When the Flame Flickers: A Yoga Teacher’s Journey Through Burnout and Back
There was a time when I believed I could do it all.
With a heart full of passion, a body trained in movement, and a spirit that thrives on giving, I said yes to every class, every training, every project. I showed up on the mat, online and in the studio, day after day, pouring my energy into guiding others, holding space, and creating more than I ever thought possible.
And in between the flows and emails, the teachings and video edits, I am also a mother, nurturing, cooking, cleaning, loving, wiping tears, and whispering stories at bedtime with whatever softness I had left in me.
I thought my boundless energy would carry me through. I thought my love for this path would be enough to sustain me. But the truth is, even a candle that burns bright can melt from within if the flame never rests.
Burnout didn’t come all at once. It crept in quietly through the fog in my mind, the tension in my body, the moments when joy felt distant even while doing what I loved. I became irritable, anxious, tired beyond measure, and strangely disconnected from the very practices that once centered me.
It was a dissonance I couldn’t ignore: teaching mindfulness while feeling utterly scattered. Speaking of presence while constantly chasing the next thing. Living a life of “shoulds” instead of listening to the sacred whispers of my own heart.
So I paused.
Not all at once, but slowly, bravely. I let go of some classes. I postponed projects. I stepped away from the noise. I returned to my breath, not to teach it, but to feel it. I let myself be held by the very practices I’ve shared for years.
And in the stillness, I remembered:
Yoga is not just movement. It's not achievement. It’s not performance.
Yoga is union, union of the mind and the body. It is presence with all. It is the tender awareness that honors both our strength and our limits.
As yogis, and as mothers, creators, givers, we can fall into the illusion that self-sacrifice is noble. But mindfulness teaches us otherwise. In the Yoga Sutra from Patanjali, 1.2 Yogaś citta-vṛtti-nirodhaḥ – Yoga is the stilling of the fluctuations of the mind.
My mind was a storm of vṛttis—thought-waves, responsibilities, mental lists, unprocessed emotions. There was no stillness, only survival. I was doing yoga, but I wasn’t living yoga.
We often interpret “yoga” as something we do, a physical practice, a discipline. But this sutra, in its simplicity and profundity, tells us something deeper: that yoga is not the act of doing, but the art of being. It is a return to stillness. A quieting. A remembering.
The mind-stuff (citta vṛtti) can become an identity when we’re caught in constant motion, overcommitted, overstimulated, overgiving. But nirodhaḥ invites us to pause. To notice. To soften. To let the fluctuations settle like sediment in a glass of muddy water, until clarity returns. Yogaś citta-vṛtti-nirodhaḥ —the quieting of the mind-stuff. But how can the mind be quiet when the soul is screaming for rest?
Now, with more space in my days, I feel grounded again. I feel human. I feel like myself. I’ve reconnected with the simple joys: walking slowly, listening deeply, being fully with my child, sipping tea without urgency.
Burnout taught me something my trainings never did:
That we are not here to do more. We are here to be whole.
And sometimes, the most courageous thing we can do is say no, to protect our yes.
To my fellow teachers, mothers, dreamers, and doers:
May you listen when your body whispers before it has to scream.
May you rest not as a reward, but as a right.
May you trust that who you are is always enough, even when you’re not giving, building, or achieving.
Let your yoga live not just in the studio, but in your choices, your boundaries, your breath.
Let it remind you: the light you offer the world burns brightest when you protect the flame within.
With love and in stillness,
Lita Sattva
