I’ve been teaching a lot more these past few months.

And teaching Bikram Yoga involves a lot of talking.

A 90-minute class means giving instructions almost continuously from beginning to end. And on some days, I teach more than one 90-minute class.

That’s hours of talking, watching bodies, correcting, adjusting the pace, reading the room and generating energy for the people in front of me.

I love teaching, but lately I’ve become much more aware of how much of myself goes outward when I teach.

Which is probably why my time in the ice bath has become even more precious.

I get into the water and I don’t have to say anything.

I don’t have to project.

I don’t have to watch anyone.

For those few minutes, all of my attention comes back to my own body.

Getting in still hurts.

The first few seconds are always a shock.

But a few minutes in, when my breathing has settled, I start noticing the cold differently.

My toes.

My feet.

My legs.

My trunk.

The cold isn’t just “cold” anymore. I can actually feel where it is.

Sometimes one side feels different from the other. Sometimes certain areas feel much more sensitive.

And because I’m quiet, I’m actually noticing it.

I’ve always had fairly good body awareness from years of Bikram Yoga.

You spend enough time looking at yourself in the mirror and making tiny adjustments to a posture, and you become quite particular about where things are.

Where is my hip?

Where is my shoulder?

Am I shifting my weight without realising it?

Teaching takes that awareness and turns it outward. I’m constantly looking at other people’s bodies and seeing where they are in space.

The ice bath gives me a completely different version of it.

My eyes aren’t doing the work.

Sensation is.

That’s what I mean when I say I feel like the ice bath has sharpened my proprioception.

I’m not claiming that sitting in cold water has somehow scientifically upgraded my proprioceptive system.

It’s much simpler than that.

I’ve become better at noticing myself.

Where my body is.

Where I’m holding tension.

Which areas feel tired.

And how I’m actually feeling that day, rather than how I assumed I was feeling before I got in.

There are days when I arrive thinking I’m perfectly fine.

Then I get into the water and realise how tired I am.

Or how tense I’ve been.

Or that my breathing is taking much longer than usual to settle.

On another day, the same temperature feels completely manageable.

I wouldn’t necessarily have noticed those differences if I’d gone straight from teaching to my next task.

The cold makes them obvious.

And lately, that’s become far more interesting to me than seeing how long I can stay in.

We tend to associate cold exposure with becoming tougher. But the longer I’ve been doing this, the more I feel like something quite different has happened to me.

I’ve actually become more sensitive — to sensation, to tension, to tiredness, and to how I’m really feeling that day.

And with how much I’ve been teaching lately, those few quiet minutes have started to mean something different too.

In the paid section, I go deeper into why I no longer think getting better at the cold is about tolerating more — and what I’ve started to notice when I stop trying to push through it.

🎁 Special Offer

If you’re ready to commit to a regular contrast therapy routine at The Ice Bath Club, you can use the promo code RD339QGKZG via this link to get $25 off your first membership.

• Ice, heat, and recovery — open daily from 7am–10pm

• No booking required — just walk in when it fits your schedule

Read more

I remember my father telling me something when I was a child.

I can’t remember exactly what I was doing at the time, but I remember what he said.

I should learn to stick with an activity instead of always changing to something else.

He wasn’t wrong.

I got bored quite easily.

I’d be interested in something for a while, then eventually the excitement would wear off and I’d want to try something new.

That followed me into adulthood too.

Then, when I was 26, I tried Bikram Yoga.

I wasn’t looking for anything particularly deep.

At the time, I wanted something that could give me the intensity I enjoyed from running and going to the gym. I wanted a proper workout. I wanted to sweat.

So I tried a Bikram class.

And I loved it.

I remember knowing quite quickly that this was something I could see myself doing for a long time.

What I didn’t know was just how long.

I certainly didn’t walk out of that first class thinking:

One day I’m going to become a Bikram Yoga teacher.

That wasn’t even on my radar.

I just knew I wanted to go back.

So I did.

Again.

And again.

And somehow, the person who was always getting bored of things didn’t get bored.

That’s probably the part that surprises me most.

Because Bikram Yoga is repetitive by design.

The same 26 postures.

The same 2 breathing exercises.

The same order.

You would think someone like me would have become bored very quickly.

Instead, it became the thing I’ve stayed with longer than almost anything else.

Maybe because although the sequence stays the same, the practice never really does.

My body changes.

My understanding changes.

A posture I’ve done thousands of times can still show me something I hadn’t noticed before.

Some days I feel strong.

Some days I struggle with something that felt easy the day before.

There is always something more to work on.

And somewhere along the way, Bikram Yoga went from being something I did after work...

to something I practised seriously...

to something I eventually trained to teach...

and then, somehow, it became my full-time work.

I sometimes think back to what my father told me when I was a child.

Stick with something.

For a long time, I thought I simply wasn’t very good at that.

But maybe sticking with something isn’t always about forcing yourself to keep going.

Sometimes you find something that keeps giving you a reason to come back.

That’s what Bikram Yoga became for me.

The sequence never changed. But there was always something else to learn, something to work on, something I hadn’t quite understood yet.

So maybe if you’re someone who gets bored easily too, don’t be so quick to label yourself as someone who can’t commit.

Keep trying things.

You might simply not have found your thing yet.

I found mine at 26.

I just had no idea at the time how much of my life it would eventually become.

There was a guy in one of my classes recently who was completely new to Bikram Yoga.

I could tell quite quickly that he really wanted to get everything right.

Every time I gave an instruction, he listened. Really listened.

Sometimes he’d nod his head slightly, almost as if he was ticking off the instructions in his mind.

Feet together.

Lock the knee.

Lift the chest.

Breathe.

There was something very earnest about the way he practised. And perhaps a little perfectionist too.

I recognise that because I’ve been that person myself.

Wanting to understand everything. Wanting to do everything correctly. Wanting to be good at something before you’ve even given yourself permission to be a beginner.

But that’s almost impossible in your first Bikram class.

There are 26 postures, 2 breathing exercises, the heat, the mirror, the dialogue... there’s a lot going on.

You’re not supposed to get everything right.

You’re just supposed to begin.

And if you’ve been curious about Bikram Hot Yoga but haven’t quite made it into the room yet, maybe that’s something worth remembering.

You don’t need to get fitter first.

You don’t need to become more flexible.

You don’t need to know the postures.

Come in. Listen. Try. Sit down if you need to. Get back up when you’re ready.

That’s enough.

“Sorry, I Did So Badly.”

I remember another woman coming out of her first 90-minute Bikram class.

She’d made it through the whole thing.

And the first thing she said to me was:

“Sorry, I did so badly in class.”

Sorry?

That wasn’t what I’d seen at all.

I saw someone who had never done Bikram Yoga before walk into a 40-degree room, stay for 90 minutes, listen, try and finish the class.

There was absolutely nothing to apologise for.

But she’d already decided she’d done badly.

That’s something I wish more first-timers understood.

Your first Bikram class isn’t a test.

You’re allowed to fall out.

You’re allowed to sit down.

You’re allowed to have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about.

You’re new.

And I’m not standing on the podium giving you marks.

Keep reading with a paid subscription for what I’m actually noticing from the podium while you think you’re struggling—and why the beginners who are hardest on themselves are often the ones I most hope will come back.

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There have been a few periods in my life where I genuinely didn’t know what to do next.

Not because I hadn’t thought about it.

Quite the opposite.

I’d already thought about it from every angle.

I’d replay conversations in my head.

Go to bed thinking about it.

Wake up thinking about it.

You convince yourself that if you just think a little harder, eventually the answer will appear.

I’ve learnt that it rarely works that way.

What’s interesting is that those are usually the times I least feel like going to Bikram Yoga.

“I’ve got too much on today.”

“I’ll skip just this once.”

“I should use this time to sort my life out instead.”

It sounds logical.

But over the years I’ve realised it’s usually the worst decision I could make.

Years ago, before I became a yoga teacher, I worked in marketing.

Every now and then I’d hit a wall creatively.

No matter how long I stared at the screen, the ideas just wouldn’t come.

I’d finish work, go to Bikram Yoga, and not think about marketing for the next ninety minutes.

Then somewhere on the train ride home...

An idea would suddenly appear.

Not always.

But often enough that I started noticing the pattern.

I’ve experienced exactly the same thing in other chapters of my life too.

Whether it was managing a yoga studio, dealing with operational issues, or trying to solve a problem that I just couldn’t get my head around...

I’d keep turning it over and over in my mind.

Still nothing.

Then I’d go to class.

Not because I thought Bikram Yoga would magically solve the problem.

But because it gave my mind something completely different to focus on.

And somehow...

That was often enough.

Keep reading with a paid subscription as I share what Bikram Yoga and ice baths unexpectedly have in common, why I never stop practising during difficult seasons of life, and why some of my clearest decisions have arrived after class—not during it.

Subscribe now

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Every now and then, I’ll hear a long-time practitioner say something like,

“I think I’ve plateaued.”

Or,

“I don’t feel like my body’s changing anymore.”

Sometimes they’ll add,

“The class isn’t really that hard now.”

Whenever I hear that, I’m always curious.

Because if I’m honest...

I don’t think Bikram Yoga is supposed to become easy.

I’ve been practising for fourteen years and taught many classes.

And there are still days where the room completely humbles me.

The heat still feels hot.

Standing Head to Knee still demands my attention.

Triangle still asks something different from me.

Some classes leave me wondering what on earth happened.

So when someone tells me the class has become easy...

I don’t immediately think they’ve mastered Bikram Yoga.

I start wondering something else.

Maybe they’ve stopped practising.

Not stopped coming to class.

Stopped practising.

There’s a difference.

When we’re beginners, everything feels difficult.

We’re trying to remember left from right.

We’re trying not to fall over.

We’re trying to survive the heat.

We’re trying to remember not to drink water after every posture.

The class demands every bit of our attention.

Then something wonderful happens.

We become familiar with the sequence.

We know what’s coming next.

We know where the difficult parts are.

The room doesn’t feel quite so intimidating anymore.

That’s progress.

But familiarity comes with a danger.

Without even realising it, we can slip into autopilot.

I’ve seen practitioners who’ve been coming for ten years.

Fifteen years.

Maybe even longer.

They know the dialogue before I say it.

They move at exactly the right moment.

They finish class looking comfortable.

But from the podium, I sometimes notice something they don’t.

They’re no longer asking anything new of themselves.

Today’s Half Moon looks exactly like yesterday’s.

Standing Bow stops at the same place every class.

Triangle has become a position instead of a process.

The body is moving.

But the mind has stopped exploring.

I don’t mean forcing your body deeper.

That’s not what I’m talking about.

Sometimes the next breakthrough isn’t another inch in a posture.

It’s a better standing knee.

A steadier breath.

A quieter mind.

A stronger grip.

A more deliberate transition.

A little more traction.

A little less rushing.

The sequence hasn’t changed.

But your attention has.

And attention changes everything.

Sometimes I can tell within the first three postures whether someone is really practising or simply repeating yesterday’s class.

Not because one person is more flexible than the other.

But because one person is still curious.

They’re still listening.

Still experimenting.

Still trying to improve one tiny thing.

The other person is simply getting through ninety minutes.

From the outside, they might look almost identical.

From the inside, they’re worlds apart.

Read more

If you’ve ever been to The Ice Bath Club with me, you’ll probably know where to find me after my last round.

In the warm magnesium pool.

I’ll lean back.

Stretch my legs out.

Close my eyes.

And every now and then...

I’ll wake myself up because I’ve accidentally drifted off.

Not for very long.

Just long enough to realise my body has completely switched off.

It’s quite funny really.

People always ask me about the ice bath.

“How cold is it?”

“How long do you stay in?”

“How many rounds do you do?”

Nobody has ever asked,

“So... tell me about the magnesium pool.”

The truth is...

The ice bath is exciting.

The magnesium pool isn’t.

There’s nothing to achieve.

No timer.

No challenge.

No badge of honour.

You simply get in.

And stay if it feels nice.

I’ve realised I quite like that.

Especially after teaching a few Bikram classes.

Or after a busy week.

My whole day is usually structured.

Classes.

Messages.

Writing.

Planning.

Even my own practice has a structure.

The magnesium pool doesn’t ask anything from me.

It just lets me be there.

I used to think the ice bath was the main event.

These days, I’m not so sure.

Inside the paid section, I’ll share why the warm magnesium pool has quietly become one of my favourite parts of contrast therapy—and why doing absolutely nothing has turned out to be surprisingly difficult.

🎁 Special Offer

If you’re ready to commit to a regular contrast therapy routine at The Ice Bath Club, you can use my promo code RD339QGKZG to receive $25 off your first membership.

• Ice, heat, and recovery — open daily from 7am–10pm.

• No booking required — just walk in when it fits your schedule.

Read more

When people ask me why I still practise Bikram Yoga after fourteen years, I usually smile.

Because the honest answer isn’t the same one I would have given fourteen years ago.

Back then, I wasn’t looking for mindfulness.

I wasn’t searching for myself.

I certainly wasn’t looking for a spiritual practice.

I was running regularly and spending a lot of time in the gym.

I loved training hard.

I loved pushing myself physically.

I wanted a workout that left me completely exhausted.

Then a friend introduced me to Bikram Yoga.

I remember walking out of my very first class thinking,

“This is it.”

It was intense.

It was brutally hot.

I had never sweated so much in my life.

I loved it.

I knew almost immediately that this was something I could see myself doing for a very long time.

If you’d asked me then why I kept coming back, my answer would’ve been simple.

Because it’s an incredible workout.

And honestly...

That would’ve been true.

For the next few years, that was enough.

I measured a good class by how tired I was afterwards.

How much I sweated.

How hard I had worked.

If I walked out completely exhausted, I felt like I’d had a great class.

Simple.

The funny thing is...

I can’t tell you exactly when that changed.

There wasn’t one class.

One teacher.

Or one breakthrough moment.

It happened so gradually that I almost missed it.

One day I realised something.

If Bikram Yoga suddenly stopped being the hardest workout I’d ever done...

I’d probably still keep practising.

That surprised me.

Because somewhere along the way, without me even noticing...

It had quietly become something much bigger.

Read more

A few days ago, I taught a Bikram class that left me thinking long after the class ended.

Before class started, a lady came up to me holding her phone.

She smiled and said,

“Just to let you know, I’ll need my phone during class.”

Normally, that sentence would be a hard no from me.

I came from a studio with a strict no-phone policy, and personally I still think ninety minutes away from our devices is one of the gifts of a Bikram class.

But every studio has its own rules, and this particular studio allows phones in the yoga room as long as they’re on silent mode.

So I asked what it was for.

She smiled and said,

“I’m doing a makeup wear test. I need to film a few TikTok clips throughout class to see how it holds up in the heat.”

I paused for a second, smiled back.

“Well... that’s a first.” I thought.

As the class went on, every now and then she’d stop.

Pick up her phone.

Record a short video.

Check the footage.

Put the phone down.

Then continue with the class.

Standing on the podium, I found myself wondering...

Were we actually doing the same class?

Not in a judgemental way.

More out of curiosity.

Because we were standing in exactly the same room.

Listening to exactly the same dialogue.

Doing exactly the same twenty-six postures.

Yet I don’t think we were having the same experience at all.

For those ninety minutes, she was paying attention to how her makeup looked.

Meanwhile, everyone else was paying attention to something completely different.

Their breathing.

Their balance.

Their aching legs.

Their determination just to stay in the room.

That contrast stayed with me.

Not because I thought she was wrong.

But because it made me think about why each of us walks into the hot room in the first place.

When I walked into my very first Bikram class fourteen years ago, I wasn’t looking for mindfulness.

I wasn’t looking for flexibility either.

At that point in my life, I was running regularly and spending a lot of time in the gym.

I loved training hard.

I wanted something intense.

Something that would push me physically.

Something where I’d leave completely drenched in sweat.

A friend introduced me to Bikram Yoga.

I still remember finishing that first class.

I walked out thinking,

“This is it.”

I knew almost immediately that it was something I could see myself doing for a very long time.

Back then, I came for the workout.

The intensity.

The challenge.

The sweat.

And Bikram certainly delivered.

But if you asked me today why I still practise...

My answer would be completely different.

I can’t even tell you exactly when it changed.

It just did.

Somewhere between thousands of classes...

Teacher Training...

Competitions...

Teaching...

Somewhere over the years, without me really noticing, my reason changed.

The practice quietly became something else.

The sweat is still there.

The challenge is still there.

But they’re no longer the reason I keep coming back.

These days, I value something else.

I value those ninety minutes where nobody expects anything from me.

No emails.

No notifications.

No decisions.

No multitasking.

Just one posture.

Then the next.

Then the next.

It’s one of the few places left where my attention belongs entirely to one thing.

And these days, that feels surprisingly rare.

Thinking back to that class, I realised something.

Maybe we all start Bikram Yoga for different reasons.

Some people want to lose weight.

Some come because their doctor recommended it.

Some are recovering from an injury.

Some are looking for stress relief.

Some simply want a good workout.

And apparently...

...some come to test their makeup.

Honestly, I don’t think there’s a wrong reason to start.

If that reason gets you through the door, that’s enough.

The more interesting question is this:

Does your reason change?

Because mine certainly did.

The practice never changed.

The room never changed.

The dialogue never changed.

The twenty-six postures never changed.

I did.

Maybe that’s why some people stop after a few months.

They achieved what they came for.

The weight came off.

The back pain improved.

The challenge wore off.

But the people who stay...

I think somewhere along the way, they stop practising for something.

The practice simply becomes part of who they are.

I don’t think that happens overnight.

I don’t even think you notice it happening.

One day you just realise you’re no longer coming because you have to.

You’re coming because it feels strange not to.

I never found out whether her makeup passed the test.

I hope it did.

But she unknowingly gave me something much more valuable than a story about phones in the yoga room.

She reminded me to ask myself a question I hadn’t thought about in years.

Why do I still walk into the hot room?

The answer isn’t the same as it was fourteen years ago.

And I hope it won’t be the same fourteen years from now either.

Because maybe that’s one of the quiet signs of a practice that’s still alive.

It continues to evolve...

...even when the twenty-six postures stay exactly the same.

I still remember my first few visits to a public sauna.

I wasn’t worried about the heat.

I was worried about accidentally doing something wrong.

Was I supposed to shower first?

Could I talk?

Was I staying in too long?

Did people judge how long I sat in the ice bath?

Nobody handed me a guide.

You simply watch, learn, and eventually become part of the culture.

After spending a lot of time in saunas and ice baths over the past couple of years, these are the little things I’ve come to appreciate.

None of them are difficult.

But together, they make the experience better for everyone.

🚿 Shower first

This one is simple.

Whether you’re going into the sauna or the ice bath, have a quick shower first.

Not because someone is policing you.

Because it’s a shared space.

The next person will appreciate it just as much as you appreciate them doing the same.

🧖 Sit on your towel

Especially in the sauna.

Your towel isn’t just there to dry you afterwards.

It’s there to create a barrier between you and the bench.

It’s cleaner.

More hygienic.

And it’s simply good etiquette.

🚪 Don’t leave the sauna door open

It sounds obvious.

But you’d be surprised.

Every extra second the door stays open, a huge amount of heat escapes.

Open.

Walk in.

Close.

Simple.

🤫 Read the room

This might be my favourite one.

Some sauna sessions are wonderfully social.

People chat.

Laugh.

Share stories.

Others are almost silent.

Neither is right or wrong.

Just pay attention before joining the conversation.

Sometimes people are there for connection.

Sometimes they’re there for quiet.

Both deserve to be respected.

📱 Leave your phone outside

One of my favourite things about the sauna is that almost nobody is looking at a screen.

For twenty minutes, everyone is simply... there.

It’s refreshing.

Let’s keep it that way.

💪 Don’t try to impress anyone

This applies especially to the ice bath.

Nobody cares if you stayed in for five minutes.

Or two.

Or thirty seconds.

Longer doesn’t automatically mean better.

Listen to your own body.

Not the person sitting next to you.

The only person you’re practising against is yesterday’s version of yourself.

🌊 Be mindful of everyone around you

Try not to splash.

Don’t jump into the ice bath.

Give people a little space if it’s busy.

If someone is quietly regulating their breathing, let them have that moment.

Little things make a big difference.

🧊 If there’s an Aufguss session...

Arrive a little early.

Once it begins, try to stay until the end if you can.

The Aufgussmeister has carefully choreographed the experience—from the music to the towel movements to the timing of the heat.

Walking in halfway or leaving repeatedly distracts from the experience, both for yourself and for everyone else.

If you genuinely need to leave, of course that’s okay.

Just do so quietly.

It reminds me of Bikram Yoga

The more time I spend in saunas and ice baths, the more they remind me of walking into my first Bikram Yoga class.

There are things nobody tells you.

Cover your mat with a towel.

Arrive before class starts.

Don’t bring your phone into the room.

None of these are really about rules.

They’re about respecting the shared experience.

The same applies here.

At the end of the day, good etiquette isn’t about memorising a list.

It’s about asking yourself one simple question.

“Would I appreciate it if someone else did this?”

If the answer is yes, you’re probably doing the right thing.

And if everyone approached shared wellness spaces that way...

Nobody would become that person.

If You’re Thinking of Trying Contrast Therapy

If you’ve been curious about combining sauna and ice baths, I highly recommend giving it a try. Like anything new, don’t worry about getting everything perfect on your first visit. Everyone starts somewhere, and you’ll quickly pick up the little routines and etiquette along the way.

The important thing isn’t how long you stay in the sauna or the ice bath.

It’s simply showing up, respecting the shared space, and enjoying the experience.

🎁 Special Offer

If you’re ready to commit to a regular contrast therapy routine at The Ice Bath Club, you can use my promo code RD339QGKZG to receive $25 off your first membership.

• Ice, heat, and recovery — open daily from 7am–10pm.

• No booking required — just walk in when it fits your schedule.

One of the questions I get asked quite often is,

“Why don’t Bikram teachers demonstrate the postures?”

It’s a fair question.

Especially if you’ve practised other styles of yoga.

Most teachers move with the class.

Meanwhile, I’m standing on the podium talking for ninety minutes.

I’ve even heard people joke,

“Maybe Bikram teachers don’t demonstrate because they can’t.”

That one always makes me smile.

Because the truth is, many Bikram teachers have spent years, sometimes decades, practising these postures.

Demonstrating isn’t the issue.

Every now and then, I’ll also come across an online review that says something like,

“The teacher didn’t demonstrate any of the postures.”

Whenever I read that, I realise the person probably didn’t know they had attended a Bikram class!

Because that’s exactly how an authentic Bikram class is taught.

No demonstrations.

Just dialogue.

To be honest, when I was a student, I never really questioned it either.

I just accepted that this was how Bikram Yoga was taught.

It wasn’t until I became a teacher that I finally understood why.

When I first started teaching, I thought the hardest part would be remembering ninety minutes of dialogue.

Word for word.

Without losing my place.

And yes... that was challenging.

But it wasn’t the hardest part.

The hardest part was learning to see.

I don’t remember exactly which class it was, but I remember the feeling.

Somewhere during Half Moon Pose, I realised I wasn’t looking at one person anymore.

My eyes were moving all over the room.

One student had unlocked their standing knee.

Someone else was holding their breath.

A beginner looked completely overwhelmed.

Another student had finally stopped looking around the room and was fully focused on their own practice.

It suddenly hit me.

When I was a student, I never noticed any of those things.

Because I was too busy trying to survive the class myself.

That’s when I finally understood why Bikram teachers don’t demonstrate.

We’re watching.

Keep reading with a paid subscription and come behind the podium with me. I'll share what Bikram teachers are actually looking at during class, why dialogue is often more powerful than demonstration, and the moments I quietly celebrate that most students never realise I've noticed.

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A student stayed back after class recently.

She wasn’t upset.

She wasn’t injured.

She just looked... disappointed.

“I used to get my head to my knee,” she said.

“I don’t know what happened.”

I smiled because I’d heard that sentence many times before.

Not exactly those words.

But always the same beginning.

“I used to...”

Over the years, students have told me all sorts of things.

“I used to never take breaks.”

“I used to balance much longer.”

“I used to be so much more flexible.”

“I used to...”

Every time I hear it, I find myself thinking the same thing.

You’re having a conversation with someone who isn’t even in the room.

The person you’re comparing yourself to isn’t standing on the mat today.

Today’s version of you is.

And that’s the only person this class is asking you to work with.

I don’t think this only happens in yoga.

We all do it.

“I used to run faster.”

“I used to have more time.”

“I used to recover quicker.”

“I used to...”

Sometimes we become so attached to an old version of ourselves that we stop noticing the person we’ve become.

I’ve caught myself doing it too.

Especially after coming back from an injury.

Or after travelling.

Or after missing a few classes.

There’s always that tiny voice.

“You used to...”

But the older I get, the less interested I am in winning an argument against my past.

Because I can’t.

My body today is not the body I had ten years ago.

Nor should it be.

Life has happened in between.

And honestly, I’m grateful for that.

Read more

The first time I experienced an Aufguss, I honestly didn’t know what to expect.

I knew there would be heat.

Steam.

Music.

And someone waving a towel.

That was about it.

Then the music started.

The Aufgussmeister placed large ice balls infused with essential oils onto the hot sauna stones.

As the ice slowly melted, the room filled with fragrant steam.

Then came the towel.

Not random waving.

Not simply trying to make the room hotter.

Every movement had purpose.

Every turn of the towel matched the music.

The heat seemed to dance through the room.

Somehow, I forgot I was sitting in a sauna.

I was completely absorbed by what was happening in front of me.

The funny thing is, I wasn’t even thinking about the health benefits anymore.

I wasn’t thinking about recovery.

Or circulation.

Or sweating.

I was just... watching.

There were moments where the music, the movement and the rhythm came together so beautifully that the hairs on my arms literally stood up.

Which is quite funny when you’re sitting in a sauna.

As a Bikram Yoga teacher, I think that’s why it resonated with me so much.

I’ve always believed there is a rhythm to teaching.

A rhythm to the dialogue.

A rhythm to the transitions.

A rhythm that students can feel, even if they don’t realise it.

Watching a skilled Aufgussmeister reminded me that heat has a rhythm too.

Just expressed in a completely different way.

If you’ve never heard of Aufguss before, it began in Germany and has since become a much-loved sauna tradition across Europe.

During the session, an Aufgussmeister places ice balls infused with essential oils onto hot sauna stones. As they slowly melt, fragrant steam fills the room. Using carefully choreographed towel movements, the Aufgussmeister circulates the heat throughout the sauna, often perfectly timed to music.

The best sessions don’t feel like someone waving a towel.

They feel like watching a performance.

I’ve always enjoyed watching people who are exceptionally good at what they do.

It doesn’t matter whether it’s a dancer.

A musician.

A yoga teacher.

Or an athlete.

There is something special about watching someone move with complete intention.

Nothing feels rushed.

Nothing feels wasted.

Everything has its place.

Watching a skilled Aufgussmeister gave me exactly that feeling.

The towel almost became an extension of the body.

The movements flowed effortlessly from one to the next.

The music wasn’t just playing in the background.

It became part of the performance.

Every sweep of the towel arrived exactly when it should.

It honestly reminded me of watching ballet.

Not because the movements looked the same.

But because the timing, rhythm and expression mattered just as much as the technique.

When everything comes together, you stop analysing.

You simply watch.

And feel.

Of course, there are plenty of reasons people attend an Aufguss session.

The combination of heat, humidity and aromatherapy can make the sauna feel more intense while encouraging deep sweating and relaxation.

But honestly...

That’s not what stayed with me.

What stayed with me was how I felt.

For fifteen minutes, I wasn’t thinking about work.

Or my phone.

Or what I was doing afterwards.

I was completely immersed.

The music.

The movement.

The heat.

Everything else disappeared.

I don’t experience that very often.

I walked into the sauna expecting another wellness session.

I walked out feeling like I’d watched a performance.

One that happened to make me sweat.

Sometimes wellness isn’t just about what happens to the body.

Sometimes it’s about what quietly moves the heart.

If You’d Like to Experience It

If you’re curious about Aufguss, I’d highly recommend experiencing it for yourself rather than just reading about it.

I’ve been enjoying the sessions at Sauna Bath House, located at:
50 Raffles Place, #B1-01, Singapore Land Tower

You can find their Aufguss schedule and learn more on their website: www.saunabathhouse.com

If you go, don’t spend the whole session thinking about the health benefits.

Just watch.

Listen.

Feel the heat.

You might leave remembering the movement more than the sweat.

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A few years ago, a student came up to me after class looking genuinely upset.

“Sorry, I took so many breaks today.” she said.

I remember looking at her for a moment because I wasn’t entirely sure what she was apologising for.

She had just completed ninety minutes of Bikram Yoga.

In a heated room.

On a day where many people would have happily stayed in bed.

Yet somehow she felt she had let me down because she sat down a few times.

I laughed and told her:

“I don’t even remember how many breaks you took.”

The look on her face suggested she didn’t quite believe me.

But it was true.

Over the years, I’ve noticed students apologise for all sorts of things.

Taking breaks.

Falling out of Standing Head to Knee.

Losing balance in Standing Bow.

Sweating too much.

Not being flexible enough.

Sometimes they apologise before I even have a chance to say hello after class.

And every time, I find myself thinking the same thing:

You’re worrying about the wrong thing.

One student once apologised because she couldn’t touch her forehead to her knee in Standing Separate Leg Stretching.

Meanwhile, I was quietly impressed she had managed to come to class three times that week despite juggling work, family and everything else life was throwing at her.

Another apologised because she kept falling out of Standing Head to Knee.

I remember thinking:

Well, that’s what Standing Head to Knee does.

It humbles all of us.

I’ve been practising for more than a decade.

Some days it still humbles me too.

The funny thing is that students often assume teachers are watching the class very differently from how we actually are.

They think we’re keeping score.

Counting breaks.

Noticing every wobble.

Mentally ranking postures.

We’re not.

At least I’m not.

Most of the time, I’m looking for something else entirely.

And it has very little to do with flexibility.

Keep reading with a paid subscription to discover what Bikram teachers actually notice, the students we remember years later, and why the people who improve the most are rarely the ones you expect.

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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.

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Most of my visits to The Ice Bath Club are by myself.

I like it that way.

I can move between the ice bath, sauna and hot pool at my own pace. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I sit quietly. Sometimes I end up dozing off in the hot pool for a few minutes.

As an introvert, I’ve always enjoyed having pockets of time where nobody needs anything from me.

The Ice Bath Club has become one of those places.

Every now and then though, I’ll bump into someone I know.

A fellow Bikram teacher.

A student.

A friend.

Or someone I’ve seen enough times that we’ve naturally started talking.

And I’ve realised those visits feel different too.

Not necessarily better.

Just different.

A few weeks ago, I found myself at the club with a couple of yoga teachers.

We moved through the contrast therapy almost exactly the same way I normally would.

Ice bath.

Sauna.

Hot pool.

Repeat.

The practice itself wasn’t very different.

The conversations in between were.

One thing I’ve noticed is that nobody really talks much while they’re in the ice bath.

At least not for the first minute or so.

Most people are busy negotiating with the cold.

The conversations happen afterwards.

In the sauna.

In the hot pool.

Wrapped in towels between rounds.

Maybe it’s because everyone has already gone through something mildly uncomfortable together.

The usual small talk seems to disappear surprisingly quickly.

You end up talking about things that actually matter.

Teaching.

Practice.

Relationships.

Business ideas.

Injuries.

Life.

The things we’re trying to figure out.

It reminds me a little of Bikram Yoga.

Some of the friendships I’ve made through yoga developed slowly over years.

Not because we spent hours socialising.

But because we spent hours practising.

Standing in the same room.

Doing difficult things together.

Week after week.

There is something about shared experience that speeds up familiarity.

Most of my visits to The Ice Bath Club are still solo.

And if I’m being honest, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

But every now and then, I’ll leave after an evening with fellow yoga teachers or friends and realise the cold wasn’t the thing I appreciated most.

Inside the paid section, I’ll share:

• Why some conversations happen more naturally after shared discomfort
• The one “happy hormone” I associate more with group sessions than solo ones
• What Ice Bath Club and Bikram Yoga communities have in common
• Why I think practice is sometimes easier to sustain when you’re not doing it entirely alone

🎁 Special Offer

If you’re ready to commit to a regular contrast therapy routine at The Ice Bath Club, you can use the promo code RD339QGKZG via this link to get $25 off your first membership.

• Ice, heat, and recovery — open daily from 7am–10pm

• No booking required — just walk in when it fits your schedule.

Read more

A while ago, I wrote about what to wear to Bikram Yoga.

Most of that article focused on practical things:

The heat.

The sweat.

The importance of choosing clothing that doesn’t become unintentionally transparent halfway through class.

If you missed it, you can read it here: What You Wear to Bikram Yoga Matters.

But there’s another reason clothing matters that many students never think about.

Teachers are human.

We do not have X-ray vision.

Despite what some students seem to believe.

One of the unique things about traditional Bikram Yoga is that the teacher stays on the podium.

We aren’t walking around the room inspecting students from every angle.

We’re standing at the front of the room, looking at everyone at once.

Sometimes twenty people.

Sometimes thirty.

Sometimes more.

From a distance.

Which means visibility matters.

A lot.

The Mystery Beneath the T-Shirt

Let’s start with Hands to Feet Pose.

As a teacher, I’m constantly looking at what’s happening through the body.

A loose T-shirt can make that surprisingly difficult to see.

Maybe everything underneath is working beautifully.

Maybe it isn’t.

The shirt keeps the secret.

And unfortunately, I can’t coach what I can’t see.

The Awkward Pose Problem

Then there are tennis skirts with shorts underneath.

No issue with them at all.

They’re cute.

They’re comfortable.

But they create another teaching challenge.

In the third part of Awkward Pose, one of the things we’re looking for is whether the student is actually sitting on the heels.

Or hovering several centimetres above them.

A skirt covering everything makes that surprisingly difficult to see from the podium.

So now I’m left making an educated guess.

And generally speaking, educated guesses are less accurate than actually seeing what’s happening.

Standing Bow Can Be Deceptive Too

Standing Bow is another posture where clothing can create illusions.

Sometimes a loose top hides what’s happening through the torso.

Is the chest lifting?

Is the spine extending?

Or is the student simply dropping lower while collapsing forward?

From the front of the room, those are very different things.

But loose clothing can make them look surprisingly similar.

Looking Back, Ballet Was Exactly the Same

As a child, I did ballet until around the age of twelve.

Every class was done in a leotard.

Sometimes we even wore elastic belts around our waists.

At the time, I never questioned it.

Years later, I understand why.

The clothing wasn’t about appearance.

It was about visibility.

The teacher needed to see alignment.

The position of the ribs.

The pelvis.

The knees.

The spine.

If those things were hidden, teaching became harder.

Bikram Yoga isn’t very different.

Modesty Is Not The Issue

Before anyone misunderstands this article, let me be clear.

This isn’t about showing more skin.

I have Muslim women in my classes who practice the full 90 minutes with long sleeves, long pants, and a hijab.

And they do absolutely fine.

The issue isn’t how much skin is covered.

The issue is whether the teacher can see what the body is doing.

Those are very different things.

What Clothing Makes Teaching Easiest?

The bigger question isn’t what students should wear.

It’s what helps a teacher see alignment most clearly.

Some clothing choices make certain postures much easier to assess.

Others create optical illusions that hide what’s really happening.

In the paid section, I’ll share:

• the postures where attire affects feedback the most
• common alignment mistakes that loose clothing hides
• why some students think they’re doing a posture correctly when they’re not
• the clothing choices that make teaching easiest
• and the simple question I wish more practitioners would ask themselves before class:

“Am I dressed for comfort alone, or am I dressed to help my teacher help me?”

Read more

Lately, I’ve been bringing a book into the sauna.

Not every time.

But often enough that it’s become part of my routine.

I’ll finish an ice bath, take my book in, and read for a while before the next round.

At first, it was simply a way to pass the time.

Then I realised something.

I was reading differently.

I should probably mention that this isn’t great for the book. Between the heat and the sweat, the pages end up curled and slightly wrinkled. If you’re someone who likes keeping books in pristine condition, the sauna may not be the ideal reading room.

Not faster.

Not more efficiently.

Just differently.

I found myself staying with each page longer.

Sometimes I’d read a paragraph and sit there for a while thinking about it.

Not because it was particularly profound.

Just because there was nowhere else I needed to be.

The heat seemed to slow everything down.

Including me.

I think that’s part of the reason I’ve always been drawn to practices like Bikram Yoga.

You can’t rush a 90-minute class.

You can’t skip ahead to the end.

You can’t squeeze the practice into 20 minutes because you’re busy.

The room has its own pace.

The dialogue has its own pace.

The class unfolds whether you’re impatient or not.

Your only real choice is whether you’re willing to stay with it.

The sauna feels similar.

The heat creates a natural pause.

Not a forced pause.

A real one.

For twenty minutes, I’m not trying to get somewhere.

I’m not trying to finish something.

I’m not trying to be productive.

I’m just sitting in a hot room reading a book.

And somehow that feels increasingly rare.

Reading in the sauna didn’t teach me anything revolutionary.

But it reminded me of something I’ve been practising for years through Bikram Yoga, ice baths, and writing.

Inside the paid section, I’ll share:

• Why some environments naturally create better attention
• The surprising similarity between reading, Bikram Yoga, and contrast therapy
• What happens when we stop rushing every experience
• Why staying with one thing has become a practice of its own

🎁 Special Offer

If you’re ready to commit to a regular contrast therapy routine at The Ice Bath Club, you can use the promo code RD339QGKZG via this link to get $25 off your first membership.

• Ice, heat, and recovery — open daily from 7am–10pm

• No booking required — just walk in when it fits your schedule.

Read more

A few days ago, my hair tie died during Pranayama.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

Halfway through breathing, I felt a snap.

Immediately, I knew.

There would be no saving it.

The bun was living on borrowed time.

A few breaths later, gravity took over and my hair came down completely.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal.

Except I was in the middle of a Bikram Yoga class.

And anyone with long hair knows that loose hair and Bikram Yoga are not particularly compatible activities.

But class had already started.

So I carried on.

What else was I going to do?

As the standing series continued, my hair gradually became more ambitious.

First it rested politely on my shoulders.

Then it found its way into my face.

Then it started participating in the postures.

By the time Hands to Feet Pose (Padahastasana) came around, I felt like I was doing the posture with an additional curtain attached to my head.

Getting out of the posture wasn’t much better.

Hair everywhere.

Face partially obscured.

Vision optional.

At this point, I accepted my fate.

The hair tie was gone.

The hair was staying.

And there were still many postures left.

One of the things Bikram Yoga teaches over time is that not every problem requires an immediate solution.

Sometimes your balance disappears.

Sometimes the room feels hotter than usual.

Sometimes the posture isn’t cooperating.

And sometimes your hair decides to become an independent life form halfway through class.

You adapt.

You continue.

You stop negotiating with reality.

The situation is already happening.

You may as well practice.

Thankfully, just before Standing Head to Knee, something unexpected happened.

One of the practitioners quietly reached out and handed me a hair tie.

No speech.

No dramatic rescue.

Just a hair tie.

Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see a hair tie in my life.

Within seconds, my hair was back where it belonged.

My face reappeared.

And suddenly everything felt easier.

What struck me wasn’t the hair tie itself.

It was how observant she had been.

I had accepted the situation and moved on.

Meanwhile, she had noticed my small struggle and decided to help.

Not because she had to.

Just because she could.

We often think resilience means doing everything alone.

Pushing through.

Handling it ourselves.

Not needing help.

But one of the nicest things about long-term practice is realising that community matters too.

The person beside you notices when you’re having a rough day.

Someone saves a spot.

Someone lends a towel.

Someone shares electrolytes.

Or in this case, someone produces a hair tie at exactly the right moment.

The funny thing is that when the hair tie snapped, it felt like a significant event.

For about ten minutes.

Then class moved on.

The postures continued.

Life continued.

And by the end of class, it had become a story rather than a problem.

Most inconveniences are like that.

They feel larger while we’re inside them.

Smaller once we’ve moved through them.

The older I get, the more I appreciate this aspect of practice.

Not the perfect classes.

Not the classes where everything goes according to plan.

But the classes where something unexpected happens and you realise you can still continue anyway.

Perhaps with a little less control.

And occasionally, with a borrowed hair tie.

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Nobody claps for your 74th ice bath.

Nobody congratulates you for showing up to your Bikram class for the fourth time this week.

Nobody notices when you go to bed early, drink enough water, or choose practice over comfort.

Those moments rarely make it onto social media.

Yet they’re often the moments that matter most.

We live in a world that celebrates milestones.

The first class.
The first ice bath.
The first handstand.
The promotion.
The before-and-after photo.

Milestones are easy to see.

Consistency isn’t.

Consistency looks ordinary.

It’s repetitive.
Unremarkable.
Sometimes even boring.

From the outside, it doesn’t look like much is happening.

But adaptation has never cared about appearances.

The body changes through repetition, not excitement.

I’ve practiced Bikram Yoga consistently since 2012.

If someone asks what made the biggest difference, there isn’t a dramatic answer.

There wasn’t a magical workshop.

There wasn’t a breakthrough posture.

There wasn’t a single class that changed everything.

There were simply thousands of ordinary classes.

Classes when I felt strong.

Classes when I felt tired.

Classes when I didn’t particularly feel like going.

Most of them would look completely forgettable to anyone watching.

But together, they changed my body, my mind, and eventually my life.

The same thing happened with cold exposure.

The first ice bath feels significant.

You remember it.

You tell people about it.

You take photos.

But adaptation doesn’t happen because you did one ice bath.

It happens because you keep returning.

The nervous system doesn’t care whether the experience is exciting.

It responds to repetition.

The twentieth session matters.

The fiftieth session matters.

The session you nearly skipped matters.

The body is quietly paying attention even when nobody else is.

Most people overestimate the importance of intensity and underestimate the power of consistency.

Inside the paid section, I’ll explore:

• Why consistency feels less rewarding than milestones
• What Bikram Yoga and ice baths taught me about long-term adaptation
• Why motivation is overrated
• The hidden advantage of becoming someone who simply keeps showing up

🎁 Special Offer

If you’re ready to commit to a regular contrast therapy routine at The Ice Bath Club, you can use the promo code RD339QGKZG via this link to get $25 off your first membership.

• Ice, heat, and recovery — open daily from 7am–10pm

• No booking required — just walk in when it fits your schedule

Read more

Sometimes in Bikram Yoga, the room becomes so intense that people assume more struggle means better practice.

More force.
More pushing.
More suffering.

And many students confuse the two.

Intensity and strain are not the same thing.

The Room Is Already Intense

The room is hot.

Your heart rate rises.
Your breathing changes.
Sweat pours out.

So naturally, people think:
“If I make the posture even harder, I’m working better.”

But very often, I see students adding unnecessary tension on top of an already demanding environment.

Tight jaw.
Held breath.
Shoulders gripping.
Face straining.

The body starts fighting the posture instead of working with it.

The Part Students Rush Through

One thing I notice often while teaching is how quickly students try to “achieve” the posture.

But they skip over the setup.

The feet.
The grip.
The balance.
The alignment before movement begins.

And once the setup is weak, the posture already becomes harder than it needs to be.

So people compensate with force.

More pulling.
More collapsing.
More struggle.

And they think that struggle means intensity.

Sometimes it’s just inefficiency.

Experienced Practitioners Often Look Calmer

Ironically, the practitioners who are working hardest internally often don’t look the most dramatic externally.

Their breathing is steadier.

Their effort is more organised.

There’s less unnecessary movement.

Less panic.

And because of that, they conserve more energy throughout class.

This doesn’t mean the posture feels easy.

It means the effort is being directed more intelligently.

In the paid section, I’ll share:

• how to tell the difference between productive intensity and unnecessary strain
• the subtle signs I notice immediately as a teacher when someone is forcing
• why breath changes before posture quality collapses
• how advanced practitioners distribute effort differently in postures like Standing Bow and Triangle
• and why learning to reduce unnecessary tension actually makes the practice stronger — not weaker

Because long-term Bikram practice isn’t about surviving class through force.

It’s about learning how to stay steady under intensity.

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