Kari Kwinn in a yoga pose

Yoga Teachers: It Does Not Get Easier, You Just Get Better At It

When does teaching yoga get easier?

There’s a dirty promise lurking in the world of Instagram. It says if you practice yoga in your underwear in your kitchen, drink green smoothies from glass jars, and have a mala to match each phase of the moon, you will have “made it.”

Your life will be perfect.

If you become a teacher, sponsored by a yoga apparel company, adored by followers, you will find peace.

Your anxiety will roll over and die.

While you might know that these things are not true, you might still hope they are. You might play along, “just to see” if it does actually work out.

(it won’t).


That’s actually ok.

It’s ok to want everything to work out, and while apparel sponsorship might get you the equanimity you desire, I find I feel just the same amount of wonderment or disdain whether I was paid to wear the pants or not.

I have always had anxiety. I have always practiced yoga.

My anxiety is incredibly productive. She can juggle insurmountable tasks, and when left unsupervised, will create more chaos and work than she could ever accomplish, out of self preservation. 

Is there anything else in the house that could be alphabetized?


If I don’t practice yoga, she starts to get the upper hand. And she’s pernicious. 

I lose track of this sometimes, as a teacher. Sometimes I forget that teaching yoga is not practicing yoga, and if I teach and teach and teach at the expense of my practice, I find myself overcome by tears at a rest stop, starting a meditation timer to try again.

And again.

And again.

And so I’m writing to tell you that this is the game. I still sometimes wake to the strong-willed toddler of my own inner neurosis, and by sometimes, I mean often. 

But I know what to do, and I’m better at remembering earlier. I have more tools, more friends, more guides. It used to take me until 3pm to remember that eating helps, or that phoning a friend is better than mining Facebook for real connection. 

Go to class. Start the meditation timer. Find a cushion. Lie down. Repeat. 

Lately I feel like a wet and wandered dog stumbling into a class. The teacher thinks I’m there to evaluate them, or believes because I have taught for a long time that I’m there to judge.

“I just need to practice,” I have whispered.

Because I don’t care if it’s a “brilliant” sequence, or a “great” soundtrack, or “stellar” adjustments. I am just trying to surrender to my human-ness.

Yoga classes are like 12 Step meetings and chocolate chip cookies: even a not-so-great one is still pretty good.

Almost always worth it.

Because life continues to unfold after you get the letters, the gold stars, the sponsorship deals, the writing advance, or whatever it is you’ve told yourself will be the line of demarkation beyond which you will have made it.

Life will not get easier.

You will just get better at it. 

Want a little more of a boost? Check out You Are Not Broken and I Cannot Fix You

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