The Moment I Stop Holding
What I’ve been noticing in the ice bath, the hot pool, and my Bikram practice
Sometimes I tear in the ice bath.
And sometimes, more surprisingly, in the hot magnesium pool.
No thoughts.
No story.
Nothing particularly emotional going on.
Just… tears.
The first few times it happened, I didn’t know what to make of it.
It wasn’t sadness.
It wasn’t stress.
If anything, it felt like the opposite.
Like something had quietly… stopped.
I spend a lot of time in environments that ask something from the body.
Heat.
Stillness.
Repetition.
And also — teaching in the room.
Holding space.
Keeping the timing.
Staying present for everyone in front of me.
There are standards to maintain.
And outside the hot room, a quiet weight to keep things running as they should.
Things to respond to.
Things to handle.
People to take care of.
And even when you think you’re relaxed in those spaces — you’re not fully.
There’s always something slightly switched on.
You’re still:
holding a shape
managing discomfort
paying attention
staying composed
There’s always a layer of control.
Then every now and then, something shifts.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that the body realises:
it doesn’t have to hold like that right now.
And when that happens, the release isn’t loud.
It’s not a breakthrough moment.
It’s subtle.
A deeper breath.
A softer jaw.
A longer exhale.
And sometimes… tears.
I don’t try to explain it too much anymore.
Because the moment you turn it into something meaningful, you lose what it actually is.
It’s not about emotion.
It’s about less effort.
I’ve come to see it as a kind of contrast — not just between hot and cold, but between:
holding vs not holding
Most of us live somewhere in between all the time.
Not fully tense.
But not fully at ease either.
Just… slightly braced.
And if you train regularly — especially in something like Bikram —
you get very good at functioning inside that space.
You can look calm.
You can move well.
You can even think you’re relaxed.
But there’s still something quietly switched on underneath.
So when that finally switches off, even briefly,
the body responds.
Not dramatically.
Just honestly.
What I pay attention to now
When it happens, I don’t analyse it.
I don’t ask why.
I just notice:
my breathing
how little effort I’m using
how quiet everything feels
And I remember that this state exists.
Because the truth is, the ice bath didn’t create it.
The hot pool didn’t create it.
They just removed enough noise for me to feel it.
And once you’ve felt that,
you start to realise:
it’s not something you need to chase.
It’s something you’ve probably been missing in small ways all along.
If you’ve ever had a moment in practice where everything suddenly feels easier — not because the posture changed, but because you did — you’ll know what I mean.
That moment matters more than most people think.
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. Paid subscribers support this work and receive deeper reflections on practice each week.
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