#sunsalutations

on practicing the same twelve movements for six years

The mat unrolls with a soft thud. My hands find prayer position without thought, the way a river finds its path through stone.

For six years now, I've practiced the same sun salutations almost every morning. Same twelve movements. Same breath counts. Same transitions that once felt awkward and now feel like coming home.

And honestly? It's been the most transformative thing I've ever done in my yoga practice, precisely because nothing about it looks transformative from the outside.

when i thought variety meant progress

There was a time when I measured my practice by novelty. New poses meant growth. Advanced sequences meant I was evolving, becoming more flexible, more capable, more… something.

In my first year of practice in Gothenburg, I jumped between classes like someone afraid of missing out. Power yoga on Mondays, Yin on Wednesdays, fusion class on Fridays. My mat became a passport I stamped frantically, never staying in one place long enough to understand the landscape.

My teacher Sara kept suggesting I stay with one sequence for a month. I kept resisting.

Repetition felt like stagnation. I wanted progress, not patterns.

What I didn't understand was that transformation lives in the returning, not in the leaving.

what happened in rishikesh

When I arrived at the ashram in 2023, we practiced the same sequence every morning at five-thirty. Same postures, same order, same teacher calling out Sanskrit names while the Ganges flowed outside.

For the first week, my mind rebelled. This is boring. I already know this. When will we do something challenging?

On day three, I asked my teacher when we'd learn something new.

He smiled the way mountains smile at clouds. "You will learn something new every single time you return to this practice. The question is whether you're paying attention."

I didn't believe him then.

I do now.

the intelligence hidden in familiar ground

Around day ten, something shifted.

My body stopped performing and started listening. In downward dog, I noticed how my left shoulder carried tension differently than my right. In warrior two, I felt the slight rotation in my hip that had been invisible when I was chasing novelty.

The intelligence wasn't in learning new shapes, it was in inhabiting the familiar ones deeply enough to feel what had always been there.

Repetition isn't about doing the same thing over and over. It's about meeting yourself differently each time you return.

what my body remembers

After six years, my body knows these movements the way it knows how to breathe.

This isn't automation. It's intimacy.

When the body remembers, the mind becomes free to notice subtler things. The quality of breath between postures. The moment when effort shifts into ease. The small adjustments that create more space.

In Bali, practicing in an open-air studio with rain drumming on the tin roof, I felt something new through my familiar sequence — gratitude for the repetition itself.

Each sun salutation became a conversation with my own history. This is the body that learned these movements in India. This is the breath that steadied in Sweden during a dark winter. This is the practice that followed me across continents.

when the mind resists

Even now, my mind occasionally whispers: aren't you bored? shouldn't you try something new?

I've learned to recognize this voice for what it is — restlessness dressed as ambition.

The mind loves novelty because novelty creates the illusion of movement. But real transformation happens in the space between boredom and breakthrough, in that quiet territory where we stay with something long enough to actually understand it.

When I do the same sequence every day, I can't hide behind variety. Some mornings my warrior one feels grounded and strong. Other mornings, the same posture exposes how much tension I'm holding, how my breath has shortened from stress.

The resistance isn't about the practice being too simple.

It's about the practice being too honest.

the same sequence under different skies

I've practiced my morning sun salutations:

in Rishikesh at dawn, with the call to prayer echoing across the river

in Bali with jungle sounds surrounding me, cicadas and bird calls mixing with my breath

in my small Gothenburg apartment while snow fell silently outside, Luna watching with patient cat wisdom

The sequence never changed. But everything around it did.

When the practice stays the same, you notice what shifts. The light. The sounds. Your own internal weather.

Repetition doesn't create sameness. It creates depth.

Like reading the same poem ten years apart and discovering meanings you couldn't have seen before.

what my abuela taught me

My grandmother used to water her lemon trees every morning at the same time. Not because the trees demanded it, but because the ritual created an anchor for her day.

She'd move between the pots with her small watering can, humming quietly, touching each leaf the way you'd touch something sacred.

I didn't understand that practice when I was young. It seemed boring, maybe even pointless.

Now I think she was teaching me something about devotion — how returning to the same small acts with attention is its own form of prayer.

the quietest power

My morning sequence has become that for me. Not a workout to complete but a ritual to inhabit.

The repetition doesn't dull the practice, it deepens it. Every sun salutation is the same, and every sun salutation is entirely new, because I'm never stepping onto the mat as the same person I was yesterday.

The quietest power isn't found in constantly moving forward.

Sometimes it's found in returning, again and again, to familiar ground. In letting the same practice hold you through change. In trusting that repetition reveals what novelty hides.

I still practice the same sequence my teacher taught me in India. My body knows it so well now that the practice has become less about the postures and more about the presence.

Less about achieving something and more about arriving somewhere I've been a thousand times before — and finding it completely new.