Soulful Surrender: The Night I Remembered to Take Care of Me
Sunday night’s Soulful Surrender class with Mark was one of those quiet but powerful reminders of why we practice at all—not for perfection, not for performance, but for the simple act of returning to ourselves.
We began with the 4-7-8 breath, a pattern I’ve always deeply enjoyed. There’s something about the structure of it—the inhale, the pause, the long slow exhale—that feels like a conversation with the nervous system. The holds, the kumbhaka, felt especially grounding this time. In yoga, breath retention isn’t just a technique; it’s a space. A moment suspended between effort and release. Sitting there in the stillness of the holds, I could feel my mind soften and my body begin to settle, like sediment drifting to the bottom of a glass of water.
From there, we transitioned into a gentle rhythm of five counts in, five counts out. This steady, even breathing created a quiet steadiness in the room. No striving, no pushing—just a simple, balanced flow. It felt less like doing a technique and more like remembering something ancient and natural within me.
By the time we moved into legs up the wall, my body was starting to unwind in that familiar restorative way. My nervous system was calm, my breath was smooth, and I felt that subtle sense of spaciousness that comes when you allow yourself to slow down.
And then… there it was.
A nagging tension in my left shoulder, right around the rhomboid area. That kind of tension that doesn’t scream, but definitely whispers persistently enough to be noticed. I found myself thinking, ugh, I just want this to release. It’s funny how we can drop into such deep relaxation and still find these little pockets of resistance holding on, like they missed the memo that it’s safe to let go.
I stayed with it. I breathed. I adjusted slightly, hoping for that satisfying melt that sometimes comes when a muscle finally gives in. It didn’t fully release in that moment, but what shifted was my relationship to it. Instead of fighting the tension, I began to observe it. There was a quiet lesson in that: surrender isn’t always about things disappearing—it’s often about softening our grip on needing them to.
Somewhere in that stillness, another feeling bubbled up unexpectedly: pride. And I had to laugh at myself a little—like, wow, look at me, I actually took time for me. It sounds simple, almost silly, but as caregivers, guides, and busy humans, we know how easy it is to pour into everyone else while leaving our own cup running low.
There I was, legs up the wall, shoulder slightly annoyed, and yet feeling this genuine warmth toward myself for showing up. For carving out that time. For choosing rest instead of another task, another responsibility, another excuse.
That moment felt just as healing as the breathwork itself.
Retreats, private sessions, yoga or breathwork sessions aren't always about dramatic breakthroughs every time. Sometimes it’s quieter than that. It’s the nervous system exhaling. It’s noticing where you’re still holding on. It’s allowing yourself to feel both the tension and the tenderness at the same time.
Practicing with Mark reminded me how powerful it is to be held in a shared space of intention. There’s something about breathing together in a room—knowing others are also softening, also releasing, also navigating their own aches and emotions—that makes the experience deeper. More human.
I left class not completely tension-free, but calmer, more present, and oddly proud of myself. And maybe that’s the real gift of these practices: they don’t just change our bodies in the moment—they reshape how we treat ourselves.
Last night, I didn’t fix everything. I didn’t magically melt every knot away.
But I listened.
I paused.
I breathed.
And I showed up for myself.
And honestly, that felt like enough.
