YOGA, DHARMA, AND THE COURAGE TO BEGIN... AGAIN

I was boarding a flight back to Iraq when I decided to revisit the Bhagavad Gītā.

I’d read it years before, but I had an audiobook version on my phone, and something called me to have another listen.

At the time, I had been working as a nurse for more than twenty years, much of that in military and high-risk environments. I’d worked in emergency departments, operating theatres, onboard ships, in aeromedical evacuations, and conflict zones. I was good at what I did, and the work offered adventure, challenge, and a very healthy pay cheque.

From the outside, life looked successful.

Inside, something felt off.

I had practiced yoga on and off since around 2008, but during the pandemic the practice became more regular and more sincere. What began as a physical practice gradually deepened into something much more meaningful.

The more I practiced, the harder it became to ignore the quiet sense that I was not living in alignment with what I was here to do.

Echoes of my twenties, when I was a practicing Buddhist, began reverberating once again. I’d wandered away from that path after my first operational tour of Iraq in 2006.

A Teaching That Landed at Exactly the Right Time

As I listened, one verse seemed to speak directly to my heart:

You have a right to perform your duty, but you are not entitled to the fruits of your actions.— Bhagavad Gītā 2.47

I had spent years chasing the fruits.

Security.

Status.

Money.

External markers of success.

Approval from those in authority.

Krishna’s teaching offered a radically different perspective.

Do the work you are called to do.

Offer it wholeheartedly.

Let go of the outcome.

That idea felt both liberating and terrifying.

Dharma

The Bhagavad Gītā unfolds on a battlefield. 

Arjuna, the great warrior, is paralysed by doubt. Faced with an impossible decision, he turns to Krishna for guidance.

Krishna reminds him that peace does not come from avoiding difficult choices.

It comes from acting in accordance with one’s dharma.

Dharma is often translated as duty, but to me it feels closer to purpose.

The work your soul is here to do.

The way of living that feels deeply true, even when it is inconvenient, uncertain, or frightening.

Another verse landed with equal weight:

It is better to live your own dharma imperfectly than to live someone else’s perfectly.— Bhagavad Gītā 3.35

That one hit home.

I had become highly skilled at living a life that looked kind of cool from the outside, but felt anything but alive to me.

The Work of Self-Study

In early 2024, I began a deeper period of svādhyāya—self-study.

I worked through Rod Stryker’s The Four Desires, revisited Patanjali's Yoga Sūtras, and asked myself some uncomfortable questions.

What do I truly value?

What kind of life do I want to live?

Where am I using my energy in ways that are no longer aligned?

The answers were clear, even if the path forward was not.

I wanted to build a life rooted in practice, service, and genuine connection.

Yoga in the Iraqi Desert

While still working overseas, a few colleagues asked if I would teach yoga classes on the compound.

I agreed, somewhat reluctantly.

Soon I was leading three classes a week in the middle of the Iraqi desert.

Looking back, those classes were the first tangible steps toward a different life.

A small but significant act of saying yes.

When Life Removed the Safety Net

Later that year, I was made redundant.

I immediately jumped onto another contract in the Middle East.

Shortly afterwards, my father was diagnosed with Stage 4 Lung Cancer. 

My world imploded.

I resigned and returned home to spend time with him.

The carefully constructed life I had built began to unravel.

What had once felt secure suddenly looked far less solid.

And yet, beneath the uncertainty, there was a growing sense that life was clearing a path.

A Fabulous Madness

I’d been home about a month when my partner sent me a property listing.

“This would make a beautiful yoga studio,” he said.

My immediate reaction was laughter.

I felt underqualified, emotionally stretched, and more than a little terrified.

I shared the idea with a respected teacher, secretly hoping she would tell me it was ridiculous.

Instead, she smiled and said:

“It’s madness—but a fabulous madness.”

That was not the easy out I was hoping for.

Īśvara Praṇidhāna

As I revisited the Yoga Sūtras, one concept stood out:

Īśvara praṇidhāna—surrender to something greater than ourselves.

At some point I realised I did not need a detailed ten-year plan.

I needed to take the next honest step.

Karma yoga and Īśvara praṇidhāna felt like two sides of the same coin.

Act wholeheartedly.

Release the outcome.

Trust the process.

Opening the Studio

Opening Wild Soul Studio was less a business decision and more a spiritual practice.

A chance to live the teachings rather than simply study them.

Each class became an offering.

Show up.

Serve.

Do your best.

Let go of the rest.

The studio opened in January 2025, and it has been one of the most rewarding and challenging experiences of my life.

We built a beautiful little community. People came to move, breathe, lift, rest, and reconnect with themselves. Watching that unfold has been a profound privilege.

And yet, running a small, independent studio as one person takes an enormous amount of energy, care, and devotion.

Teaching the classes was the easy part.

Behind the scenes were the less glamorous realities of rent, rates, utilities, marketing, cleaning, administration, and the constant balancing act of trying to make the numbers work.

I gave it everything I could in that space, and I am deeply proud of what we created.

But the truth is that the space and the business model come with limitations that make them difficult to sustain long term as one person.

So, after much reflection, I’ve made the decision to close the studio.

Sometimes growth asks us to let go of something good to make space for what comes next.

Back to Surrender

That decision has brought up all the familiar questions.

What now?

What comes next?

The honest answer is: I don’t know.

And, strangely, that feels okay.

I find myself returning once again to the teachings of the Gītā.

Do the work that feels true.

Offer it wholeheartedly.

Let go of the outcome.

Trust that the next step will reveal itself in its own time.

Maybe it helps that I’ve just returned from a pilgrimage to India, where I visited Ma Ganga, Neelkanth Mahadev Temple, and several temples where the great saint, Neem Karoli Baba—Maharaji—whose teachings have touched millions of hearts, including my own.

But his presence feels like a daily companion, and I’m deeply grateful for that.

The stories of the Rāmāyaṇa, the words of the Hanumān Chālīsā, and the simple instruction to “love everyone, serve everyone, remember God” continue to steady me.

So once again, I find myself in a place of surrender.

Letting go of something good.

Making space for what is next.

Trusting, as best I can, that the path is unfolding exactly as it should.

What the Gītā Taught Me

The Bhagavad Gītā did not promise certainty.

It offered something better.

A way to live.

Do the work that is yours to do.

Offer it sincerely.

Let go of the fruits.

Trust that the path itself is sacred.

That teaching changed the course of my life.

And it continues to guide me today.

राम राम 🙏