Previous Training: 300-Hour Yoga Teacher Training (YTT) certified by Bodhiyoga International
Current Program: 500-Hour Remedial Yoga Continuing Professional Development (CPD) Course delivered by Bodhiyoga International
When I first heard the words “You’ll need a hysterectomy,” my world went still. After years of heavy bleeding, fatigue, and discomfort, I finally had answers – fibroids, and not just small ones! My uterus was surrounded by them, large and numerous, making even daily movement uncomfortable. As a yoga practitioner with over two decades of practice, I had always felt deeply connected to my body. I prided myself on understanding its rhythms, its strength, and its wisdom. But in that moment, facing surgery and the loss of something so central to my identity as a woman, I felt vulnerable and uncertain in a way I never had before.
The weeks leading up to the surgery in October 2024 were filled with a strange mix of acceptance and anxiety. I knew the operation was necessary, but emotionally I wrestled with feelings of grief, fear, and loss. I had prided myself over the years as emotionally quite strong and generally not fazed by adversities yet here I was facing a major surgery that would test my own resilience and everything I believed in about the body’s ability to heal.
The surgery itself went smoothly, but the days that followed were humbling. Even sitting up required effort. I was used to flowing through a daily morning routine of movement though physical exercise and now I had to ask for help to get out of bed. The simplest movements felt monumental. My abdomen was tender and heavy, my energy low, and the reality of recovery set in quickly.
Emotionally, I felt adrift. Without my usual movement practice, I felt disconnected from the very thing that had always anchored me. But somewhere underneath the discomfort and fatigue, there was a quiet voice that whispered: start small, start where you are. It’s a lesson yoga has taught me over and over again that healing begins with presence, not perfection.
About two weeks after surgery, I began searching for ways to reconnect with my body without straining it. I stumbled across a few chair yoga videos on YouTube, and something about them spoke to me immediately. Chair yoga had never been part of my personal practice before; I had always associated it with gentle sessions for seniors or those with mobility issues. But now, in my weakened state, I saw it as an invitation to move again – to breathe, to feel, to begin rebuilding trust with my body.
I started small: seated spinal movements, gentle side bends, soft neck stretches. The first time I practiced, I cried. Not from pain, but from the sheer relief of moving again, of finding a piece of myself that had felt lost. Sitting upright in a chair, with my feet grounded and breath steady, I could feel the familiar rhythm of yoga returning – not in the physical shapes, but in the awareness they cultivated.
Each day, I built a few more minutes into my practice. Ten minutes became twenty, twenty became thirty. Some days were smooth; others were frustrating. My abdomen still ached, and fatigue came easily, but I learned to listen, to back off when my body said no, and to move gently forward when it said yes.
One of the greatest lessons recovery taught me was patience. As a yoga teacher, I’d always told my students that yoga isn’t about pushing, it’s about listening. Yet, in my own body, I realized how difficult that can be when we’re used to identifying with strength, progress, and control. Chair yoga became my teacher in humility and surrender.
There was something deeply meditative about slowing down so completely. Every movement was deliberate; every breath, an act of trust. I began to see recovery not as a linear journey but as a conversation between body and mind. Some days, my practice was little more than sitting in stillness, focusing on deep diaphragmatic breathing. Other days, I explored gentle twists or lifted my arms above my head, feeling the stretch through my healing core.
While the physical healing was gradual, the emotional recovery took me by surprise. I felt waves of sadness, vulnerability, and even anger. There was a sense of loss – not only of my uterus but of a part of my identity. As women, we’re often taught to associate our womb with femininity, creativity, and nurturing. Losing it made me question who I was without it.
But slowly, through my chair yoga practice, I began to redefine what womanhood and strength meant to me. My femininity wasn’t tied to a physical organ; it was rooted in my ability to feel, to nurture, to connect, and to create in new ways. I even started to focus on this area the sacral chakra, Svadhisthana, during my meditation practice on the chair bringing breath and warmth into my lower belly to reconnect with this space. I built in ten or so minutes of meditation to incorporate short mindfulness sessions after each asana practice by simply sitting, observing, and allowing whatever arose to be there. I cried often, but I also found peace in those tears. It felt like shedding layers of fear and expectation, making room for healing to unfold naturally. Chair yoga and meditation helped me hold space for those emotions without judgment. Each breath became a reminder that I was still whole, still powerful, still me.
By the fourth week, my confidence was returning. My movements felt freer, and my energy was slowly rising. I began incorporating standing postures supported by the chair: gentle warrior poses, half sun salutations, and supported balance work. The first time I stepped onto my mat without needing the chair, I felt a surge of emotion. It wasn’t just about physical capability; it was about reclaiming a part of myself.
By early January 2025, about twelve weeks post-surgery, I began to feel strong enough to resume more of my usual yoga practice. I returned to my mat with a new level of awareness; every pose became a dialogue, every breath an affirmation of how far I’d come. I didn’t rush to achieve my former flexibility or strength. Instead, I focused on the subtlety of alignment, the depth of my breath, and the quality of my attention.
Returning to teaching at the end of January was both exciting and humbling. I approached my classes differently– softer, slower, more attuned to the internal experience of each posture rather than the external form. My students noticed the shift, too. I was teaching from a place of lived understanding. I knew, firsthand, what it meant to rebuild from within.
Throughout my recovery, I leaned heavily on the tools that yoga had instilled in me for over twenty years: mindfulness, breathwork, and gratitude. On days when my body felt tired, I practiced simple pranayama (anulomvilom or very simple nadi shodhan). I found this alternate nostril gentle breathing technique supported my nervous system and encouraged circulation. Sometimes it was just slow diaphragmatic breathwork that became my bridge between the mind and body, guiding me through discomfort and anxiety.
I also found great comfort in learning. I listened to countless podcasts during my regular walks about post-surgical recovery, movement, and nutrition. Hearing experts and other survivors talk about the body’s remarkable ability to heal gave me reassurance. I adjusted my diet to support recovery: turmeric shots in the mornings, nourishing soups, iron-rich foods, anti-inflammatory ingredients, and plenty of hydration. Recovery became a holistic journey: physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual.
The mental aspect was perhaps the most challenging. I experienced moments of frustration and impatience, but each time I reminded myself: healing isn’t linear. There were days of progress and days of pause, and both were essential. The practice of yoga off the mat – acceptance, compassion, and surrender – became my compass.
As my strength returned, I found myself reflecting on what this experience had truly given me. The surgery and recovery, though difficult, had reconnected me to the essence of yoga itself; the union of mind, body, and spirit through awareness. Chair yoga had stripped away the layers of performance and perfectionism. It had taken me back to the humbling foundations: breath, presence, gratitude.
I learned to appreciate small victories – the first day I could twist comfortably, the first time I walked a full mile without fatigue, the first class I taught again with confidence. I celebrated each milestone, not as a return to who I was before, but as an evolution into someone stronger, wiser, and more compassionate.
My practice evolved to balance strength and softness. I began integrating more restorative postures, longer savasanas, and guided meditations in my classes. I encouraged my students to listen deeply to their own bodies, reminding them that healing is an act of love, not force.
When I began to share my story with students and peers, I was surprised by how many women related to it – some who had experienced hysterectomy, others who had gone through different surgeries or health challenges. Chair yoga became a gateway for connection, empathy, and shared healing.
I started offering short chair yoga sessions for recovery in my community classes, emphasizing that yoga is accessible to everyone, in every phase of life. Seeing others move with gentleness and courage reminded me why I fell in love with teaching in the first place. Healing, I realized, is not just a personal process – it’s a collective one. When we share our stories, we give others permission to honour their own.
Looking back now, more than a year after surgery, I see my hysterectomy not as an ending, but as a profound new beginning. It taught me to slow down, to listen deeply, and to trust the body’s innate wisdom. It reminded me that healing requires patience, compassion, and faith – not just in the process, but in ourselves.
Chair yoga became a metaphor for life after surgery: it met me where I was, supported me without judgment, and helped me rise – one breath at a time. The strength I rebuilt was not only physical; it was emotional and spiritual. I rediscovered the quiet resilience that yoga had been cultivating in me all along.
To anyone facing a similar journey, I would say this: your body is wiser than you know. Healing is not about returning to who you were before – it’s about embracing who you’re becoming. Important learnings I like to share with anyone who asks me about my experience: start where you are, move gently, breathe deeply, trust the process and remember, every small step is an act of courage.
Today, as I sit cross-legged once more on my mat, I carry with me the lessons learned from the chair. Stillness, patience, compassion, and gratitude have become the cornerstones of my practice. The fibroids that once caused me pain are gone, but in their place, they left a gift – a deeper understanding of healing, and an even greater appreciation for the body’s ability to adapt and renew.
Recovery through chair yoga wasn’t just about regaining movement; it was about rediscovering myself. It reminded me that yoga isn’t confined to the postures we perform –it’s in the way we breathe through challenge, the way we soften into discomfort, and the way we meet life exactly as it is, moment by moment.
Through breath, movement, and mindful presence, I found my way back – not to who I was before, but to a stronger, more grounded, more compassionate version of myself. And for that, I will always be grateful.
November 2025
