It’s coming up to 27 years since I first started jumping around on this rectangular, sticky blue mat. And although the practice itself hasn’t changed much — the structure of the Ashtanga Yoga sequences is famously fixed — my body and mind certainly have.
There are definitely more aches and niggles than there used to be. That seems to be part of the natural ageing process. Twenty years ago I could happily blast through the Primary Series and the Intermediate Series together just for fun, and sometimes that was on days when I’d also be sweating my way through parts of the Third Series. I was pretty dedicated — perhaps slightly obsessed.
These days the intensity isn’t quite what it was, but something interesting has happened: my respect for the practice has grown enormously.
Alongside the Zen meditation practice I’ve added over the years — the Zazen wall-staring meditation thing — both practices remain a kind of sanctuary for sanity. They’re less about achievement now and more about stability. Anchors in the day.
And that shift in perspective is one of the unexpected benefits of practicing for a long time.
The Ashtanga Laboratory
One of the major advantages of getting older as a teacher is that you’ve had a lot more time to experiment.
For the past two decades I’ve basically been using my own body as an Ashtanga laboratory. Every posture, every injury, every breakthrough, every “what on earth just happened to my hamstring?” moment becomes a small research project.
Over time you start to recognise patterns.
You see how certain postures stress particular joints. You notice how fatigue changes alignment. You learn what happens when enthusiasm overrides common sense.
The human body is an incredibly adaptable system, but it’s also governed by some fairly simple biological principles. Joints need stability, connective tissue adapts slowly, and muscles respond best to consistent progressive load rather than heroic bursts of effort.
So when students come to me with questions or problems, I obviously don’t have a magic wand. I haven’t yet developed the yogic superpower of seeing directly inside someone’s mind and body (although I promise to broadcast it telepathically when I do).
But after twenty years of experimentation, I can usually give a pretty good hypothesis about what might be going on.
“If It Hurts You’re Doing It Wrong”
A few years ago my old yoga school in the north of England, Yoga Manchester, hosted a weekend workshop with David Williams. David was one of the very first Western students to travel to Mysore in the 1970s to learn Ashtanga.
His main teaching philosophy is beautifully simple:
“If it hurts, you’re doing it wrong.”
At first glance that sounds like excellent common sense. Pain is usually a signal that something isn’t quite right.
But I think it only tells half the story.
Because if you practice a physically demanding system like Ashtanga Yoga, some level of discomfort is inevitable. Muscles lengthen. Fascia adapts. Joints move through unfamiliar ranges. The nervous system is learning new patterns.
Modern sports science describes this as adaptive stress.
The body responds to manageable stress by becoming stronger, more mobile, and more resilient. This is known as the SAID principle — Specific Adaptation to Imposed Demand.
But there’s a fine line between productive stress and injury-producing overload.
And that line requires awareness.
When the Ego Gets Involved
Recently I read a blog by another Ashtanga teacher who essentially argued that pain is simply part of the deal — and if you don’t like it, go find another practice.
Personally I think that’s a bit simplistic.
Yes, Ashtanga Yoga is probably one of the most physically demanding forms of yoga in the modern yoga marketplace. It’s sweaty, repetitive, and sometimes brutally challenging.
But difficulty doesn’t mean recklessness.
Aches and discomfort can arise from the practice realigning posture, strengthening stabilising muscles, and gradually increasing joint mobility. But persistent pain — especially sharp or joint-based pain — is a signal that something needs to change.
And that’s where responsibility comes in.
A good teacher can help guide the process, but ultimately students have to take responsibility for their own bodies.
There’s a famous quote often attributed to Albert Einstein:
“The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
That quote could have been written specifically for yoga students repeating the same movement that injures them every day.
I know this because I’ve done it myself more times than I’d like to admit.
The Hardest Practice: Letting Go
One of the most difficult skills any practitioner has to learn is letting go of the desire to perform a posture in a specific way.
In Ashtanga this often shows up in postures like Half Lotus, where the ego says:
“Come on, just one more attempt.”
Meanwhile the knee joint quietly whispers:
“Please stop.”
Biomechanically speaking, the knee is primarily a hinge joint designed for flexion and extension, not deep rotational forces. When hip mobility is limited but the practitioner insists on forcing lotus shapes, the knee often takes the strain.
This is where practice becomes less about ambition and more about intelligence.
As one Ashtanga teacher once said:
It’s not if you will need to modify your practice — it’s when.
Stepping Back to Move Forward
Recently I’ve been re-reading the introduction to As It Is Ashtanga Yoga, which in my opinion should be required reading for every Ashtanga practitioner.
In the introduction Matthew Sweeney talks about the potential problems created by the tiered sequence system — Primary, Intermediate, Advanced.
For many practitioners these sequences become a kind of ladder of achievement.
Primary becomes something to “complete”.
Intermediate becomes the next goal.
Advanced becomes the ultimate prize.
But as Matthew points out, progress in postures does not necessarily equal personal development.
And I completely recognise myself in that trap.
For years I pushed toward the advanced sequences, convinced that more complicated postures somehow meant deeper practice.
But the body eventually teaches you a lesson.
Push hard enough for long enough without balance and you will eventually meet injury. One hundred percent of the time.
The Practice Deepens
These days I’ve stepped back from the advanced sequences and returned to practicing primarily the Primary Series, but with a very different attitude.
Instead of chasing progress, I’m practicing with respect and curiosity.
And interestingly, the practice hasn’t become smaller — it’s become deeper.
Even something as simple as Surya Namaskar A can feel endlessly fascinating when you slow down enough to pay attention. Breath, alignment, sensation, balance.
The same sequence I’ve repeated thousands of times somehow keeps revealing new details.
It never feels lifeless or boring.
If anything, it feels like the practice is a fine wine that improves with age.
Or perhaps it’s just that I’m finally learning how to drink it properly.
