Most days when my alarm shakes me from sleep at 5.30am, and later when I’m breathing through my panic in kapotasana, fighting with my hips in dvi pada sirsasana and wondering if I’ll ever be strong enough in pincha mayurasana, I question why I practice ashtanga.  It’s gruelling.  It’s taxing.  It’s 90 minutes or more, 6 days a week.

And then I have weeks like the last few and I realise that without yoga I’d be a public (and personal) liability.  On good days I dance with anxiety; on bad days I’m a straight-up bitch, unfocused, compulsive and preoccupied, nail-biting, temper-flaring and 3am ceiling-staring.  And although it’s fighting a big fight at the moment, ashtanga helps me moderate life’s vagaries, hurts, mediocrities and disappointments.

It’s the discipline that keeps me sane.   It’s the moments of magic that keep me coming back.