Practice Without Me
· @ErikaSmithIluszko
The thing I’ll tell you even though it’s bad for my business. In a recent Ask Me Anything, someone asked me: what’s something you’ll say even though it’s bad for your business?
I didn’t have to think long.
I run a yoga studio. Every month I pay the rent, the teachers, and the electricity. I count how many people come to class. A studio survives when people keep coming back.
And still, here it is: you need to practice without me (or any other teacher).
Not instead of coming to class, but after it, alongside it, and eventually, at the heart of your practice. If you only ever practice in a room where someone tells you what to do, you may never meet your own practice at all.
What the studio gives you
Let me be clear: coming to class matters. When I decided to stay in Vienna, I couldn’t find a place to practice more than asana. I was craving connection, diversity in the community, and diversity in the practice itself, so I opened Manas. In a studio, you learn the techniques: how to come into a pose safely, how to breathe, how to sequence a practice so it builds instead of scatters. You begin to understand what we are actually doing and why. A good teacher sees what you can’t see in yourself, like the shoulder that creeps up, the breath you hold, or the habit you’ve been repeating for years.
And you’re not alone. You practice next to people who are also struggling, also showing up, also trying. That matters more than most people admit. A community can hold you on the days you can’t hold yourself.
All of that is real. But it is the beginning, not the whole.
Why you have to practice alone
In class, there is always something to hold on to. My voice tells you when to inhale. The person on the next mat shows you where to go. The rhythm of the group, and the clock on the wall, all carry you through.
That is exactly the problem. When something outside you is always leading, you never have to listen inside.
When you practice alone, all of that falls away. No one is counting your breaths. No one is watching. You’re in a quiet place, without much distraction, and for the first time you hear what’s actually there: the tightness you’ve been ignoring, the restlessness, the boredom, the emotion that comes up halfway through a forward bend with no teacher to move you past it.
It will be uncomfortable. Some days you won’t know what to do next, and some days you’ll stop after ten minutes. That’s not failure. That’s the practice. This is where you start to notice what is really happening in your body and your mind. It is also where the practice stops being mine and becomes yours.
What the tradition says
None of this is my idea. It’s how yoga was taught for most of its history.
When I studied with Desikachar in Madras, the heart of the teaching was one to one. You sat with your teacher, not in a crowded room. He looked at you, at your body, your breath, your life, and gave you a practice. Then you went home and did it, day after day, on your own. You came back so he could see what had changed and adjust it. The real work happened between the visits.
Patañjali tells us what makes practice take root: sa tu dīrgha kāla nairantarya satkāra āsevito dṛḍha bhūmiḥ (YS 1.14). Practice becomes firmly grounded when it is done for a long time, without interruption, and with devotion. No one can do that for you. A teacher can’t be there every day of your life, and they shouldn’t be.
Then there is svādhyāya, self-study (YS 2.1). You can’t study yourself through someone else’s voice. At some point you have to be quiet enough to hear your own.
The honest part
Here is what I don’t hear many studio owners say out loud.
The yoga industry runs on dependence. Memberships, class packs, booking platforms, and apps that count your streaks are all built to keep you coming back, and none of them measure whether you’re actually free.
But I don’t want to swing too far the other way. Staying with one teacher is not the problem; it’s how you learn the most. A teacher who has watched you for years knows your body, your patterns, and your excuses, and can take you deeper than a different class every night ever could. I stayed with Desikachar until his passing, then continued with the Mohans, and nearly everything I understand grew out of that continuity. That is how this tradition has always been passed on: from teacher to student, over years. And even with Desikachar, I went home and practiced alone. That was the whole point.
The problem isn’t staying with a teacher. It’s letting the teacher become the only place your practice lives. You feel good in their class, so you come again, and after a while you can’t practice without them. Most people never notice it happening. Many people practice for years and never once unroll a mat at home. They know every pose, but they have never been alone with their practice. I don’t want that for you. If you still need me in five years to tell you when to breathe, I haven’t done my job. Depending on a teacher and learning from one are not the same thing. The first keeps you small. The second, over years, sets you free.
Yes, that is bad for business. I’d rather run a studio full of people who don’t need me, but who come anyway because they want to practice together.
How to begin at home
Don’t try to recreate a 90-minute class in your living room. You’ll give up by Thursday. Start smaller than you think you need to:
- Choose a time and a place. It doesn’t need to be beautiful. A corner and the same time every day are enough.
- Keep it short. Fifteen minutes, three times a week, is a real practice.
- Use what you know. Do a few poses you’ve learned in class. You don’t need anything new.
- Breathe and sit. End with a few minutes of breathing and a few minutes of sitting still. Notice what comes up, whether thoughts, feelings, or memories, and stay with it instead of moving on.
- No playlist, no video. Let the room be quiet, and listen to what’s there.
- Bring your questions back. When you get stuck or something hurts, bring that to class. That’s what your teacher is for.
Some days it will feel like nothing is happening. Keep going. That is dīrgha kāla nairantarya: a long time, without interruption.
You need both
I’m not asking you to choose between the studio and your mat at home. I’m asking you to understand what each one is for.
The community holds you. The solitude shows you who you are.
A teacher can point the way, and I’ll keep pointing for as long as you want me to. But no one can walk it for you. One day you’ll unroll your mat in a quiet room, with no one telling you what to do, and you’ll realize you already know. That’s the day I’ll consider my work done.
And then, I hope, you’ll still come to class. Not because you need to, but because you want to.