Boundaries are a verb

I’ve been thinking about flexibility — on and off the mat.

In yoga, we talk about it like a virtue. The deeper the stretch, the more open you feel. But without proper form, without a strong foundation, you can’t get into that posture safely. Flexibility without strength leads to injury.

It’s the same in life.

I like being flexible. It’s one of the qualities I value most about myself. I adjust easily, I can hold space, I can pivot. But when my flexibility starts to feel expected, something in me begins to ache. I notice it when I’m saying yes before I’ve even taken a breath to check in. I take on one more thing, tell myself I’ll make it work, and I do — until the very thing that makes me capable becomes the reason I’m depleted.

It’s sneaky, because it feels natural. Being flexible is who I am. But that’s the part that makes it harder to notice when it’s being overused. I can tell I’ve gone too far when my nourishment starts to slip. I stop eating well. I rush through moments that used to feel sweet. My “free time” isn’t free at all — it becomes time to catch up.

Eventually, my body speaks louder. I get sick. I feel drained. It’s hard to ev

en show up for yoga. The body keeps score when the spirit says yes too often.

Saying no, or even “not right now,” can feel like rebellion. It’s uncomfortable — the guilt shows up fast, especially when the task I need most is to rest. Boundaries bring peace at first, but then they ask to be held. Over and over again. That’s when I realized boundaries aren’t a noun — they’re a verb. Something I have to practice. Something alive.

So lately, I’ve been slowing down my yes. I’ll say, “That sounds good — let me think about it.” And then I actually think about it. I give myself a night to breathe, to ask if this is aligned, if it supports who I’m becoming.

That pause feels awkward. There’s a moment where it feels like I’m disappointing someone, or like I’m supposed to keep making things work. But under that discomfort is a quiet recognition — I’ve just reclaimed my power. The decision belongs to me again.

And in that space, I remember that doing what’s best for me sometimes won’t make sense to others. People tend to confuse time that isn’t committed to them as free time. But that time isn’t free — it’s mine. It’s time dedicated to my path, my healing, my creative process. It’s sacred, and I can’t offer it carelessly, even when my heart cares deeply.

When I hold that boundary — when I stay within my own form — everything shifts. I start creating from my heart again. I follow through on my own commitments. The day stretches differently. There’s space, breath, possibility.

Flexibility is still one of my gifts. But now I see it differently. It’s not something to give away freely — it’s something to honor through strength, honesty, and boundaries.

Flexibility without foundation is just strain. But when strength holds it, it becomes grace.