As the year draws to a close, I find myself returning again and again to a single, simple truth:

everything begins with a breath.
And with the next breath, we begin again.

We often imagine the end of the year as a finish line — a moment where clarity arrives, energy surges, and direction becomes obvious.
But the reality — the deeply human, deeply yogic reality — is gentler than that.

Life moves in cycles: drifting and returning, opening and closing, forgetting and remembering.
We expand, we contract, we pause, we try again.

This year reminded me — profoundly — that beginning isn’t something we do once.
It’s something we choose, again and again.

Not because everything is neatly resolved — but because life keeps asking it of us.
Because just as we think we’ve moved past a certain chapter, it reappears, asking for our presence in a new way.
Because moments arrive that narrow our focus to what’s right in front of us — today, this breath, this step.

Again and again, I was brought back to the simplest things.
To staying steady rather than striving forward.
To meeting what was here, rather than rushing toward what might come next.

Beginning, I’ve learned, isn’t dramatic.
It’s quiet.
It’s compassionate.
It starts exactly where we are.

Yoga teaches us that every moment is a fresh start

And some of its simplest teachings help us understand why.

Svadhyaya — self-study — invites us to look honestly at where we are right now.
Ahimsa — compassion — encourages us to meet whatever we find without judgment.
And the practice of presence reminds us that the only place we can ever begin is here, in this breath, in this moment.

Together, they offer a quiet permission:
we don’t need to have it all figured out.
We can begin from where we are.

The beginner’s mind isn’t naïve — it’s open, curious, steady.
It’s the part of us that whispers,
“I don’t need to be perfect. I just need to show up.”

A moment from my year

One of the hardest places I’ve learned this lesson has been through watching my daughter, Sasha, navigate cycles of mental illness. As a parent, there is a particular ache in witnessing your child struggle — losing jobs they worked so hard for, falling behind at university, being hospitalised when their mind becomes too heavy to carry alone. You want to fix it, to rescue them, to rewrite the story. But you can’t. You can only love them through it.

Each episode feels like the world is tilting — her world, and mine.
And yet, every time, Sash finds her way back.
Slowly, tenderly, a new beginning appears: a restored spark of hope, a step toward stability, a small returning to herself.

And with each cycle, something shifted in both of us.
She became a little stronger in her rising.
I became a little steadier in my witnessing.

I realised that beginning again doesn’t only happen on the yoga mat or in the quiet corners of personal growth. It lives inside the heartbreak, too. It asks us to loosen judgement — of her, of myself, of how life “should” look — and to trust that the return is always possible.

It doesn’t erase the pain.
But it softens the edges.
It gives you something to hold onto when the ground is unsteady.
It reminds you that a new beginning is never out of reach.

This is the energy I’m taking into 2026

I’m not taking resolutions into the new year — and I’m certainly not taking pressure.
What I am taking is something quieter, more compassionate, and far more realistic.

I’m taking with me a willingness to begin — not perfectly, not dramatically, but honestly.

A willingness to soften the judgement I so often turn on myself.
A willingness to let go of the illusion that I must show up strong all the time.
A willingness to trust that beginnings are always possible, even when life feels chaotic or tender.
A willingness to return to myself gently, and to remember that starting again is not a failure — it’s a practice.

And what I’m leaving behind is the old belief that holding everything together is my responsibility.
I’m leaving behind the habit of bracing for impact.
I’m leaving behind the story that being “okay” is the only acceptable state.
Because this year taught me — again and again — that life moves in cycles, not straight lines.
And that strength isn’t about never falling apart.
It’s about allowing yourself to come back.

In January, this is what I’ll be teaching:
not perfection, not performance, not forced positivity —
but the quiet courage to begin,
and the deep compassion required to begin again.

An invitation

If you need a place to start — or to start again — I’ll be here each morning with:

• Begin, Begin Again - A January Morning Zoom Yoga Reset

A gentle anchor point.
A space to return to yourself.
A daily reminder that you are allowed to begin as many times as you need.

A blessing for the year ahead

May 2026 give you moments of clarity, moments of courage,
and many, many moments to begin again.

May you meet yourself with compassion.
May your breath guide you home.
And may your practice hold you through everything that unfolds.

Happy New Year — here’s to new beginnings,
and all the beautiful restarts still to come.