What Yin Yoga Has Taught Me and My Nervous system

Looking back at when I first discovered yoga in college, I saw it primarily as a physical practice. Sure, I knew there were mindfulness benefits, but that wasn’t why I stepped onto my mat. I was drawn in by movement—the stretch, the strength, the flow. Yoga was something I did, not something I felt.

Years later, when I became pregnant with my first child, I signed up for an eight-week prenatal series, mostly to help my body feel better. Again, yoga was a tool for physical well-being, a way to ease discomfort and maintain some sense of balance through the changes of pregnancy.

Then came COVID. Like many, I turned to online practices for consistency and structure in uncertain times. I embarked on a 30-day yoga challenge with Patrick Beach, thinking, This is going to get me in shape! And in many ways, it did. My body felt stronger, my endurance increased, and I grew more confident in my practice.

I started working at a yoga studio, deepening my understanding of the practice beyond movement. I pursued my 200-hour teacher training and later my 500-hour certification. Through these experiences, I refined my teaching skills, learned about hands-on assists, and studied the rich history of yoga. I began to see the deeper layers of mindfulness and presence that had always been there, waiting for me to notice.

But it wasn’t until my 500-hour training that I discovered something far more profound than physical strength or even mindfulness—I found peace.

And it wasn’t through sweaty vinyasa classes or challenging asanas. It wasn’t in the thrill of movement but in the stillness of breathwork and meditation. I sat, I breathed, and I listened—to my body, my thoughts, my nervous system. It was then that I realized my greatest challenge wasn’t in mastering a pose. It was in learning how to be.

Meeting My Edge in Stillness

At this point in my journey, a friend invited me to her Yin Yoga class. I went in expecting a restorative, relaxing experience. Instead, I found myself restless, uncomfortable, and surprisingly anxious. Sitting in stillness—holding poses for minutes at a time—felt harder than any chaturanga or warrior flow. My mind resisted, my body fidgeted, and a deep unease bubbled to the surface.

That was my moment of recognition.

This was where my growth lay—not in pushing, not in striving, but in surrendering.

And so, I leaned in. I practiced more Yin at home. I read about its philosophy, its effects on fascia and the nervous system. I even started offering Yin classes at a community center through Parks & Rec, deepening my connection to the practice through teaching.

And slowly, Yin began to teach me.

The Nervous System’s Path to Healing

Yin taught me to slow down. To savor the moment. To feel in order to heal.

It showed me that stillness isn’t empty—it’s full. Full of sensation, awareness, and deep release. It taught me how to sit with myself, how to hold space for my own emotions without needing to fix or change them.

For so long, I had used movement as a way to process and release—flowing, stretching, strengthening. But no amount of downward dogs or chaturangas could reach the deeper layers of what my body was holding. My nervous system wasn’t just seeking exercise; it was seeking balance.

Yin helped me recognize the tension I had stored in my fascia, the unprocessed grief woven into my body. It showed me that my healing wasn’t in doing more—it was in allowing.

Boredom, sadness, restlessness, grief—these weren’t things to avoid. They were invitations. Yin asked me to sit with them, to breathe through them, to witness them without judgment.

And in that witnessing, something shifted.

The Wisdom of Yin

Yin became my teacher, my mirror, my friend. It guided me into the realms of patience, acceptance, and trust.

It revealed to me the power of the feminine, the lunar, the quiet. The receptive energy that exists in all of us but is so often overlooked in favor of action and effort.

Through Yin, I have learned to embrace the subtle—the coolness, the shadows, the in-between spaces where transformation quietly unfolds. It has expanded my understanding of yoga beyond movement, beyond breath, into the deep currents of stillness that carry us toward true peace.

Continuing the Journey

A year or so into my Yin practice, an opportunity arose to teach Yin at my local yoga studio. I took it with an open heart, knowing that Yin wasn’t just something I practiced—it was something that continued to teach me every time I stepped into stillness.

Of course, Yin has its physical benefits—hydrating the fascia, increasing flexibility, nourishing the joints—but for me, the transformation has been something far greater.

Yin has shown me that true expansion doesn’t always come from reaching outward. Sometimes, it comes from softening inward.

And in that softness, I have found my most profound strength.