Yoga is often described as a path of discovery, and it is, but just as often, it’s a path of undoing.

We don’t just learn on the mat. We unlearn. We soften the grip of what we think we know. We untangle ourselves from the false certainty that the mind is always right, that our feelings are facts, that perception equals reality.

In Yoga philosophy, this illusion is known as Avidyā, the root of all suffering.

Avidyā means ignorance but it is not ignorance in the modern sense. It is a spiritual veil, a distortion of clarity. It is the quiet, persistent voice inside that says:
This is how things are. This is who I am. This is the truth.

But Avidyā is tricky. It doesn’t announce itself. It wears the costume of knowing.
It makes you believe that your sadness defines you. That someone else’s actions must mean something about your worth. That the way things feel must be the way things are.

But as you move through the yoga practice, as you meet yourself at a deeper level, as you let your breath create space in your heart,
you can hear a whispers: Just because it feels real, doesn’t mean it’s true.

We come to the mat with so much already decided.

Who we are.
What we feel.
What something means.
What the story is.
What’s right, what’s wrong, what’s broken, what must be fixed.

But yoga is not here to confirm our assumptions. It’s here to unravel them.

With each breath, we’re invited to meet ourselves with less conclusion and more curiosity.
To feel, without clinging. To notice, without naming. To be here, without rushing to understand.

This is the quiet undoing of Avidyā, not by force, but by presence.
By gently loosening the grip on certainty and making space for something deeper to emerge.

Because yoga doesn’t ask us to solve life like a puzzle.
It asks us to be present with what is alive, even if it’s incomplete, uncertain, or uncomfortable.
It asks us to breathe with the questions, not rush to answers.

And in that sacred pause, that breath between knowing and not-knowing, something shifts.

Not everything has to be named to be real. Not every feeling is a fact.
And not every truth needs to be held so tightly.

So give yourself permission to soften the grip.
To set down the need to be sure.
To listen for the wisdom beneath the noise of the mind.

Because the deepest clarity doesn’t come from control and certainty.
It comes from presence.
From compassion.
From the willingness to not know, and still stay open.