By Tammy Kaleel
My healing journey began on January 31 when I fell, face planted on concrete, and hit my forehead twice. I also re-injured my right wrist. What felt like a single moment of impact became the doorway into a much longer, more complex process—one that would challenge not just my body, but my patterns of thought and self-relationship.
After taking it easy for a month, per doctor’s orders, I began experiencing debilitating stomach cramps when I tried to return to my normal activity. What’s followed over the past few months has been a frustrating cycle: a series of treatments, each with its own set of side effects and challenges, without a simple or immediate resolution. Each attempt at relief seems to introduce a new layer of discomfort or uncertainty. I’ve undergone medical testing and am continuing to work with my care team to better understand the source of this persistent pain.
In many ways, the physical limitations were only part of the challenge. There was also the disorientation of not being able to rely on the practices that usually ground me. When asana and breath practice were no longer accessible in the ways I was used to, I found myself searching for something steadier, something less dependent on physical capacity. That search led me inward—to the first limb of yoga, the Yamas.
A suggestion from my teacher, Larissa Hall Carlson, echoed back to me: to explore how the Yamas and Niyamas are showing up at this stage of life. It felt timely, maybe even necessary. So I pulled Deborah Adele’s The Yamas and Niyamas off my shelf and began again, this time from a very different place than when I had first encountered these teachings.
I started with Ahimsa, non-violence. One line in particular stopped me: “Fear creates violence.” That idea lingered, and I followed it with a simple question—what am I afraid of? What came out was more than an answer; it was pages of journaling, uncovering thoughts I had not fully acknowledged before.
I was—and still am—afraid that I’ve lost my ability to move freely, to do what I want when I want. I fear that things I love—traveling, teaching Breath Practice, or visiting my family two hours away—might no longer be available to me. I’m afraid of losing the strength and muscle I’ve worked so hard to build, of watching my body change in ways I don’t recognize. I wonder if I’ll ever feel like myself again, or if this version of me is one I must learn to accept. And at times, I notice myself questioning my experience in ways that aren’t always helpful.
I have a remarkable ability to construct worst-case scenarios, to project myself into futures that have not happened. In those imagined futures, everything I value is taken away, and I am left navigating a life that feels small and constrained. In doing so, I participate in a subtle form of inner harm. Ahimsa, then, became not only about physical non-violence, but about softening the way I relate to my own mind—interrupting the habit of imagining harm and instead choosing to meet uncertainty with compassion and gentleness.
From there, Satya—truthfulness—naturally followed. I asked myself: where am I not being truthful? In exploring this, I learned to distinguish between truthfulness and honesty. Honesty can be shaped by perception, emotion, and belief, but truthfulness is more closely aligned with what is actually present. This distinction offered a clearer lens through which to understand my experience.
Being truthful meant acknowledging, moment by moment, how I actually feel—not how I think I should feel, or how I wish I felt. Some days that truth is frustration. Some days it is grief. Other days, surprisingly, it is acceptance or even gratitude. Truthfulness also meant recognizing the actual facts of my situation: I am healing, even if slowly. I am still capable, even if differently. Not everything has been taken from me, even if it sometimes feels that way.
It also meant being truthful with others in a clearer, more grounded way: saying no when I need to rest, declining invitations without over-explaining, allowing my current capacity to define my choices, and sharing my experiences honestly with my doctors without fear of their reactions. This has not always been comfortable. There is vulnerability in naming limits out loud. But there is also a quiet relief in no longer pretending.
What I’ve come to understand is that Satya without Ahimsa can become harsh. Truth without compassion can easily turn into judgment and criticism. There is no benefit in recognizing my limitations if I then use them as evidence against myself. There is no healing in telling the truth if that truth is delivered without kindness.
So these two Yamas now walk together in my practice, each informing and softening the other.
I am learning to be kindly truthful with myself. To observe what is present—pain, fear, frustration—without layering on judgment. To notice when fear begins to spiral into imagined futures and gently return to what is actually here. To meet even uncertainty with curiosity instead of accusation. To speak to myself in a way that reduces harm rather than amplifies it.
This is not a one-time realization but an ongoing practice, one that continues to unfold day by day. Some days I do this with ease. Other days I fall back into old patterns of worry or self-criticism. But even that, I am learning, can be met with Ahimsa—with patience instead of punishment.
Healing, I’m discovering, is not just about returning to who I was. It is about meeting who I am now with honesty and care—and allowing that to be enough. It is about trusting that even in limitation, there is still practice. And perhaps most importantly, it is about remembering that the way I relate to myself along the way is as significant as any physical outcome.
Tammy Kaleel is a Gentle Yogis teacher and co-creator and teacher of the Gentle Strength program. She resides in Florida with her husband, Russell. Tammy provided the photos above which she took at their beachfront symbolizing that each day is different.
If this post resonates, we invite you to hold Tammy in your thoughts or take inspiration into your own practice.
Editorial note: This post reflects Tammy’s voice and lived experience, with light support from AI tools for editing.
One Response
Dear Tammy,
Your writing is as eloquent as your guidance in practice. Thank you for sharing this vulnerable story with us.
Your strength shines through as you remind us that the heart is a muscle that needs to be exercised regularly to stay healthy and strong.
I wish you well on your journey of healing ❤️🩹
Terry☮️