Surrendering Through Shirshasana: A Journey from Student to Teacher
Surrendering Through Shirshasana: A Journey from Student to Teacher
I was looking for escape.
It was December 2020, the world was weary, and so was I. Fatigued by the pandemic, emotionally frayed, I booked a solo trip to Goa for an Ashtanga yoga workshop, half hoping it might ground me, half doubting I’d even go. But I did.
When I arrived, only one other student had shown up. It felt awkward, almost ridiculous. A week-long workshop, just two students and one teacher. But something inside me said, stay.
The first couple of days felt surreal. After the isolation of the pandemic, simply being around people again was strange. I struggled to adjust. Honestly, I was more tempted by the beaches and piña coladas on the white sands of Goa than by the yoga mat.
Even now, I can’t quite pinpoint what shifted. But something did. I slowly surrendered to the practice, began to value the time with my teacher, and over the next ten days, embraced a rhythm of discipline.
On the first morning of the new year, January 1st, 2021, at 8 a.m, I found myself upside down in my first Shirshasana. The world, broken as it was, looked strangely whole from that angle.
It wasn’t a physical achievement that struck me, it was a moment of profound stillness. I hadn’t forced the pose. I hadn’t conquered fear. I had released it. For the first time in a long while, I wasn’t gripping for control. I simply trusted. My body, the breath, the ground beneath my head.
That’s the thing about Shirshasana. You can’t fake it. You can’t fight your way up. It only happens when you let go. And that’s where the transformation begins, not just in the posture, but in the surrender it demands.
Years later, in 2025, I stood on the other side of the mat, now the teacher. One of my students was preparing for her first headstand. “I’m scared I’ll fall,” she whispered. “Can we try on something softer?”
I understood. Her fear wasn’t just about the surface beneath her, it was about the vulnerability above it. The same fear I’d once felt, and carried for years: of falling, of failing, of not being ready.
I shared my own story. Of Goa. Of that strange New Year’s morning. Of what it felt like to lift into Shirshasana for the first time not with force, but with faith.
And then, she tried.
She rose.
And she stayed.
“Are you okay?” I asked gently.
“I love it here,” she said, still upside down. “I don’t want to come down.”
In that moment, I realised I was the one holding the fear now, fear for her, fear as a teacher. But she reminded me of what I had forgotten: the power of surrender doesn’t diminish when we teach, it deepens.
Shirshasana isn’t just a pose. It’s a portal. It asks you to meet your fear, not fight it. To stop bracing and start trusting. And whether you’re stepping onto the mat as a student or standing beside it as a teacher, the invitation is the same:
Accept, Embrace & Surrender
