When Grace Arrives Unannounced: On Perfection, Compassion, and Being Human

There are moments on the yoga path when something quietly but profoundly shifts. Not through a posture or a philosophy we’ve studied for years, but through a simple exchange that lands in the body before the mind can organise it. A moment when the teacher becomes the student—and grace arrives unexpectedly.

Perfectionism often disguises itself as dedication. We call it responsibility, integrity, discipline. We double-check, over-prepare, and hold ourselves to standards we would never impose on those we love. And when we inevitably make a mistake, the internal response can be swift and unforgiving.

Yoga philosophy reminds us that avidya—misunderstanding—doesn’t mean a lack of intelligence or effort. It means seeing reality through a distorted lens. One of the most persistent distortions is the belief that our worth is dependent on getting things right. That care must be proven through flawlessness. That mistakes somehow diminish our value.

Sometimes, healing arrives in the simplest form. In this case, it arrived through words spoken to me at a moment when I needed them most:

“You are allowed to make mistakes.”

When words like these are offered with sincerity, they can soften something deeply held. They can touch places shaped long before we had the language to question them. Many of us came to yoga through teachers who embodied rigour and discipline. While this can be empowering, it can also quietly reinforce an inner narrative of never being enough—especially when authority and spirituality intertwine.

The Yoga Sutras speak of abhyasa (steady effort) and vairagya (non-attachment). These two are meant to be inseparable. Effort without softness becomes rigidity. Discipline without compassion turns into self-punishment. True practice isn’t about never faltering—it’s about how we meet ourselves when we do.

Wearing many hats is now part of the landscape of teaching yoga. A yoga teacher is rarely just a yoga teacher anymore. We are often retreat curators, administrators, bookkeepers, website designers, marketers, and the ones quietly doing the numbers late at night—skills most of us were never formally trained in. Many of us choose to stay small and hands-on, not because we lack ambition, but because intimacy and authenticity matter more than scale. And yet, holding all of this alone can sometimes mean that mistakes happen. Not from carelessness, but from caring deeply while juggling more than one role at once. This, too, is part of being human—and part of the practice.