"Tadā draṣṭuḥ svarūpe 'vasthānam"

Then the Seer rests in his own true nature.
Yoga Sutra 1.3

As I write this, I'm preparing to head away on a Yin Yoga retreat.

Part of me is looking forward to the sunshine, the practice, the learning and the opportunity to step away from my usual routines for a while.

But perhaps more than that, I'm looking forward to creating a little space.

Space to listen.

Space to notice.

Space to reconnect with the quieter parts of myself that can so easily get drowned out by the complications and busyness of life.

It was this thought that brought me back to one of my favourite Yoga Sutras:

"Then the Seer rests in its own true nature."

I find this sutra both simple and profound.

It suggests that beneath the noise of daily life, beneath the stories we tell ourselves, beneath the expectations, labels and identities we accumulate, there is something steady and authentic that has never left us.

Our true nature.

Not a better version of ourselves.

Not a more successful version.

Not a more spiritual version.

Simply ourselves.

Many of us spend years becoming who we think we should be. Gathering experiences, roles, responsibilities, achievements, expectations. We learn how to navigate the world. We become capable, dependable and productive.

And then, sometimes, we find ourselves wondering if we have drifted away from something important.

We might call it feeling stuck.

Restless.

Unfulfilled.

Or simply lost.

Our instinct is often to look for answers outside ourselves.

A new direction. A new version of ourselves.

But what if the answer isn't to become someone else?

What if the answer is to become more fully ourselves?

Because when we feel lost, perhaps we are not truly lost at all.

Perhaps we have simply become disconnected from parts of ourselves that matter.

The artist who stopped creating ~ the musician who stopped playing ~ the dreamer who became practical.

The adventurer who stopped exploring. The curious, playful, creative and fun parts of ourselves that once felt so alive.

Yoga reminds us that these parts are not gone. They are still there, waiting for our attention.

Mid-Summer is often celebrated as a time of abundance. Everything is expanding and growing, the days stretch long into the evening, and nature seems to be expressing itself fully.

Yet the Summer Solstice is also a turning point.

Even at the height of the light, something begins to shift.

The cycle reminds us that growth is not always about gathering more. Sometimes it’s shedding the excess, the things that no longer fit. To clear away what obscures our true nature.

To create space for what has been neglected.

To allow forgotten parts of ourselves to emerge once more.

Sometimes this process is gentle. A return to the yoga mat, a walk in nature. An hour spent doing something simple, being still.

And sometimes it is much bigger than that.

There are moments in life when an old way of being can no longer sustain us. When the structures we have built begin to feel too small for the person we are becoming.

In those moments, transformation can feel less like growth and more like fire. Something old may need to burn away so that the stronger, truer and more authentic version of ourself can emerge.

Not because we are becoming someone different.

But because we are allowing our original selves to live again.

Perhaps this is the invitation of Mid-Summer.

Not to ask: "Who do I need to become?"

But:

"What part of me is asking to live again?" What wants more space? What wants more light? What have I neglected for too long? And what might happen if I gave it room to breathe once more?

Yoga does not ask us to become someone else. It offers a path back to ourselves.

Back to the steady, authentic presence that has been there all along, beneath the noise, waiting patiently.

Waiting to be remembered. Waiting to come alive again.

As I prepare to spend a few days on retreat, I find myself wondering what parts of me might be waiting for a little more attention.

What might emerge when there is less doing and more listening?

What might I remember when the noise quietens for a while?

Perhaps that is the gift of practice.

Not that it changes who we are.

But that it helps us return to who we have always been.

As the wheel turns beyond Mid-Summer, maybe the question is not what do we need to add, not who we need to become. But, what is already within us, waiting to be heard?

What part of you is asking to live again this Mid-Summer?