How Did I Go From Pain to Peace — and Discover a Spiritual Path Along the Way?

I was eleven years old when I started reading the Shrimad Bhagavad Gita after seeing my father read it every day. I saw him sitting in our mandir for hours, reading it in the mornings and evenings. It was part of his daily routine. I was a curious child and started to wonder: I can't even study for 30 minutes — what makes him sit there for hours? There must be something in that book so captivating that it makes him feel like hours pass in just a few minutes.

So I started doing the same. I began studying the Shrimad Bhagavad Gita. I didn’t really understand it, nor did I know how to read Sanskrit. I was only reading the Hindi translation, which was also difficult for me to grasp. Even though I didn’t fully understand it, I trusted the process and hoped to experience the same connection my father had. I continued for one week.

On the seventh day, my father came to me and said, “You shouldn’t read this book. It’s not age-appropriate for you.” When I asked him why, he explained that reading it at my age might lead me toward renunciation — I might become a saint and leave home. Scared of being separated from my parents, I stopped reading it and forgot about it.

Years later, I became fascinated by yoga and began practising it. It started when I was in the 11th grade and had a subject called Physical Education. In that textbook, there was one chapter on yoga — and I think that was the only chapter I studied thoroughly. Honestly, it began with a desire to flaunt my body’s flexibility. I used to show off to my siblings: Look, I can do all these poses! I practised everything from Sarvangasana to Chakrasana.

For those who don't know yoga, these are advanced poses, and practising them without a trained guru can have adverse effects. The same happened to me — I started experiencing neck pain, which eventually turned into cervical kyphosis.

I was working in the corporate world when I first learned about cervical kyphosis. I went through months of physical therapy, which did provide some relief. But the moment I resumed working, the pain returned.

Coming from a typical Indian household, some people suggested that I start doing yoga regularly. So, I joined yoga classes. These classes began at 6 a.m., which soon became difficult for me to attend consistently. To be in class by 6, I had to wake up at 5 — and anyone who knows me well knows that I’m not a morning person. As a result, I missed most of my sessions.

After enduring pain for more than a year or two, I rejoined yoga, but this time the classes started at 8 a.m. I began practising regularly and started noticing small changes in my body. The pain had significantly reduced.

Even though I was doing yoga regularly, I never really understood it. I felt good after every session, but I didn’t know why I was doing these asanas or what the purpose of pranayama was. I never felt that deep connection — that "hook" my father had when he read the Shrimad Bhagavad Gita. For me, yoga had become just another form of exercise. Eventually, when my subscription ended, I didn’t renew it.

A few years later, after constantly struggling with cervical kyphosis, another bomb dropped: I was diagnosed with Hashimoto’s disease. It’s an autoimmune condition where your immune system attacks the thyroid gland, making you feel miserable. I was devastated. Doctors advised me to stay physically active and practice yoga regularly.

So, I started yoga again — this time with a new teacher named Shneha. At first, I didn’t really like her. She was a newly certified instructor with no prior experience. But she was nearby, her class timings suited me, and I thought, something is better than nothing.

What made me stay was that, after every class, she would share a bit of yoga philosophy — and that truly resonated with me.

After six months of practising under her guidance, my Hashimoto’s symptoms improved significantly. I was able to carry out my daily tasks with ease, and more importantly, I began to truly understand yoga. I even started studying the Yoga Sutras.

As I began reading the Yoga Sutras, something within me started to shift. I realised that yoga was never just about the poses. It was never about how flexible I could be or how long I could hold an asana. Yoga, at its core, was a journey inward — a path that helped me quiet the noise outside and listen to the whispers within.

For the first time, I started to observe my thoughts, my reactions, my breath. I began to understand the meaning of sthira sukham asanam — that every posture should bring both steadiness and ease, not just in the body, but in the mind. I started becoming more mindful in my daily life — not rushing through things, but being present with them, even if it was something as small as sipping my morning tea.

Alongside my physical practice, I started meditating — just five minutes at first, then ten. Sitting with my breath became a sacred space, a daily ritual that anchored me in the middle of chaos. I didn’t always have profound experiences, but I began to notice subtle shifts: I was less reactive, more grounded, and increasingly in tune with my emotions.

My relationship with the Shrimad Bhagavad Gita was also rekindled. This time, I wasn't trying to understand it with a child's curiosity but with a seeker's heart. The verses began to make sense in the context of my life — the idea of karma yoga, doing one’s duty without attachment, resonated deeply with me. I realised that I had been clinging to outcomes for so long — my career, my health, my relationships — and all of that was creating inner tension. Slowly, I started letting go.

I also came across the concept of Ishwar Pranidhan — surrender to the divine. That changed everything for me. For someone who always wanted control, surrender didn’t come easily. But as I started trusting the process, life began to feel lighter. I no longer felt like I was fighting against the current — I started flowing with it.

Today, my spiritual practice isn’t rigid. It’s not about ticking off a checklist of postures or mantras. It’s about presence. Some days it’s a long yoga session, some days it's just sitting in silence, and some days it’s reading a verse from the Gita or simply walking barefoot on the grass, breathing with awareness.

This journey hasn’t been linear. There have been doubts, breakdowns, resistance, and even days when I questioned everything. But somehow, each step brought me closer to myself — the self I had forgotten while trying to meet expectations, chase achievements, or recover from pain.

If someone asks me today what yoga is, I would say it’s a path back home. A home that was never outside, but always within.