About 2,000 years ago, Patanjali gathered what was being called “yoga” and organized it into a concise teaching now known as the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali. The text contains just 195 short statements—sutras, or “threads”—woven into four chapters. Rather than offering posture sequences or detailed techniques, it presents something more fundamental: a clear map of the mind.

At its core, the Yoga Sutra is about attention. It explains why the mind moves, why we become attached, and how suffering arises. Most importantly, it teaches that when the mind becomes still, it reflects our true nature clearly. Yoga, in this classical sense, is not about becoming something new—it is about calming the movements that prevent us from seeing clearly.

Have you ever left a yoga class feeling full — but not necessarily nourished? It may be the sequence.

You moved through dozens of poses. You worked hard. You may have even felt accomplished. And yet, beneath that fullness, there was a subtle fog. A sense of overstimulation rather than clarity.

In a culture that equates intensity with value, yoga can slowly become another form of consumption — more poses, more transitions, more novelty. But the nervous system does not integrate through excess. It integrates through coherence.

If your practice sometimes feels like an all-you-can-eat buffet, it may not be your body that’s the problem.

Yoga does more than educate us—it transforms us. While education adds knowledge and skills, transformation changes us at the deepest level, reshaping how we understand ourselves, how we see the world, and what we truly desire.

When yoga is practiced sincerely, it doesn’t simply give us something new; it gently removes what no longer serves, leaving behind a clearer, wiser, and more compassionate way of being.