Recently, while teaching, I experienced something that deeply touched me and that I feel is worth sharing. It was a quiet moment in which the connection between body and mind was clearly visible.

I have two students—friends—who decided to gift themselves the experience of private yoga sessions. Due to their schedules, they chose morning classes, twice a week. The program we are following is truly special: Rajadhiraja Yoga for cakras, based on the teachings and method I learned from my yoga teacher, Ganga Devi. Each class incorporates various elements from Tantra and Hatha Yoga, although asanas still make up the bulk of the practice. Yet, these classes go much deeper than the asanas themselves.

After three months of regular practice, one student moved into a particular asana with an ease I hadn't seen before. It wasn't because we repeat that asana in every class, nor because everything was going smoothly for her that morning. Quite the opposite. That day, I could clearly see signs of fatigue on her, and the class was not particularly easy for her.

And then, something changed.

When she settled into Malasana (Garland Pose or yoga squat), it was as if the entire burden had suddenly vanished. She hadn't entered this asana merely with her body; she had arrived there from a different state of mind. She noticed the difference herself, remarking how she felt completely present and at peace—as if she were exactly where she belonged.

And that is precisely how she looked.

Her spine was long and stable. Her heart center was open. Her hips and legs were strong yet unburdened. There was no trace of the strain that often shows on the face or in the body. Everything seemed harmonious, as though her body were simply following something deeper than the physical effort itself.

Later, I found myself wondering: what a difference it makes to enter an asana from a different state of mind?

The mind always leads, and the body follows. Yet, in the moment we witnessed, the mind’s restlessness created none of the usual detours or obstacles. The internal negotiations vanished. Gone were the questions of whether the body was ready enough, flexible enough, or strong enough. Gone, too, was that inner voice whispering, "Don't go all the way today."

I watched my student longer than usual. I felt there was more depth in that brief hold than I had ever perceived before. It was as if a new layer of the practice had unfolded right before our eyes. And perhaps the most beautiful part—it wasn’t just something within her that changed in that moment. Something opened up within me, too—not only as a teacher but also as a student who has been cultivating her own practice for years.

Those thirty or so seconds in Malasana stayed with me for days after the class, adding important nuances to how I view the approach to practice and the way we enter an asana. This experience made me realize that the deepest shifts in yoga do not occur when the body becomes more capable, but when the mind finally stops resisting.

Since that day, I find myself asking more and more often: don’t we actually enter asanas the same way we enter life?

With as much trust as we allow ourselves.

With as much resistance as we have yet to let go of.

And with the awareness that, at any moment, we have the freedom to choose between the two.