The Last Class Is Never Really The Last Class
On endings, familiar faces, and what continues afterwards
For obvious reasons, I’ve been thinking a lot about endings lately.
Not dramatic endings.
Just the ordinary kind.
The end of a routine.
The end of a chapter.
The end of something that quietly became part of everyday life.
We often think we’re attached to a place.
A yoga room.
A favourite spot in the room.
The familiar walk up the stairs.
The teacher standing at the front.
The class that always happens at the same time every week.
But when I think about it more carefully, I don’t think it’s really the place we’re attached to.
It’s what happened there.
It’s the person who walked into class for the first time and stayed.
The friendships that formed.
The conversations before and after class.
The familiar faces that slowly became part of your week.
The breakthroughs.
The bad days.
The good days.
The completely ordinary days.
Most people don’t remember every class they attended.
I certainly don’t.
After thousands of classes, they blur together.
But certain moments stay.
The first Standing Bow you held for longer than you thought possible.
The class you nearly walked out of but didn’t.
The teacher’s correction that suddenly made a posture click.
The student who introduced themselves one day and became a friend years later.
Those are the things that remain.
Not the walls.
Not the mirrors.
Not the address.
I’ve taught enough classes to know that what happens inside a yoga room is rarely just about yoga.
People arrive carrying all sorts of things.
Stress.
Grief.
Excitement.
Uncertainty.
Big life decisions.
Sometimes they tell me.
Sometimes they don’t.
But over time, the room becomes part of the backdrop to their lives.
People get married.
Change jobs.
Become parents.
Recover from injuries.
Move countries.
Start over.
And somehow yoga is there through all of it.
Not because it solves everything.
But because it gives people a place to keep showing up.
What I’ve realised over the years is that Bikram hot practice has a funny way of continuing long after class ends.
The confidence you built doesn’t disappear.
The discipline doesn’t disappear.
The friendships don’t disappear.
The habit of showing up when you don’t feel like it doesn’t disappear.
Those things have a way of travelling with you.
Maybe that’s why endings feel bittersweet.
Because something is ending.
But not everything.
The room may change.
The schedule may change.
People may go different directions.
But the things that mattered most were never confined to four walls in the first place.
The older I get, the less interested I am in trying to hold onto things forever.
Everything changes eventually.
Studios.
Teachers.
Students.
Communities.
Life would be much simpler if it didn’t.
But that’s not how it works.
What matters is whether something left a mark while it was here.
And if it did, then perhaps the last class isn’t really the last class after all.
Because the conversations continue.
The friendships continue.
The practice continues.
And so do we.
Practice Letters explores how repetition, discipline, and nervous system training reshape not only the body, but how we meet effort, stress, and change over time.
Thank you for being my teacher, Roxanne 🙏