I came to check on the beach hut after the first night of Storm Austen, when the wind had howled and the rain had battered the coast. As I stood in the hut, I noticed something about the moments between the gusts. There was a pause in the storm. A glimpse of blue sky appeared between the clouds, while the dark, heavy skies surrounding it reminded me that there was more to come. This was the eye of the storm: a moment of relative calm, held within something much bigger and more turbulent. And in that moment, there was an opportunity to pause, breathe and simply be present. For me, this is what yoga can offer.
Yoga as a way of coming back to ourselves
Yoga sits at the heart of so much of who I am. It informs my work as a child therapist, my role as a parent, wife and sister, and my ongoing journey of coming back to myself. The word yoga is rooted in the Sanskrit word yuj, meaning to yoke, join or unite. For me, this speaks to the experience of integration: bringing together the different parts of ourselves, reconnecting with our bodies and emotions, and finding a sense of wholeness.
This doesn’t always mean rolling out a mat or attending a class. Although, with the right teacher, a yoga class can be a wonderful space in which to experience connection, movement, breath and stillness. Sometimes, yoga happens in the small moments throughout the day when we remember to pause. Noticing our breath before responding to our children. Recognising the tension in our shoulders after a difficult conversation. Feeling our feet on the ground when life feels overwhelming.
Developmental psychologist and psychiatrist Dr Dan Siegel often speaks about the importance of creating a pause between an experience and our response to it. In that pause, we have an opportunity to notice what is happening within us, rather than being swept along by it. For me, this is part of the practice of returning to ourselves.
Interoception: listening to the body from within
One of the things yoga has taught me is how to listen to my body. Interoception is our ability to sense, interpret and make meaning of signals from inside our bodies. It helps us recognise sensations such as hunger, thirst, a full bladder, a racing heart, tension, tiredness or the beginnings of an emotional response.
For some of us, this internal awareness can be harder to access. We might not notice that we are hungry until we feel shaky, realise we are thirsty only when we have a headache, or push through exhaustion without recognising how much we need to rest. In children, differences in interoceptive awareness might show up as regularly leaving toileting until the last minute, struggling to recognise hunger or thirst, or finding it difficult to identify the physical sensations that accompany an emotion. I recognise some of this in myself.
Practising yoga has helped me become more attuned to my internal sensations. The physical stretches, the pressure of different poses, the rhythm of my breath and the invitation to turn my attention inwards have all helped me notice what is happening inside me. Over time, I’ve become more aware of the connections between physical sensations, emotions and the stories I tell myself. This awareness gives us more opportunities to respond to ourselves with care.
Staying with the uncomfortable feelings
There is a misconception that practices such as yoga and mindfulness are about becoming calm, escaping difficult feelings or finding a place where everything feels peaceful. But that isn’t always my experience of yoga. Sometimes, yoga is uncomfortable. Sometimes, I feel frustrated. Sometimes, I compare myself to the person on the mat beside me or find myself caught up in the thought that I should be able to do something my body doesn’t want to do. Camel pose, a backbend, is probably my least favourite! I could push myself further, ignore the discomfort and try to achieve the pose. I could compare my practice with someone else’s. Or I can pause. I can notice the frustration. Where do I feel it in my body? Is there tension in my jaw? Am I holding my breath? What thoughts are appearing? “I should be able to do this. Why can’t I manage it? Everyone else seems to find this easier.”
When I notice these thoughts, I have a choice. I can respond with criticism and push harder, I can give up, or I can meet myself with curiosity and compassion. I can acknowledge the frustration without needing to make it disappear. I can respect my body’s boundaries and allow my practice to be what it needs to be that day. For me, this is where some of the most meaningful learning happens.
From the yoga mat to the therapy room
As a child therapist, I believe it is important to be able to sit alongside uncomfortable feelings without rushing to fix them. Children often experience frustration, shame, disappointment and helplessness through their play long before they have the words to explain what is happening inside them.
A child might become distressed when they cannot draw a picture as they imagined it, knock down a tower they have struggled to build, or become angry when something doesn’t go their way. As adults, we can feel an urge to reassure, distract, offer a solution or encourage them to try again. Sometimes, those responses are helpful. But sometimes, what a child needs most is for us to slow down and be alongside them in what they are experiencing. To help them notice the frustration without feeling overwhelmed by it. To wonder together about what is happening in their body. To communicate that they don’t have to get it right, make the feeling disappear or move on before they are ready.
My own yoga practice reminds me of the importance of this. If I can recognise frustration in myself, stay curious about it and respond with compassion rather than criticism, I am better equipped to offer that same space to a child. Not because I have mastered my emotions, but because I am continually practising how to be with them.
Our capacity to support children through difficult feelings is connected to our own ability to recognise and tolerate those feelings. This doesn’t mean we must always be calm or perfectly regulated. It means developing an awareness of our own internal responses, and finding ways to return to connection when we lose it.
Is yoga a form of trauma healing?
There is a growing interest in yoga, somatic practices and their potential role in trauma recovery. Sometimes, these practices are presented as ways to release trauma stored in the body.
For me, yoga’s healing potential lies less in the promise of a dramatic release and more in the gentle, ongoing process of awareness. It offers opportunities to notice how my mind and body respond to internal and external stressors. To recognise when I am holding tension, when I am pushing beyond my limits, when I am avoiding a feeling or when I need to rest. It helps me practise listening to my body and mind rather than overriding it. And it offers a space in which I can experiment with responding differently.
Yoga isn’t a substitute for appropriate trauma therapy, and it isn’t a universal experience of healing. For some people, particular postures, breathwork or inward-focused practices can feel uncomfortable or activating, especially in the context of trauma. Having choice, adapting the practice and finding an approach that feels safe enough are important.
Healing doesn’t have to be dramatic to be meaningful. Sometimes, it is as subtle as recognising that we are holding our breath. It could be allowing ourselves to stop, noticing a familiar feeling arise and discovering that we can meet it differently this time.
Finding the eye of our own storm
As I practise yoga in the beach hut, I am reminded of the storm outside. The clouds are still there. The wind hasn’t disappeared. The weather will continue to change. But there are moments of stillness within it. Yoga helps me cultivate something similar within myself: a place from which I can observe thoughts, emotions and sensations without becoming completely caught up in them.
This isn’t about disconnecting from what we feel or pretending that difficult things aren’t happening. Nor is it about maintaining a permanent state of calm. It is about developing the capacity to notice what is happening, to recognise when we are being swept away, and to find our way back to ourselves. Back to our breath, our wholeness, to the present moment and connection.
For me, this is what yoga offers. Not an escape from the storm, but a way of finding moments of integration, connection and awareness while the storm passes around me. And perhaps that is what this little beach hut represents, too. A place to pause. To breathe. To listen. A place to remember that, even when life feels turbulent, we can keep finding our way home to ourselves.
Healing from the Hut is a series of reflections on creativity, nature, movement and the small practices that help us reconnect with ourselves.
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