Making Ashtanga Sustainable.

EDIT: Forgive the sentimentality — I truly did my best!

The idea of creating a clear and defined setting in classes, whether guided or Mysore, can seem truly complicated. Let’s be honest: for the vast majority of teachers, these concepts simply don’t land, often generating discomfort and confusion. From the very first moment I approached this discipline, I sensed a number of dynamics that didn’t work. I admit it: I am quite uncompromising and meticulous when it comes to certain behavioral and organizational aspects.

Dismissive, intrusive, fragile, territorial, rude teachers… there’s truly a bit of everything.

I could write a long story about it, but today I won’t. I prefer to think about starting from scratch, bringing my own experience — emotional, physical, personal growth — as a tool for discernment and enrichment. As I always say:

“We’re adults. If we want to, we are perfectly capable of seeing things for what they are.”

In this article, I would like to explore, from my perspective, what I believe are the key elements that often lead students to distance themselves when they finish guided classes and begin to approach the Mysore style. I will say it again: everything you are about to read comes from my personal experience, both as a student and as a teacher who is still developing — but not naïve — within this discipline that is as complex as it is, at its core, simple. Even today, in 2025, one of the main obstacles I encounter is the rigid and dogmatic approach to tradition. This doesn’t only concern the technical aspect of the practice, but also the entire system of conditioning that some teachers pass on to students. Phrases like “if you don’t practice six days a week, you won’t progress” or “you must follow the sequence exactly as it is, no exceptions” are still very common. But who says that a student even wants to “progress”? And what does “progress” truly mean? Ashtanga Yoga is certainly a traditional method and, to some extent, it should be respected for what it is: a fixed structure, with defined sequences and a hierarchical progression. However, some teachers tend to apply this structure far too rigidly, completely ignoring the individual needs of their students.

The result? Frustration, injuries, a sense of exclusion and inadequacy.

I don’t believe the solution lies in abandoning the tradition, but rather in learning how to adapt it. We need to clearly explain the logic behind the progression, offer pre-asana preparations when necessary, and above all, provide accessible modifications, respecting the limits — sometimes temporary — of each individual. Another fundamental issue is the overload, both physical and mental, that often accompanies the daily practice of Ashtanga. The insistence on repeating the series every day — or almost — can push students to force their bodies, hoping to “progress.”

The truth, however uncomfortable, is that progress takes time. Years. And for the vast majority of people, it’s a long and winding journey, full of ups and downs. Unless the student comes from a background like artistic gymnastics (and even then, sometimes the path is anything but simple… lol), there are no shortcuts.

The risk? Chronic pain, injuries, and in the worst cases, an actual regression in the practice — which leads many to give it up altogether. A well-trained teacher, one who knows how to adjust with precision and safety, who guides the student with care in learning to listen to their own body, and who cultivates — consistently — the principles of ahimsa (non-violence), can truly make a difference. Promoting a culture of awareness rather than performance means making yoga accessible, sustainable, and above all, human. The third point — the one closest to my heart — is the psychological aspect, which is far too often ignored or overlooked. And I’ll admit it, this hurts. Deeply. The way Ashtanga Yoga is structured can stir up deep emotions. It is not just a sequence of postures: it is intimate work, powerful, sometimes disorienting. And yet, the environment in which it is practiced does not always offer the — physical and emotional — space needed to receive and integrate what surfaces.

A fragile and rigid body is easy to recognize.

A fragile and rigid mind is not.

And this is precisely where, from my perspective, the teacher holds a profound responsibility: to recognize the subtle connection between body and mind. Not to replace a psychotherapist (everyone has their role, of course), but to be present, attentive, and aware of what happens within those two shared hours of practice. We have the duty — not the option — to create an empathetic and safe space. A space that protects, that welcomes, that does not judge. Because the body speaks, but it is often the mind that is screaming in silence.

Practically speaking, given the context, Mysore classes naturally lack verbal interaction. In most rooms, silence dominates — and not always a meaningful one. Sometimes it creates an awkward atmosphere, generating a kind of negative tension. Okay, let’s be honest: this topic alone would deserve its own separate article. The point is not to turn Mysore into a chat room — absolutely not. But when students feel they cannot say anything out of fear of being judged… that is also a problem. Too often, this silence becomes uncomfortable, almost heavy. And when the energy in the room fills with tension instead of presence, something cracks. The risk is creating an environment that discourages openness, where what is not being said weighs more than the silence itself. And yoga that does not allow space for relationship, for voice, for authenticity… what kind of practice is that? A concrete proposal — simple but powerful — is to create dedicated moments for dialogue, even once every two months. A shared-speaking space where students can talk, share, listen. Not over a beer (that can come after, if one wants), but in a container designed with intention — where sharing is part of the journey.

A teacher at the center, not to lead, but to facilitate, to listen, to guide the group toward greater relational awareness.

These could be extra-practice meetings, or integrated into workshops. Sometimes even just changing the room arrangement is enough: mats in a semi-circle, or two lines facing each other. Little changes, truly. But those small shifts can create a space where we look each other in the eyes again, feel that we are not alone in this path, and remember that in yoga — as in life — connection is nourishment, not weakness. And finally — maybe the most important point — there is the question of inclusivity. Everyone has the right to practice… even a practice that, at first glance, may seem “not for everyone.” I hope that makes sense. Every body — with its form, abilities, history, gender, ethnicity — deserves respect. Always.

This is not a detail: it is the core.

And here, the issue of tradition comes up strongly again.

How can we justify not making Ashtanga accessible to a student who has any kind of challenge? How can we allow ourselves to say to someone, “this practice isn’t for you”? If yoga excludes, then perhaps we have stopped practicing yoga. In this article I wanted to share a perspective that is personal, yet wide in its view, observing Ashtanga through the lens of a trauma-informed approach. I have touched only on some of the themes that, in my opinion, deserve to be addressed with honesty and openness.