking back, I realise that injury taught me some of the most important lessons I've ever learned on a yoga mat.

I wanted to share them with you because, as we navigate our own challenges—whether that's injury, ageing, menopause, stress, burnout, or simply a body that doesn't behave as it used to—we may discover that yoga has more to teach us than we realised.

1. I Thought Discipline Meant Pushing Through

Ashtanga attracts determined and disciplined people. It also attracts intense people who thrive on pushing through, doing more, and meeting challenge head-on.

I can certainly recognise myself in that description.

For years, whenever I came up against a challenge, my first instinct was to push through.

Injury taught me that sometimes discipline means stopping. That stopping isn't necessarily giving up—it sometimes means accepting what is happening right now.

There were moments when the most yogic thing I could do wasn't to push through.

It was to stop!

2. I Thought Modifying was a Bad Word

This one took me a while.

When I first started adapting postures and changing sequences, I saw every modification as a reminder of what I could no longer do. I missed the familiarity of my old practice. I missed the confidence that came from knowing exactly what my body could do.

What gradually changed wasn't my body, but my perspective. I began to see that modification wasn't a compromise. It was simply a different way of participating in the practice.

The hardest adjustment wasn't physical. It was recognising that a different practice wasn't necessarily a lesser one.

3. I Thought Practice Only Happened on the Mat

For years, I thought the practice was the sequence. The movement. What happens when we step on the mat. The familiar rhythm of breath and posture that shaped every morning.

When I couldn't move in the ways I was used to, I felt as though my practice had been taken away from me. Without the postures, I wasn't quite sure what remained.

What I've come to realise is that practice appears in unexpected places. In the patience of a long queue. In a difficult conversation you'd rather avoid. In choosing not to react when things don't go your way. In beginning again after a setback. In accepting help. In meeting disappointment without letting it harden into bitterness.

The poses were only one expression of the practice, but they were never the whole of it.

4. I Thought Acceptance Would be Easier

I didn't expect to be injured, but I did expect myself to cope with it better.

After all, I'd spent years practising yoga. I guided others through it. I talked about acceptance, patience, and meeting things as they are. Somewhere along the way, I think I assumed that all those years on the mat would make it easier when life stopped going according to plan. I wanted my body to heal faster. I wanted my practice back. I wanted certainty. 

What I learned is that acceptance isn't something we achieve once and for all. It's a choice we have to make over and over again. Some days I manage it. Some days I don't.

But every time I stopped arguing with reality, even for a moment, there was a little more ease.

5. I Thought I Knew What Others Were Carrying

Before my injury, I recognised that people came to practice with different challenges. After my injury, I realised just how much can remain invisible to others.

Experiencing my own limitations made me realise how easy it is to underestimate what other people might be dealing with. We only ever see a small part of the story. We see the person who walks into the room, but rarely the pain, worry, disappointment, grief, or exhaustion they may have carried in with them.

What I've learned is to leave more room for what I cannot see.

Final Thoughts

My carpal tunnel symptoms have finally settled. The surgery was successful, and for that I am incredibly grateful.

At the same time, I've recently discovered that the story isn't quite over. I'm now dealing with a rotator cuff issue and what may be tennis elbow, although I'm still waiting for a full diagnosis.

Am I frustrated? A little.

But nowhere near as much as I would have been a year ago.

If you're navigating an injury, a setback, or simply a season where your body feels unfamiliar, you're not alone.

For a long time, I thought the best days of practice were the days that felt strong, steady, or progressive. What I'm beginning to appreciate is that the difficult days have their own lessons to offer.

I wouldn't have chosen any of these injuries. But they have taught me to be more patient, more adaptable, and more compassionate—with myself and with others.

The real lesson wasn't learning how to return to practice. It was discovering that practice was still there, even when it looked nothing like before.

And perhaps that's the lesson I most want to share: yoga doesn't begin when everything feels good, and it doesn't end when things fall apart.

It meets us exactly where we are. ❤️