The art of relating (or ‘I have a difficult student’)


A good teacher does not so much fill the space as open it up for others.”—Parker Palmer

In some ways, teaching yoga is like parenting. This is not to say that our students are children (unless they are), but that as the teacher we are responsible for holding the situation, for creating a safe container and being the adult – even when we feel that someone in it is behaving badly. That we will be triggered by our students from time to time is a given. Teaching is a practice in and of itself, which means that at some point every piece of the psycho-emotional junk stuffed in our closet is bound to come tumbling out.

Going towards
When we’re experiencing difficulty with a person, it’s natural and human to want to move away. We may create distance by not adjusting the person, not greeting them or speaking to them at the end of the class, communicating with them by email rather than in person, and so on. One of my teachers, Andrea Juhan(who has been teaching conscious dance, and training conscious dance teachers for over thirty years) suggests that when difficulty arises with a student, we actually need to find a way to go towards them.

One of the most powerful ways to go towards is simply physical: we wait for a moment when we feel relatively grounded and centred, and visit the person’s space in the room. The intention is not to make the person behave better, or conform to a way we’d like them to be, or do a posture in the way we feel they should be doing it. It’s just to hang out with them for a few moments – to receive them, in a spirit of curiosity, and note any somatic information we receive: for example, ‘When I’m near this person I feel angry / sad / hot / cold / distressed / confused’. This information is about us, but it may also offer important clues to what the student is experiencing. While it’s important not to project our own feelings and sensations onto a student, it’s safe to say that if your general mood is positive but when you enter the student’s space you feel overcome by sadness, this is an indication of something the student is experiencing. Making this physical approach may in itself be enough to create a shift in the relationship dynamic, or it may suggest some other way that you might change how you are being in order to be able to accompany this person more effectively in their practice.

Yoga teacher Donna Farhi2 (another practitioner and teacher trainer of more than three decades) refers to the movement towards as ‘the yoga of vulnerability’,3 because entering another’s space naked like this – without assumption, or the need to be seen in a certain way, or the wish to make something happen – requires us to take a risk. We have no idea how we will be met, and we go on in in acceptance of that. We are willing to allow the student’s response to be legitimate and to be theirs – we don’t take it personally. Donna Farhi notes that when confronted by someone she finds difficult, she often initially spends a few days just witnessing her own aversions and projections in relation to them. This is important because our first impulse in this situation is often to shore ourselves up in the wrongness of the other person’s behaviour and the rightness of our own stance. In order to enter their space empty, however, we have to allow these kinds of self-fortifying thoughts to loosen. Rather than hardening around our own view, we melt a little. We become a little fluid – so that we are responsive and available to receive another person’s experience and perspective.

Take some time to get embodied, before you respond to these questions.

1. Is there a student you have experienced – or are experiencing – difficulty with?
2. What did / do you feel when you are around this person?
3. Do aspects of this person remind you of aspects of yourself that you find difficult to be present to? Or aspects of someone else in your life – for example, a parent, ex-partner, friend, teacher?
4. Did you / are you noticing yourself creating distance between yourself and this student?
5. What is it like to imagine yourself making an approach of some kind towards this student? (Note that you do not have to actually make this approach if that feels like more than you can handle or you don’t feel ready.)

Isolation and exclusion
Donna Farhi notes that when a ‘difficult’ person is in one of her teaching spaces, she often becomes aware that the assistants have stepped back from them, leaving them in isolation. She offers this example:

I am remembering a student with severe scoliosis who was very unpleasant to my teaching assistants and to everyone in the group: like having a stinging wasp in the room! A few days into the intensive I asked her whether she would like to explore a new way of being in her body and when she gave me permission to enter into that inquiry with her, I said, ‘I can see that you have been very challenged by your spine. It must be very difficult to live in a spine such as yours.’ Within minutes, this angry, bristling bundle of tension, dissolved into tears, and the curtain came down for us to enter into a very warm and productive exchange. She became like a tender child again.

It’s not uncommon for other students to step back too, excluding the ‘difficult’ student from conversation before and after the class, and from any post-class activities, such as going for a coffee. Sometimes students will even gang up and seek to ostracise the student. Maria, a teacher participating in one of my monthly mentor groups, described how this happened in one of her classes:

I have a student in one of my vinyasa flow classes who likes to ‘do her own thing’. She’s very flexible and will always be in some sort of extreme ‘advanced’ version of any posture I teach. The other students have got really fed up with her showing off. They’ve even asked me if I can tell her to leave the group.

This is a very clear example of a situation in which no one in the class is being held. As she talked more, Maria noted that she often wondered if she was ‘too liberal’ in her teaching, whether she ‘let people get away with doing anything’. Sometimes when she taught a technical point she would see that no one in the class had taken it on board, but she felt uncomfortable about adjusting or verbally cueing the students back towards the teaching she had offered.

When a student is diverging from the ‘choreography’ of the class, the first response as teacher is to notice our own reactions: there will often be irritation, projection and judgement there. It’s human. Our minds work like this. If we can peacefully greet – rather than suppress or reject – the normal reactivity arising, it becomes easier to re-centre in the teacher place, which is one not of outrage but of service to the student. The second response is to witness the student. Although it can, by the by, elicit a lot of useful information, there’s no objective to this witnessing. It’s just a way of quietly being with the person – attuning with them. If you have a sense that the student may be receptive, the third response is to enter into an open dalogue with them. This is initiated by asking a question based on something you’re seeing. It’s important that the question arises not out of the need to make a point but out of the desire to serve in the most effective way possible. If you’re still feeling it for the point-making, you’re not ready to ask yet. An opening question might be: ‘Is your knee comfortable in this position?’, or ‘What sort of edge are you feeling here?’, or ‘Would you like some help with this posture?. There’s an infinite number of questions because there’s an infinite number of students in an infinite number of situations. You ask the question that feels kind, helpful and relevant. Based on this interaction, you and the student may be able start an exploration together.

Mainly, you’re seeking opportunities to listen and to collaborate. You don’t know why a student is practising in a way that looks show-offy to you. They may be in pain, they may be exhausted, they may be bored / scared / angry. They may be feeling uncontained and pushing to see if they can find a boundary. They may be having difficulty learning the sequence, or they may have missed some of the places where they can find the challenge in it. The student who introduces unelicited ‘more advanced’ versions of postures, is often hypermobile and dyspraxic, and is therefore receiving limited information about how much they are stretching, where their body is in space and how that relates to the positioning that has been cued by the teacher. This is a physiological deficit, not a part of their personality.4 If the student is also autistic (as a significant proportion of hypermobile and dyspraxic people are), they may also be limited in their capacity to ‘read’ the effect they are having on other people in the group.5

In the mentor group we used role-play to look at some practical ways Maria could keep the class moving and, at the same time, clearly and steadily adjust the off-piste student in a way that enabled her to find the boundaries of her own body, of the posture on offer, and of the class. In doing this, Maria was holding structure for the student in a basic, kind, unforceful physical way. We also discussed why the students in Maria’s class might appreciate reinforcement of her teaching with individual adjustment and repeated explanation and cueing – if people weren’t doing what she had taught, it might be that they hadn’t understood and needed help to integrate it. By making these kinds of interventions, Maria was not being dictatorial but was demonstrating to the class that she was holding the container and looking after what happened inside it. The class could therefore become a safer, more settled space for the students.

When the mentor group met again, a month later, Maria reported that she had found a new authority in her teaching from stepping in and affirming what she was inviting her students to do. The students were delighted and felt that they were learning a lot more in her class. The ‘difficult’ student had expressed appreciation for Maria’s new imput. She appeared to Maria more embodied. She was able to follow the form of the postures on offer more closely, seemed more ‘with’ the class energetically, and was noticing that she felt stronger. There had been no more requests that she be asked to leave the class.

Take some time to connect with your body.

1. Have you ever had a student like Maria’s in your class?
2. How did you handle the situation?
3. Did you feel that the outcome was positive?
4. How might you look after this kind of situation differently in the future?

Holding boundaries: the third way
Maria had a core belief that holding boundaries was something to do with making people follow directions. This is a not uncommon view – lots of us went to schools with a do-as-you’re-told ethos. This belief produces a binary in which freedom is equated with absence of boundaries, and everyone can do what the hell they want. In actuality, boundaries function in a third way that stands beyond this binary. A strong, clear, expansive structure creates a safe space for the people in it to explore, ask questions, take measured risks, and express feelings and preferences. In this kind of structure, it’s safe to be yourself. Our students want secure but elastic holding, in which there is permission, but there is also containment. When we we are able to be this kind of container, we are serving their needs.

Whose attitude is it anyway?
Whenever I hear someone – one of my mentees or another teacher – refer to ‘a difficult student’, I wince. Perhaps in part because I know I’ve probably often been seen as that student, but also because for me this statement expresses an abnegation of responsibility. A key aspect of the teacher role is being the one who holds the difficulty. When a person in our class presents us with a challenge to relationship, it’s our responsibility – not theirs – to breathe, feel and find the space where something can transform creatively. Whenever I feel tempted to describe a student as ‘difficult’, I find it helpful to pause, reflect and turn things around: ‘I am having difficulty with this student’. This shifting of the onus is crucial and powerful. My student is just being my student. I am the one having difficulty. This is about me.

Sean brought this experience to online mentoring:

I had a difficult student on my retreat. I don’t mind if people modify postures because they’re injured or there’s something they can’t do, but it wasn’t that. The guy told me he had done a teacher training course, but his alignment was all over the place and he seemed to have no understanding of the basics. I tried to correct him, but he just ignored me, so in the end I left him alone and focused on students who were more willing to learn. Was that the right thing to do? Should I have insisted that he did what I was teaching or was I right to let him get on with it however he wanted to?

The language Sean used to describe the interaction between himself and the student was striking to me: ‘difficult student’, ‘correct him’, ‘he ignored me’, ‘students more willing to learn’, ‘insisted’, ‘let him get on with it’. It spoke to me of a polariisation in Sean’s thinking about the teacher–student relationship in which the teacher directs and purveys the ‘correct’ information, and the ‘good’ student responds by taking on the teacher’s view and doing what they say. I asked Sean how it would be if he considered teaching as a shared exploration in which the student held some information and the teacher held some other information, and they shook it all up together to see what emerged. A few days later, Sean wrote to me:

When I really thought about it, I realised that underneath, I’m not all that confident as a yoga teacher. I’m quite recently qualified and I rely on the rules I’ve been taught about alignment. When someone comes into my class with a different background and different rules, I suppose I’m confused, but it makes me want to impose my rules on them. I think in this case, that antagonised the student and made him want to completely ignore me. Maybe I could have found out more about his approach to yoga and seen if there was some way I could work with that.

Outside the window of tolerance
The window of tolerance is a term used in trauma work to refer to the experiential space we are able to inhabit with full, easy presence. There may be challenges within this space, but we are able to meet them adequately and process our feelings about them. When we operate beyond our window, we move into either fight / flight mode (for example becoming rigid, obsessed, impulsive or resorting to addictive behaviours) or into freeze mode (disconnected, depressed or shut down). The window of tolerance is different for each of us, and for each of us may be different in different moments and different situations. For those of us who are are engaged in practices of awareness, it’s likely that over the years our window will gradually expand.

We all, at times in our teaching life, encounter students in relationship with whom we are not able to stay within our window of tolerance, and it’s healthy to be able to recognise when this has happened. In this situation, it’s not only OK to refer the student on, it’s necessary – from the point of view of your own and the student’s well-being. Explain to the student that you feel you are not the right teacher for them at present and that you think they would do better with this teacher, or in that teaching situation. Don’t backtrack. Don’t waffle. Be kind, be clear and be firm.

Students with developmental trauma
A significant proportion of the students we perceive as ‘difficult’ in our classes will be the survivors of serious developmental trauma – ongoing early trauma such as neglect, and physical, emotional and / or sexual abuse. When trauma is thorough-going and happens very early in a person’s life (sometimes starting before birth), it has profound effects on their neurology and their capacity to formulate an effective sense of self. A person who has not experienced unconditional love, a safe environment or secure boundaries as a child will have immense difficulty in understanding, believing in and identifying these things as an adult. The force of the trauma often causes them to reconstitute the traumatic events around them again and again – so if you are teaching a person with a traumatic history, you may find yourself cast in a series of roles that seem to have little to do with who you actually are and how you are relating to the student. These may include abuser, idealised mother, and even victim (with the person believing that they have done something awful to harm you).

Tom was one of my yoga therapy clients, so I already knew he had a history of profound trauma when he joined a group yoga class. Before he left each class, he would always tell me, usually more than once, what a brilliant, inspiring teacher, and wonderful, nurturing person I was. These affirmations were uninvited, inaccurate and felt thrust upon me. Any disavowal of them, however, was to Tom just proof of how modest and self-deprecating I was.

Tom continued attending the class for a few weeks, never failing to praise me disproportionately at the end. Then he stopped coming. A few weeks later, I received an email from Tom, asking if he could carry over classes he hadn’t used in his block-booking. It was stated in the terms and conditions that block-booked classes weren’t transferable, so I explained to Tom that unfortunately this wasn’t possible. (Because Tom had developmental trauma, I was aware of the need to uphold particularly clear boundaries with him.)

Tom replied that he felt hurt and disillusioned. ‘I thought you were such a kind person, but now I see it’s all about money for you.’ I responded that in order for our work to be effective, we needed to be clear about the exchange we were making and the boundaries we were setting around it, and that Tom was very welcome to come back to the class at any time. A week passed. I then received another email from Tom: ‘I’m so sorry I hurt your feelings. I really didn’t intend to. I don’t know why I was so horrible to you. You’re such a lovely person. I’ve been really mean. I’m so sorry.’

When a profoundly traumatised student is in your class, you may have a sense that they are not in their body. Traumatised people have often learnt to make this separation in order to protect themselves from physical, emotional or psychological pain. Sexual abuse survivors, for example, may describe how they floated out of their body and watched the abuse from the ceiling as if it was happening to someone else. Traumatised people may not be able to feel basic sensations or to follow simple body-related cues. They may breathe in a stilted way and be unable to relax. They may appear like a rabbit in the headlights, frozen and unable to run.

It’s beyond the scope of this book to offer a protocol for teaching yoga to traumatised people. Several have already been created – perhaps the best known is the Trauma Center’s Trauma Sensitive Yoga (TCTSY).6 However, the following are a few general suggestions for avoiding some of the pitfalls that can arise when we attempt to include traumatised people in a general group yoga class.

Hold clear, strong boundaries
Traumatised people have often had little or no experience of appropriate boundaries. By definition, their own most basic personal boundaries have been violated repeatedly. Typically, traumatised students will test every boundary you set – often by what feels like covert means – and will become upset, angry or ashamed if you try to point out to them what they are doing. This is because on a volitional level, they did not set out to transgress. The tugging and pulling at the limits is happening outside their conscious awareness and control. As a result of their dysphoria around boundaries, these students have often ended up in abusive adult relationships with teachers and therapists. You will best serve traumatised students, yourself and your other students by clearly stating and simply insisting on basic boundaries. Don’t be tempted to make any exceptions. For any reason.

Be a safe person for the student in class
A traumatised person may have a pronounced startle reflex and may appear very jumpy. Don’t approach them suddenly. Let them see you coming and give them time to acclimatise to your presence. Be mindful about physical adjustments – but don’t assume that a student with trauma won’t want them either. This is a place for sensitive dialogue. Be aware that some traumatised people cannot give meaningful consent because they have been conditioned to consent to everything and feel that they have no choice. Be slow and gradual with any agreed touch, and use your intuitive and animal senses to feel into whether the person really wants it, regardless of what they are saying. Re-check with them often and encourage them to give you verbal feedback on how they are experiencing the adjustment – in a way that acknowledges their power to change it: ‘Is this too strong, just about right or not strong enough?’ ‘Would you like me to stop?’ ‘Would you prefer not to be adjusted at the moment?’

Don’t take it personally
A traumatised person is, to a greater or lesser degree, a captive of their past experience and is continually replaying the past in the present. This may blinker them to what you are actually saying and doing. Their tendency will be to fit you into a limited repertoire of known roles from their past. When they can no longer square the circle of who you are with the role in which they’ve cast you, they may catapult you into a different one. This dynamic is happening on a neurological and somatic level, and this is where resolution needs to happen. The person cannot change their beliefs or behaviour by thinking about them and rationalising, or by trying. The most helpful way to be with this is to remain completely neutral, letting the student’s projections slide off you like the proverbial water off a duck’s back. This is, of course, a lot more difficult than it sounds. Subconsciously, the traumatised student is constantly trying to hook you into their drama, and they will be very good at this. Expect to feel alternately protective, insensed, afraid, compassionate, confused and more when you are interacting with a student with trauma. Know that this is not about you, or about the student, but is about the way that trauma impacts upon a human being and how they relate with others.

Refer appropriately
If you are over your edge, it’s ethical to tell the student that you feel you are not the appropriate person to teach them. Make yourself aware of trauma yoga teachers offering classes in your area (see Note 5), and of somatic therapists, yoga therapists and body-based psychotherapists with a specialism in working with trauma, so that you can have some referral suggestions ready. Ideally, rather than feeling ditched, the student should have a sense that you are concerned about their welfare and guiding them to a place where it can be looked after more effectively. Trauma yoga teachers teach yoga to traumatised people in an appropriate way, but they do not work therapeutically, so you may need to refer the student to a teacher for their yoga practice and to a therapist for deeper, more thorough-going work.

It goes without saying, but let me say it anyway … Your job as a yoga teacher is to teach yoga. Never attempt to address the person’s trauma in (or outside) a yoga class. And even if you are trained to work with trauma, do not attempt to do this in a class environment. A class is not a safe or appropriate container for a therapeutic intervention.

Don’t be attached
It’s easy to believe that you can be the one to turn things around for a traumatised student – especially when (as often happens at the beginning of the relationship) the student is idealising you and constantly telling you how beneficial they are finding your teaching to be. Yoga and other body-based practices can indeed be very helpful to traumatised people, but trauma is deep-seated, and change usually happens gradually, over a long period of time. It’s common for traumatised students to disappear suddenly and unexpectedly. Their lives are often internally and externally turbulent. Their window of tolerance is quite narrow, so they quickly hit the limit of how much they can integrate. Embodiment can be fraught for a person whose only experience of body is rape, violence or humiliation, and even simple and apparently unthreatening embodied practices, such as noticing a sensation or feeling their breath, can trigger traumatic memories for them. Know this, and allow the person to disappear without notice or explanation when they need to, and leave the door open for them to return if and when they’re ready.

Be prepared for things to go ‘wrong’. It happens – regularly – even to those of us who are experienced at working with trauma. As my own trauma therapy supervisor, reminded me, the real work of trauma recovery happens through relationship, and the painful lumps and bumps of relating, are essential to this process. Know that, as the space-holder, you did your best, and take what may feel like failure in your stride.

Davina was new to yoga when she joined a restorative yin yoga class, where she was receiving help from an assistant teacher as well as from me. She didn’t declare trauma on her client history form, but it was quickly obvious that she was traumatised. She appeared terrified, breathed shallowly, had difficulty identifying simple sensations and seemed to be floating several inches above her body. She was unnaturally ‘co-operative’, and it was difficult for us to find out what she was actually experiencing in different physical positions and therefore to know if / how to help her to modify them.

Davina found it difficult to organise props and place herself in a comfortable position, but we kept working slowly and steadily, and she kept coming to the class. One day, I spent some time helping her to place a bolster and blanket in a supported back bend. I left her with the assistant teacher and when I next turned around was startled to see Davina rushing out of the room with tears in her eyes as the assistant teacher looked on stunned.

When I went out to find out what was happening, Davina said, ‘You’ve been unnecessarily harsh with me. I just don’t need this. I came here to learn yoga, not to be told off. I think you’re being really strict and it isn’t nice.’

I hadn’t told Davina off; I had been trying to find out where was comfortable for her and what support she needed. But Davina wasn’t experiencing me or my interventions; she was re-living an event from the past and re-construing the meaning it had had for her then around what was happening now.

Take some time to connect with your body before reflecting on these questions.

1. Do you ask students about PTSD / developmental trauma / history of physical or sexual abuse in your client history form?
2. Do you have students who have divulged developmental trauma? Or students who you suspect have experienced developmental trauma? How does the trauma show up in the way they are in your class and how they relate to you?
3. Have you experienced any difficulties in working with these students?
4. Are there ways that you might want to change how you work with them?

Autistic students
Autistic people are another group often perceived as ‘difficult’ in yoga classes. Autism is a variation in neurological processing style, with a variety of ramifications in terms of the kinds and amounts of different types of information the person receives and how they make sense of it. The needs of autistic people in a general yoga class is a big subject, and I’ve written about it at more length elsewhere (see Note 4). Here, I’m going to touch just briefly on some of the main misunderstandings that can occur when an autistic person enters an allistic (not autistic) setting. Be aware that not every autistic person in your class will have a diagnosis or any inkling themselves that they are autistic – autism is still massively under-recognised. And even if they do have a diagnosis, they may choose not to declare it on your class joining form. Autism is still very stigmatised, and many autistic people are closeted. But autism is also fairly common, and it would be unusual if you never had an autistic person in one of your classes.

Articulate the ‘rules’
An autistic person may not pick up the unspoken social rules about how to behave in your class in the way that an allistic person would. So if, for example, an autistic student asks a question in the middle of savasana, it’s probably not because they are being demanding, but because you told them questions were welcome but didn’t say that savasana is a silent section of the class. If they place their mat at right-angles to everyone else’s, or at the front next to yours, it’s less likely that they are showing off or trying to be disruptive and more likely that you have not explained that all the mats should be level with each other and parallel, with the short end facing the front. ‘Everyone else is doing it like that’ may not strike an autistic person as a good reason to do it like that too. We tend to do things in original ways.

Be aware that even if the autistic person in your class appears to be socially adroit, they aren’t. Some of us are adept at imitating others and using learnt scripts to fake social intelligence. This method is not foolproof, and we often get it, if not totally wrong, then a bit off-kilter. Those autistic people who ‘pass’ in this way are perhaps the most at risk of being branded ‘difficult’ rather than seen simply as lacking capacity to ‘read’ socially.

Linda told me:

In my big classes, I have teaching assistants. They usually practise along with the class until I need them. In one class, I gave the nod to my assistant, Morag, and she got up and went over to help a student who was struggling to keep up with the sequences. I quickly saw that things weren’t going well between them. The student didn’t seem to be taking on board what Morag was saying and was more or less ignoring her. Afterwards, Morag said she was really rude and unco-operative and didn’t seem interested in learning anything. I decided to investigate, and the next time the student was in the class, I asked her whether it had been helpful to have an assistant working with her. She looked puzzled. ‘You know, when Morag helped you in the last class?’ I said. The student went bright red and stared at the floor. Finally, it emerged that she hadn’t realised Morag was an assistant. She had thought she was another student who had just started telling her what to do! I later found out that this student was autistic. I now realise that I should have explained to the student that Morag was an assistant rather than assuming she would just get it.

Create a low-sensory environment
Autistic people are very sensitive to sensory stimulae and may be driven close to the threshhold of sanity by a humming light fitting that you can’t even hear, or by the sensation of the carpet, or by a (to you) almost invisible dirty smudge on a wall in their sight line, or by the vestigial smell of incense from a class three days ago. Deirdra, a dynamic vinyasa flow teacher, told me about this experience:

Part-way into one of my classes, an autistic woman who is a regular student told me she was having difficulty with the body odour of a couple of the people in the class. To be honest, I didn’t take this very seriously. I mean, everyone gets sweaty in a dynamic class, and it’s something you just have to live with. Anyway, they didn’t smell that bad to me. I thought she was being a bit melodramatic. I suggested that she move her mat, helped her relocate it, and didn’t think anything more about it. Some way into the class I became aware that she was curled up on her mat. When I went over to find out what was wrong, I realised she was actually retching. The body odour was so intense for her that she was literally nauseated. Until I talked to you, I didn’t know that autistic people have heightened senses. At the time it all seemed a bit weird, but now it makes total sense.

Auditory sensitivity can combine with verbal processing difficulties, as in this story that Darryl told me. He was teaching a private class for an autistic student in a studio space divided by curtains:

I was explaining something, and for some reason – I didn’t know why – he was looking increasingly distressed. Then he put his hands over his ears and buried his head between his knees. A few moments later, he got up quickly and left the studio. When I found him outside, he explained to me that he couldn’t separate my words out from what he could hear other people saying in the other curtained-off spaces. The words had got all jumbled up and he had felt as if his head was going to explode.

Take some time to get in touch with your body.

1. Do you ask students about autism and other neurodivergence (ADHD, dyspraxia, dyslexia, etc) in your class joining form?
2. Do you have autistic students or students you think could be autistic? How have you helped them to manage the physical environment and the social expectations of your class?
3. Have there been any misunderstandings? Were you able to rectify them in a positive way?

To sum up
It’s not unusual for a teacher to come for mentoring annoyed because something in their interaction with a student seems to be getting in the way of them actually teaching the student: ‘They’re resistant and don’t want to listen to my instructions’. In my view, this is back-to-front. I see teaching yoga as essentially relational. It may look as if we are teaching postures, alignment and breathing techniques – and these are not unimportant – but they are the structure, not the content. They are a pretext for one human being (the student) to come into relationship with another human being (the teacher) in such a way that the student is offered an opportunity to witness their own emotional, physical and mental tendencies and perhaps change some of them. In fact, this is a two-way process. Our students offer us an opportunity to notice our tendencies too – which is one reason why teaching is also a practice – but for the teacher this is something that happens not in the company of the student but in the alembic of our own reflective space, and perhaps with the help of our own teacher or mentor.

The shift to teaching from this perspective can be transformative. When you work in collaboration with your students, in service to their own process of discovery and with their best interests at heart, you no longer have to be an expert with an answer for everything. Phew! What a relief! You are simply an interested and informed companion, committed to creating conditions in which each person’s own authentic embodied intelligence can emerge.

bothsittingPhoto by Shawn Ballantine Photography.

References and more information
1. Andrea Juhan:

2. Donna Farhi:

3. Donna Farhi, ‘Embracing Vulnerability is the Most Powerful Yoga’ (Body Mind Love blog, 2017)

4. For more about teaching yoga to hypermobile people, see my article ‘Hypermobility on the Mat’.

5. For more about working with autistic people, see my article ‘Autistic Movers and Shakers’.

6. The Trauma Center’s Trauma Sensitive Yoga: London TCTSY trainings are hosted by The Yoga Clinic: The Yoga Clinic will soon have online a register of UK-based TCTSY teachers

This post is a version of a chapter in a book I am currently writing: Being a Yoga Teacher – A Mentor Book. All names of people have been changed, and some details have been altered in the examples in order to maintain confidentiality. If you’re interested in receiving notification when the book is available, please contact


A community of elders: the sustainable astangi

When you work with what’s available, the restrictions aren’t limitations, they’re just what you happen to be working with.”—Robert Rauschenberg

When I was young, I thought it would be dreadful to let go of things I experienced in my body as capacities, but actually it’s a relief, a relaxation. Every yielding creates a space, and every space invites a new becoming. It’s gentle and reassuring. There’s an easing of surface that allows the underlying texture to press through – roots, beetles, mulch, stones – something subtler, richer, more varied and surprising. None of this is easy – astanga is a practice – but it is rewarding. It offers a different kind of substance, and an expanded capacity for being.

At 53 and hypermobile, I often have a more or less adapted practice. I could fight for old territories, but I don’t want a war in my body. It isn’t exactly about no longer being able to accomplish physical structures – they approach and recede from day to day; it’s more about holding all of it lightly. This is impermanence here now, at home, in my body, and it requires me to be fluid and responsive. Sometimes a posture floats back into my ambit – and another one floats away. It’s funny, it’s unpredictable. It’s all so bloody liberating!

There’s a view out there in the astanga group-mind that this practice is about transcending our limitations.1 For me, it’s always been about meeting mine. There’s a softening that goes with acknowledging the inherent limits involved in being human. Expansion comes when I can recognise that less is more here, and it’s most helpful to pause, rest, backtrack, let go, relax into the cyclic process of begin again that has for me been central to creating integrity of structure in a hypermobile body. But, of course, we are not talking just about bodies here. Within the framework of a somatic practice, we are never talking just about bodies.

We’re all in a process of motion, and sometimes astanga is only a staging post in a life’s trajectory. You can move on or you can stay, and you can take what you learned and apply it elsewhere. This is good and healthy and alive. Me and astanga, we’re in it for the long-haul, as far as I can tell. Gymnastic ability, on the other hand, is a time-limited commodity. It will definitely diminish and sure as hell eventually cease. If the capacity to perform physically demanding sequences of asana is what we think astanga consists of, we’re all looking forward to exile from the warm circle of the tribal fire.

As a teacher (and I know I’m not alone in this), I’m invested in creating inclusive practice settings, where astanga vinyasa can flourish in the unique and different forms in which it arises in different people, with different bodies, at different stages of life. When practice is flexible and adaptable, it can be sustainable, for everybody, all the time, and our Mysore rooms will not only be galvanised by the energy of young people, but also grounded and stabilised by the presence of elders. We need this. We all do.



1. Try googling ‘ashtanga transcending limitations’ and you’ll see what I mean.

NB I love this article by Anthony Grimley Hall on how experience modifies the practices of astangis.

Crazy wisdom body: pain, injury and practising with what is

“There is nothing that does not grow light through habit and familiarity. Putting up with little cares, I’ll train myself to bear with great adversity.”—Shantideva

For a period of my astanga life, I referred to my practice as ‘the path of pain’. I was joking, but only a bit. The path of pain was nothing to do with masochism. I tried very hard not to hurt myself and I got intensely frustrated when I hurt myself anyway. The more I endeavoured to move ‘forwards’, the more I seemed to be pushed ‘backwards’ into a situation increasingly ‘imited’ by injury.

I was told that astanga injuries are the result of aggressive practice – an observation in some instances with sound foundation. I believed that in some subtle way, beneath my conscious awareness, I must be forcing my body. But this was puzzling because I would watch more robust types pushing themselves obviously much harder than I ever did and with no apparent deleterious effects. I now also felt guilty and wrong, but I didn’t know how to be right.

I don’t remember exactly when it began to dawn on me that I was hypermobile. I was formally diagnosed with Hypermobility Syndrome: Ehlers Danlos Type by Professor Rodney Grahame in 2007. By then, it was confirmation of what I already knew. When Rodney Grahame asked me what I wanted to get out of diagnosis, I explained that I would like to be able to set better boundaries for myself. What I meant was that I wanted to believe myself; I wanted to give weight to my own experience; I wanted to move into my own internal authority and be able to proceed consistently from it.

I have chronic tendonitis, triggered trigger points, over-stretched ligaments, frequent minor subluxations, and a hole in my right medial meniscus. In the medical model, these would be termed ‘symptoms’ of hypermobility. I prefer to relate to them as phenomena. This way, I’m less likely to problematise them and more likely to get interested in them in an open way. It’s my tendency for anxiety, dissatisfaction and a kind of improving antsiness that turns ‘little cares’ like this into a thing. But after several years of familiarisation, pain no longer feels like pain in the troublesome sense. I can only hope I’m a bit more prepared for great adversity.

Buddhist mythology tells us that throughout his life the Buddha received regular visits from the demon-god Mara, bearing doubt, discouragement and temptation of every kind. Each time Mara arrived, the Buddha’s servant, Ananda, wanted to bar him entry. He was, in Ananda’s eyes, the daddy of all bad influences. But every time, the Buddha welcomed Mara in, greeting him with the words, ‘I see you, Mara’ and inviting him to sit down for tea. Pain became a path for me when I started inviting my body for tea – not the fictional body, but the one that actually exists, with its tender joints, strung-out hamstrings, travelling carpals and all the rest. Because the reality is that none of these things is a distraction from my practice or an obstacle to it; they are themselves the ground of my practice, the royal road to enduring presence (‘enduring’ meaning ‘hard’ – a presence that remains solid and reliable), out of which flowers a particular kind of resilient joy.

In our culture, the sublimely perfected ‘yoga body’ is much desired. That it is also imaginary and therefore ultimately never attainable makes it the ideal commercial product, ripe for the commodification that it has richly received. The sexed-up, fantasy photoshops of adverti-media are in our faces all the time, while we rarely encounter images of actual bodies doing actual yoga or text describing the process of yoga as a real experience. Those of us who teach yoga are both products and promulgators of the industrial yoga machine. We, too, in our publicity most often depict the practice of yoga as blissful, love-evoking, leading smoothly to radiant health and a younger-looking body. We seldom offer an honest perspective on the actual complexities involved in the relationship between practice and product (pun intended – think about it, people), or of the intersections of yoga practice with our habitual human patterns of addiction, overwhelm, neurosis, anger and pain. No wonder. Such views feel tantamount to taboo.

It’s a radical act to acknowledge what we’re really experiencing in our bodies, on our mats, here and now. It’s revolutionary and it’s evolutionary. Hell, yeah! Let’s do it, people! Let’s put the kettle on, crack open the chocolate digestives and drink tea with the bodies we actually have. Because in the words of that great teacher Dr Doolittle, ‘It’s the truth, it’s actual, everything is satisfactual’. It seems that we are habituated consistently to prefer the fugitive promise of the dreamed-for body to the always-ready-and-waiting satisfactuality of the real one. But it doesn’t have to be like this.

That injury is a teacher is almost a truism, but it took me a while to understand how profound these teachings can be. They are not simply biomechanical in nature but have also to do with how we are in our whole life, as it manifests in our body. From where I’m standing, my body often appears unpredictable, illogical and capricious. Just when I think maybe I understand what’s going on, it throws in something that knocks me completely sideways. When the only possible response is to burst out laughing, you know you’re in the presence of a bona fide crazy wisdom teacher.

My physical technique background is in ballet, so I’m well schooled in the heroic capacity for carrying on regardless. And in a way, I’m very grateful for that training. It has been a valuable precursor to its meta-quality, which contains commitment and consistency, through rough-going as well as smooth; it’s a kind of indestructible self-discipline that keeps on keeping on, even when there is no apparent way through. It’s the habit and commitment that the bodhisattva Shantideva refers to in the quotation. Rather than forcing my body, denying the pain or trying to breathe through it (which to me would be anti-practice), this meta-quality entails getting on my mat anyway and doing what is do-able today. It invites mindful exploration of sensations and the emotional responses they evoke (or vice versa) without seeking to fix or change anything, but simply allowing any resolution to emerge, or not. It includes what’s happening on all levels, so that as little as possible gets swept under the yoga mat. Anger, resentment, envy, fear, grief – these too: chocolate digestives.

Being fully in our real, actual body, whether it’s obviously injured and in pain or not, requires of us sensitivity, honesty and patience. It invites an awake, listening receptivity to what is – whatever is. Because this is what’s happening now, and this, and only this, is the teaching. If I frame my reality so that it’s only ‘good’ yoga if nothing in my body hurts, I’m always going to be in the wrong, partly because I’m genetically hypermobile so some degree of pain and injury is tantamount to a given, no matter how or what I practise; partly because as a human being it’s a dead cert I’m going to encounter the full range of human experience. We breathe in, we expand, we integrate, we grow; we breathe out, we contract, we dissolve and die. A holistic yoga practice is a process of creating a container big enough and elastic enough to include all of this – all of this.

Namaste, amigos!

Whose practice is it anyway?

I love teaching myself. I taught myself Russian when I was sixteen, and I have taught myself Sanskrit. When I can follow my own thread, mark out for myself the territory and press into my own exploration, I feel liberated, as if there is finally enough room to extend and to breathe. I am autistic, and autistic people are generally autodidacts. We are also, on the whole, highly focused (some would say obsessive), self-sufficient and happy to do things for the most part alone. So neurologically – autism is hardwired: my autistic characteristics don’t change if I work on myself or meditate a lot, although both those things offer me skills to deal with the challenges of being autistic, just as they offer you skills to deal with the challenges of being neurotypical … Neurologically, I have a particular angle on what it means to practise and on the kind of relationship I want with teachings and a teacher.

I am also an astanga vinyasa practitioner: I belong to a tradition that is strongly guru-oriented. Astangis generally speak with reverence of their teacher, and when I first meet another astangi, a question that usually comes up early in the conversation is, ‘Who’s your teacher?’ My answer is always, ‘I am.’

I don’t in any way deny the valuable teaching I have received from many wonderful teachers, for which I am very grateful, but none of these people has ever felt like My Teacher. In the two instances when I have been very close to teachers (in the yoga therapy and dance movement areas of my work), both relationships have felt more personal, more fluid, more equal, and more full of the human flaws of both of us than the traditional astanga teaching relationships described to me appear to be.

For me a yoga practice is a somatic, psychological and emotional exploration within a physical framework. My mat is a place where my essential humanness has an opportunity to come out to play: my feelings, responses, compulsions and escapes, my crazy mindfucks and moments of searing beauty, my ego trips and the way that I navigate all of this. I’m an anchorite in a leaky coracle. There’s nobody else in the boat.

Because I want to witness all of this, when I choose to go to a teacher it will be to someone who mostly lets me be and just puts a finger on when the whole thing is threatening to overturn. It will be someone with the humility not to know where I’m travelling or whether what they can offer is what I need, but the willingness to offer it anyway, without attachment to if or how I use it.

I’m not sure that it started out this way or that the result is the product of the intention, but much of the traditional practice of astanga vinyasa appears to me to be unhealthily  focused on the word from Mysore, which many devout students observe like papal bulls. One of the most ludicrous astanga ‘rules’ to emanate from Mysore – and I have no idea if anyone at the Shri K. Pattabhi Jois Ashtanga Yoga Institute ever actually made it, and if they did whether it was intended as a general edict or as a particular instruction for a particular student – is that you shouldn’t warm up before practice. What?! I have no doubt that this works for some people, because almost everything works for someone, but I am fifty and hypermobile. Do I warm up before embarking on a highly gymnastic practice? You’d better believe it! It’s essential in order for me to be able to complete my practice reasonably safely. I also often teach stretches and strengthening exercises to indivdual students who I think could benefit from them, and I suggest that they do them before they practise.

If we give ourselves over without discrimination to a teacher, without consideration of whether an instruction is appropriate to us (you will know this not by evaluating it in your head, but by trying it on in your body and seeing how it feels), then we lay ourselves open to losing the true, experiential centre, the connection with the internal locus of our practice. I love receiving suggestions from a teacher, but that’s what they are: suggestions: generous offerings for the student to explore and implement if they work. If my practice consists of introjecting the teacher’s received word, what am I really practising? Isn’t it fundamentalism?

I would really like to be an anchorite. Every time I unroll my mat, I feel as if I’m rowing to the island: seabirds, rocks, unpredictable tides, and folded into the familiar wilderness, the tiny daily surprises. One of my motive springs has always been to resolve to what is essential; I am constantly paring down my life, not to diminish it, but to uncover the core of inner meaning and feeling that lies irreducible there. Paradoxically, this place is passionate, rich and expansive. This feels like a personal and mostly private undertaking. Too little contact with the outside and, it’s true, it could fatally involute, but too much and it could die of exposure.

I don’t care whether my teacher goes to Mysore or whether they know how Sharatt is teaching bharadvajasan this year. I do need them to have used their own practice over many years and through different phases of life to penetrate layers of their own understanding, to weather life crises, to expand, to deepen, to perceive with increasing subtlety. It is through engaging, regularly and over the years, with this ground of practice that, as teachers, we have something to offer students beyond the architecture of the postures, which are not in themselves yoga, but simply a context and an invitation for yoga to occur.

Hypermobility on the mat: some pointers for teaching yoga to people with Ehlers Danlos / Joint Hypermobility Syndrome and Marfan Syndrome

hypermobilityThese suggestions for working with yoga students with Ehlers Danlos / Joint Hypermobility Syndrome and with Marfan Syndrome (EDS / JHS / MS) are written in response to the many requests for help and advice I receive from teachers of hypermobile students. They are neither exhaustive nor gospel. They are the result of personal experience rather than expertise. I have been practising yoga with Ehlers Danlos (Hypermobility Type) since 1981 and have experienced many different attitudes and approaches from teachers. In the last decade-and-some, I have also been fortunate enough to teach many students with hypermobility.

While teachers with a normal mobility range are sometimes, understandably, anxious about how to work with hypermobile students in a beneficial way, most of the principles for teaching hypermobile people are also good practice for working with all students, so hypermobile people are easy to integrate into a general yoga class. Individual techniques for individual postures are outside the scope of this writing, but pretty much any principle for alignment and physical integrity you have learnt is potentially a great tool for hypermobile students. The following are some general possibilities to explore.

• Many beginning students share the popular view of yoga in our culture as the cultivation of flexibility. Frame physical practice as a movement towards balance and integrity. For some students this will mean working on strength and stamina; for others it will mean focusing on loosening restrictions in fascia and muscle. This approach will also serve your stiffer students, who may feel that they are ‘bad’ at yoga because they are not flexible.

• Guide hypermobile students to release (micro-bend) the insides of their elbows and the backs of their knees so that they are using postural muscles to support themselves rather than ‘hanging’ in their joints.

• If you are familiar with spirals, use them to guide alignment – as far as I can tell, it is impossible to both spiral and hyper-extend knees / elbows at the same time.

• Guide students to draw their limbs gently into the sockets rather than pulling them out, and to feel into the spaces for movement within the joint. The general principle is to relate back to the centre rather than pulling towards the extremities. If you teach a vinyasa style, bandhas are key here – and generally very helpful for hypermobile people.

• When teaching bandha be aware that a hypermobile person may tend to grip everything and hang onto it for dear life, so emphasise that bandha is a subtle art, offering lots of opportunities for somatic exploration.

• In a hypermobile body, overworked and very flexible muscles often compensate for tight, contracted ones. Look out for this and suggest ways in which the student might rebalance, by stretching or letting go in the tight places and strengthening the over-extended ones.

• Hypermobile people, by definition, have difficulties with proprioception, the ability to sense 1) the position of one’s own body in space, 2) the orientation of one body part to another, 3) the range of movement in a body part, 4) the degree of effort involved in carrying out a movement, and 5) which muscles need to be switched on and which switched off in order for a movement to be made in the most economical way. At the same time, many hypermobile people (particularly those – a significant number of us – who are autistic too) also have heightened interoception – awareness of stimuli arising within the body – and so may be receiving an overload of other sensory information. Be mindful of the potential for labelling sensation-sensitive students as hypochondriac or self-dramatising because they are registering somatic experience in a range that for the teacher is under the radar.

• A hypermobile student may find it helpful to have something to push into or resist against – this provides greater proprioceptive feedback and de-emphasises extending the joint as the main action. For example: ‘Press your elbows into my hands’ (to work with hyper-extending elbows in downdog), or ‘Press your shin up into your hand’ (to work with a hyper-extending knee in utthita trikonasana).

• Educate students about edge as a range of possibilities. Because of the limitations in their proprioceptive ability, hypermobile people may need guidance to be able to feel the softer edges on the spectrum. If a hypermobile student consistently chooses a hard edge, be aware that this may be because it’s the only edge they can feel, rather than concluding that they are an aggressive practitioner.

• Be prepared to adjust the hypermobile student’s alignment, in the same place, in the same way, again and again. Because of the proprioceptive deficit that is integral to hypermobility, most hypermobile students will need to feel the new alignment many more times than a non-hypermobile student in order to embody it.

• Offer only one verbal / physical adjustment at a time, even if there are many things in an asana that you feel need attention. Proprioceptive challenges, together with interoceptive overload (which can act as a kind of interference), make it difficult for hypermobile students to integrate multiple or complex changes into their body and they will quickly get overwhelmed by too much information.

• Refer students to the internal – energetic, somatic, psychological – dimensions of yoga. Remind them that the intention of physical practice is to create a simulacrum for life, in which our habitual patterns (samskhara-s), so naturalised as to be transparent to us, can become opaque, and once visible may be worked with consciously. Physical practice is simply an opportunity in which yoga may occur; it is not itself yoga.

• In making physical adjustments, focus on helping the student to feel the dynamics of the posture rather than increasing the amount of stretch in it. Adjustment focused on stretch puts hypermobile students at high risk of injury. A good adjustment holds the structure of the posture for the hypermobile student so that they can embody it.

• Be aware that wide range of motion is only one aspect of hypermobility and that EDS / JHS / MS is one of a group of overlapping conditions. A hypermobile student may also be experiencing:

Dyscalculia (difficulty with numbers and sequences).
Dysautonomia / POTS (disregulation of the autonomic nervous system: so they may feel faint coming up from head-down postures, and dizzy in head-back postures).
Fibromyalgia / chronic pain.
Chronic fatigue / general need for more rest than usual.
Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
Eating disorders / self-harm.
Higher than usual rates of anxiety / a sensitive nervous system that easily gets stuck in fight, flight, freeze / low-level PTSD / OCD.
Austism / Asperger’s Syndrome.

• Be aware that while developing strength is desirable for hypermobile people, EDS / JHS / MS is a genetic condition of the collagen. While muscle strength can compensate to some degree for lack of tensility in the fascia, it can never create the kind of stability that is inherently present for non-hypermobile people (i.e. people with normally coded collagen). This compensatory form of stability is not automatic and must be consciously turned on and maintained. For this reason stabilising their body can be physically and mentally exhausting for hypermobile people.

• Know that yoga is very often not easy for hypermobile people. In fact, EDS / JHS / MS presents many additional challenges in asana work. These may include chronic pain, difficulty in stabilising the body due to lack of fascial support, limitations in proprioception (which, together with stability issues can make balance very difficult), dysautonomia (which may cause faintness, dizziness, a racing heart and unusual fluctuations in body temperature), frequent dislocations and injuries (which may require a longer healing time in a hypermobile body), and difficulty in building muscle mass.

• Avoid framing the holding of a posture as a feat of endurance. A hypermobile student may lack the fascial tensility to hold a standing posture for what would be a normal period of time for other students, even when they have good muscle strength. Holding beyond their comfort range may not increase the student’s stamina but cause muscles to go into spasm, and tendons, ligaments and fascia to become inflamed and over-stretched.

• If you teach a yin style, be aware that for some hypermobile people an optimal yin stretch may be one to two minutes, and extending the hold time may result in damage to tissues. The appropriate duration will vary from person to person, and for the same person in different postures. Encourage students to track their own edge and emphasise that it is always OK to come out of a posture. The optimal hold time is not five minutes but when you feel ‘cooked’. I have written specifically about yin yoga and hypermobility here.

• Be extra-mindful of your own projections. Hypermobile students sometimes receive projections related to the teacher’s own desire to be flexible, and may be inappropriately praised or criticised as a result. Remember that hypermobility is not something that the student is doing; it is something they are being. There is no choice or agency involved in being hypermobile; it is simply a genetic condition.

• If you are teaching a student who regularly dislocates (and may also be able easily to put themselves back in joint), keep teaching towards structural integrity and avoid communicating any sense of fear or horror you experience in response. Be aware that this kind of dislocation is an everyday occurence for some hypermobile people and for them may not be a big deal.

• If your student is not aware that they have EDS / JHS/ MS, it may be helpful to let them know that you cannot diagnose, but that you think they may be hypermobile. Many beginning hypermobile students struggle enormously with balance and stability, and may be having other unexplained health problems. It can be very useful for them to know that there is a reason for this. Explain simply and without drama, and offer as much information as they want to receive. For some students this will be a lot, for others little.

• Offer help to stabilise, strengthen and align the student’s extension rather than asking them to pull back out of it (or not to go so far). This way you are offering them something more rather than taking something away. Most students will be responsive to this approach.

• Be aware that for all sorts of reasons, hypermobile people do need to stretch. We all do. Unstressed tissues are degenerating tissues, and many hypermobile people have some muscles in a state of chronic contraction.

• Be aware that in people with the, less common, vascular type of EDS the blood vessels, gut wall and uterus are very fragile and at risk of rupture (which may be life-threatening). Prevention of trauma to the skin (eg bruising) is very important. A person with vascular EDS may need to pad vulnerable areas of their body and avoid any postures that might cause them to fall. Be very careful of their skin if you make any physical adjustments.

• If you teach an aerobic form of yoga, be aware that for people with Marfan Syndrome (a form of hypermobility that also affects the heart and circulatory system), aerobic exercise is usually contraindicated because it can place too much stress on fragile tissues in the heart, veins and arteries and may lead to heart attack. Whereas many people with EDS / JHS are unaware that they are hypermobile, those with Marfan Syndrome are most often already diagnosed. This is because EDS/ JHS / MS runs genetically true to type, so it is likely that there have been instances in their family of early heart attack without the usual indicators of coronary disease (for example, a relative with low blood pressure, low cholesterol and a normal weight who had a heart attack in their forties). It is recommended that people with Marfan Syndrome do regular low-intensity, low-impact activities in which their heart rate does not go above 100 bpm. They should work at about 50 per cent of maximum effort. A strenuous yoga class may not be appropriate for them. You can download a guide to Marfan Syndrome and physical exercise here.

• If your student is an experienced yogi, by all means offer suggestions for change, but be mindful not to sweep in and reconfigure their practice for them. Remember that the practice is the student’s. Because of the proprioceptive deficits involved in hypermobility, most hypermobile people receive limited information about where they are in space and where their body ends. As a result, control over their own body may be an issue for them and they may feel threatened by any suggestion that you are trying to take over. If your student appears resistant to your suggestions, consider this as a possibility and explore how you could work with them more collaboratively. A style that supports what they already know and adds value to how they already practise will generally be well received. Be aware, too, that hypermobility sometimes attracts a surfeit of technical imput. You may or may not be giving the experienced student something new. Enquire and offer rather than impose.

• Some people with EDS / JHS / MS are housebound wheelchair-users, others are elite dancers, gymnasts and circus performers. In a yoga class, some hypermobile people will easily be able to enter physically challenging postures and will travel swiftly through progressive yoga practices such as astanga vinyasa, becoming adept practitioners of advanced series. Others will be dogged by injury and chronic pain. One possible reason for this disparity is that hypermobility is in fact not one but a group of many different genetic variations in the collagen. As genetic testing becomes cheaper and easier to carry out, more of these variations are being identified. Avoid evaluating hypermobile students on their physical performance. An EDS / JHS / MS student who is often injured may not be weaker or more pushy or more inconsistent in their practice than another who sails easily through increasingly more challenging sequences of asana. They may simply each have a different genetic variation in their collagen.

In general, hypermobile students try really, really hard, love working with their body and are a joy to teach. Trust your instincts, and honour and enjoy this opportunity to explore together.

I offer occasional workshop days on EDS / JHS / MS for (non-hypermobile) yoga teachers and for hypermobile yoga practitioners. For more information see or email

Articles about yoga and hypermobility
‘Six Tips for Teaching Yoga to Hypermobile Students’ – very good article by yoga teacher and physiotherapist Ariele Foster.

Hypermobility and Yin Yoga – another article by me.

General information about  EDS / HMS
A Guide to Living with Hypermobility Syndrome, Isobel Knight, Singing Dragon, 2011.

Teaser for a documentary on ED / HMS by Lara Bloom – a really good five-minute introduction.

The Hypermobility Syndrome Association (UK).

Ehlers Danlos Support UK.

The Ehlers Danlos Foundation.

Ehlers Danlos Syndrome Network CARES Foundation (US).

The National Marfan Foundation (US).

Postural Othostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS)

Useful article on POTS in the British Journal of General Practice.

Dyspraxia Foundation.

The National Autistic Society.

Autism Womens Network.