The Brink of Burnout and the Balance of Being

There was a time, not too long ago, when my days felt full — perhaps too full. It was the middle of the pandemic; everyone was home, the world had shrunk into screens, and yoga followed - finding its way online. My days began before sunrise with a two-hour self-practice and rolled straight into teaching. I taught 5-6 hours a day, mostly private 1x1 classes and a few corporate batches. Most days were a blur of back-to-back classes, brief pauses to tend to home, and stolen moments of quiet in between.

I remember one afternoon when I logged into class and just stared at the Zoom screen for a few seconds, unable to move. I wasn’t sad, I wasn’t upset… I was just tired in a way I didn’t yet recognise. I brushed it aside. I love this work, I told myself. How could I possibly get tired of it? I didn’t know it then, but I was already on the brink of burnout.

Burnout didn’t arrive dramatically. It crept in quietly — through the dull ache in my body, the heaviness that lingered after class, the slow fading of joy towards things that I loved and enjoyed…like time with friends or losing myself in music. I kept pushing because somewhere inside me was a belief that pausing would betray my Tapas — that if I eased up, I’d become a “less serious” teacher.

Somewhere along the way, the fire of Tapas — that disciplined drive — had started to consume more than it was fuelling. Looking back now, five years later, I see that burnout doesn’t always announce itself. I called it dedication then; today I recognise it as depletion. Then life shifted — quite literally. I moved states and found myself back in corporate life for two and a half years — something I had never imagined doing.

The decision terrified me. A part of me worried I might lose my connection to the practice, or worse, that I wouldn’t find my way back to teaching. But something in me knew I needed that break. In hindsight, this was Santosha — quiet acceptance — moving through me long before I had words for it.

Corporate life became the real testing ground for everything I had learned on the mat. The practice quietly shapeshifted. Yoga stopped being about advanced shapes and started showing up in everyday moments. It was less about asana and more about awareness — about how I responded to what each moment brought. It became a test of how deeply the practice had rooted in me. These two and a half years became my mirror. Yoga showed up in meetings where a single breath kept me from reacting. In conflicts where I chose patience over proving a point. In commutes where I practiced vairagya simply by not spiraling into irritation. Before, as a teacher, I’d say yes to everyone — extra classes, unpaid work, impossible schedules. In my previous corporate job I’d say yes to every additional project, extended work hours or working on weekends without being fairly compensated. But this time in corporate, I learned to set boundaries:

• I stopped replying to messages after work hours.

• I asked for clarity when expectations were vague.

• I said “no” to extra projects I couldn’t take on.

• I stopped trying to be the person who “held everything together.” or “took one for the team”

• I stopped tiptoeing around the conversation of fair compensation. And when things didn’t change, I reminded myself that I can still show up wholeheartedly, just without slipping into old patterns of over-performing.

For the first time, I softened without feeling weak. Strength began to look different — less like endurance, more like awareness. I began saying “no” without guilt. That’s where the shift happened: from doing to being, from holding space for others to holding space for myself. My practice shifted too; it became gentler, steadier, more honest — rooted in presence rather than perfection.

Returning to teaching full-time now feels different. I feel more grounded, anchored and compassionate with myself — not because I’m doing more, but because I’m doing it differently. Sometimes less is more when done with more intention. I protect my mornings. I teach fewer private classes and more group offerings. I price my offerings more sustainably and with respect for the labour behind them. I allow spaciousness between sessions so I can show up fully rather than endlessly. And I no longer stretch myself thin to be everywhere for everyone.

The irony of nearly burning out doing what I loved most taught me an important truth: yoga doesn’t ask us to give endlessly; it asks us to give consciously. I’ve come to understand that Tapas (discipline) and Santosha (contentment) are not opposites — they inform each other. When discipline is tempered with contentment, when effort moves with ease, the flame within doesn’t scorch us. It warms us. It sustains us. It allows the practice — and the teaching — to remain alive.