Strong & Still

There is a time of day — usually early, when the kettle has only just boiled — where I like to stand quite still. Feet pressed into the wooden floor. The air cool on my skin. Not moving yet, not stretching, not lifting. Just standing. Breathing.

It’s easy to think of strength as something loud. Something hard-edged and relentless. But more and more I’ve come to believe strength can be quiet. Strength can be slow. It can be the body learning patience. The breath deepening, not quickening.

For years, yoga has been the thing that steadied me. The reaching up, the folding down. The slow, repetitive gestures of care. But recently I’ve found myself folding weight into the mix — kettlebells, bodyweight holds, slow and deliberate movements that ask something more of me.

Strength training isn’t the opposite of yoga. It’s an extension of it. Both ask you to stay — in the stretch, in the effort, in the breath. Both teach you to meet discomfort not with panic, but with curiosity. Both return you, again and again, to your own body — as it is, not as you wish it to be.

There is a rhythm to it now. Stretch, strengthen, breathe, rest. I light incense some mornings — a small ritual to mark the time, to scent the air with something calm and steady. Nag Champa, sometimes sandalwood. The smoke curling like a slow exhale across the room.

Afterwards, the satisfaction is a quiet one. Muscles warm. The body loose and alive. Tea brewed and sipped slowly, like you’ve earned it. A slice of bread. A walk outside.

Strong and still. Not one or the other. But both, together. The roots and the branches. The weight and the breath. The slow building of a body that feels like home.