Life has a way of throwing us curveballs, usually when we least expect them. Recently, I’ve been dealing with what I thought was just another one of those annoying back twinges—the kind I’ve shrugged off a thousand times before. A bit of morning stiffness, pop a pill, and get on with it. Business as usual. But this time, it wasn’t the usual. This time, it took me down, and by 7 p.m, my bed was the only place I found any relief.

The painkillers? Yeah, they stopped doing their job. And upping the dose? Not a route I’m keen on. Clearly, it was time for a new approach—time for action or rather, time for inaction.

Naturally, I experienced the typical emotions that come with physical pain: frustration, anger, and fear. The thought of no cycling or yoga filled me with dread, and I wondered how I was going to carry on teaching. I was struggling to hold the rising panic at bay.

But after a few days of my back making it crystal clear that ignoring it was not an option, I realised something unexpected. This wasn’t a setback; it was an opportunity—disguised (quite well), but still an opportunity.

For a long time, I’ve believed that the very best yoga teachers don’t actively join in the class. They demonstrate when necessary, especially with beginners, but for the majority of the class, they guide with verbal cues. I’ve thought about this for ages, and my back forced me to finally put it into practice.

So, this week, I tried something different. I parked myself in front of the screen—away from my mat, just in case I got tempted—and watched the class unfold. From that bird’s-eye view, I could see everything: alignment, energy levels, and the occasional cat or pyjama-clad family member wandering through—without being in the middle of it. It was refreshing, and I think it made my cueing sharper, more precise, and my feedback more personal and relevant.

Here’s the thing about sharper cueing: it’s not just about telling students where to place a foot or how to bend a knee. It’s about using language to create a mental map, painting a picture with your words that helps students embody the practice. For instance, instead of saying, “Lift your arms over your head,” try “Glide your arms toward the sky.” Words like “glide” and “float” help create the feeling you want students to embody, engaging their imagination and making the movement more fluid. This helps them connect with their bodies on a deeper, more intuitive level.

And guess what? It worked. I think they thrived. I say that based on the evidence: they all followed the instructions (most of the time), they were still there at the end, and no one complained (not to me anyway).

Maintaining a positive mindset through all of this wasn’t optional—it was necessary. It’s easy to spiral into frustration when plans unravel, but this experience reminded me that adaptability is a choice. When challenges arise, we can either resist or lean into them. For me, it wasn’t about discovering something new, but rather being reminded of something I’ve always known: flexibility goes beyond the physical. It’s mental and emotional, too. And sometimes life forces us to put that into practice in ways we didn’t expect.

It’s funny how life sometimes nudges us toward what we’re meant to do, especially when we’ve been too cosy to make the move ourselves. This whole experience taught me some solid lessons: listen to my body, embrace change, and trust that I can adapt and grow.

So here’s to the unexpected, the uncomfortable, and the unplanned. Here’s to those disguised blessings that push us in directions we never saw coming. And here’s to showing up, even when it’s in a way we didn’t anticipate. Because really, isn’t that what yoga—and life—is all about?