We often speak about slowing down, taking time out, creating space—as if it were some kind of luxury we might one day allow ourselves. Something to aspire to. And yet, in the meantime, we continue doing all that we have always done. We keep moving. We keep filling the days. We keep being busy.
I recently told a friend that I was planning to retire in about a year’s time. She laughed—not unkindly, but knowingly. She said she simply couldn’t imagine me retired. I’ve spent most of my adult life pushing myself into a kind of extreme busy-ness: multiple jobs, additional studies, raising children—all running alongside one another. Even in the spaces that were meant to restore me, I filled them. Pre-Covid, I was teaching seven to nine yoga classes a week on top of a demanding full-time job and family life. I had, in many ways, become a master of doing.
So, what would retirement look like for someone like me?
It’s a question that has stayed with me—and one that life, it seems, has already begun to answer.
Because slowing down was eventually forced upon me.
Arthritis in my knees began to make not only my yoga practice more difficult, but everyday life too. What started as discomfort became limitation. And eventually, I was told that both knees would need to be replaced. Last year, I took that leap—one knee, and then six months later, the second.
Slowing down was no longer optional.
It wasn’t a gentle, chosen pause. It was abrupt. Total. And, at times, confronting. It challenged not just my routines, but my identity. When so much of who you are is wrapped up in movement, productivity, and capability, what happens when your body says no?
Yoga often invites us into stillness—but this was a different kind of stillness. Not the kind we ease into at the end of a practice, wrapped in a blanket in savasana, but one that arrives uninvited and asks much more of us. This was stillness as teacher.
Recovery has been slower than my impatient self would like. But in that slowness, something has shifted.
With the relentless cycle of doing interrupted, space has opened. I’ve found myself reading more, exploring online study, even dabbling in art (not particularly well—but with genuine enjoyment). There has been time—real time—to notice progress in its smallest, most meaningful forms. A rehab exercise that once felt impossible becoming achievable. A little more strength. A little more movement. These have become the milestones.
In yoga, we talk about ahimsa—non-harming—and santosha—contentment. These ideas have taken on a much deeper meaning for me. Learning not to push beyond what my body can do. Learning to be content with where I am, rather than where I think I should be. Neither comes easily, but both feel essential.
There is also gratitude. Gratitude that the deep, constant pain has gone. Gratitude for a body that is adapting, healing, and finding new ways forward. And alongside that, a quiet optimism about what lies ahead.
I’ve recently bought an electric bike—something that feels symbolic in its own way. Support where I need it, freedom where I can take it. I’m looking forward to the adventures that will come with it.
My yoga practice has had to adapt too. It looks different now. Softer, perhaps. More considered. I’ve returned to teaching a little, and for now, that is enough. In many ways, this experience has deepened my understanding—not just of movement, but of limitation, recovery, and compassion. It has sparked a desire to learn more, to become a more empathetic teacher, and to meet others where they are.
Yoga teaches us that the practice is not about achieving the pose, but about how we meet ourselves within it. This chapter has reminded me of that, again and again.
Slowing down has opened new perspectives. It has challenged me, frustrated me, humbled me—but ultimately, it has also offered something unexpected: a sense of redirection. A reminder that when one door closes, another does indeed open. That showing up—on the mat, in life—even in the face of adversity, is part of the practice.
So when I return to the idea of retirement, it feels different now.
Perhaps it won’t be something to fear or resist. Perhaps it is simply another invitation to slow down—not as something forced, but as something chosen. A chance to explore new rhythms, new activities, and new ways of being. More time with family. More travel. More moments of stillness. And yes, hopefully, plenty of time out on that bike.
Maybe, after all these years, I am finally learning what it really means to slow down.
