Why Yoga Matters Now

The toughest class I ever had to teach was the morning after Donald Trump won the 2016 U.S. presidential election.

After a near-sleepless night, I showed up to the studio ragged, frightened, and heartsick—seemingly in no position to inspire or uplift a room full of people feeling much the same way. I sat down at the front of the room and realized I had nothing polished or reassuring to offer.

So, I told the truth.

“I don’t really know what to say,” I said. “But I’m here. You’re here. And, together, we can let the practice meet each of us where we are.”

That was it. No attempt to make sense of what had happened. No effort to lift anyone out of their feelings. Just presence, acknowledgement, and trust in the power of the yoga to work its magic. And it did—for my students and for me—shifting me out of overwhelm into a place of inner steadiness.

Nearly a decade later, I find myself once again reaching for words that feel insufficient. And, once again, I trust in the power of the practice.

As an American citizen living in Canada, I am watching with outrage, despair, and deep sorrow as I watch events unfold across the streets, institutions, and communities of my country. Distance doesn’t bring detachment—it brings a particular kind of ache, the pain of loving and mourning a place that feels increasingly unfamiliar.

I know I am not alone in feeling grief, fear, anger, and disorientation. That’s why I feel that yoga matters now, more than ever.

Yoga will not fix what is broken. It will not undo harm, resolve injustice, or offer easy answers in the face of suffering. If we are looking to yoga as a way out of this moment, we may feel disappointed.

But yoga has never been a way out. Yoga is a way in.

It's how we stay present, resourced, and capable of meeting this moment.

I may not always know what to say—but I do know this: the tools yoga offers us work. Not because they make everything better, but because they help us stay connected to our humanity.

They remind you that you have a body—and that this body needs care.

That you have a nervous system—one that was never designed to process an endless stream of crisis and chaos without rest or repair.

Patañjali opens the Yoga Sūtras with a simple and profound invitation: Atha yoga anuśāsanam. Now, the practice of yoga begins.

Atha doesn’t mean “when things settle down” or “once we feel hopeful again.” It means now. In this body. In this moment exactly as it is.

Yoga begins when we are uncertain. When we are grieving. When we don't know what to say.

The practices turn our attention and energy inward, where we find sanctuary, steadiness, and renewal - not so we can turn away from suffering, but so we can meet it without being overwhelmed by it.

Thinking back to that class in 2016, what mattered most that morning wasn’t what I taught, but that I showed up authentically and trusted the practice to hold us when words could not.

That feels true again now.

So, I offer this not as instruction, but as an invitation: What are the practices that steady you? What helps you return to your body? What allows you to remain engaged without being overwhelmed?

We don’t practice yoga to escape the world. We practice so we can stay engaged with the world—awake, aware, and capable of compassionate action.

Atha. Now is enough to begin.