Trauma-informed yoga isn’t a separate style of yoga so much as a different way of relating to practice itself. Where more traditional or “standard” approaches can sometimes emphasise external shape, alignment, or progression, trauma-informed yoga places experience at the centre—how something feels in your body, in your breath, and in your nervous system right now. It is built on a simple but powerful shift: choice, safety, and inner listening matter more than performance.
Many of us arrive to yoga carrying what might be called “big T” and “little t” traumas. Big traumas are the experiences that are often clearly recognisable as overwhelming or life-altering—accidents, loss, abuse, or acute events that exceed our capacity to cope at the time. Little traumas are more subtle, often cumulative—chronic stress, emotional neglect, ongoing pressure, or repeated moments of disconnection from our own needs. Both live in the body. Both shape how we breathe, move, and respond to the world.
In a standard yoga environment, even with the best intentions, it can sometimes be easy for these patterns to be unintentionally reinforced. Being guided into fixed shapes, asked to “push a little further,” or focusing on how a posture looks from the outside can take us away from what we actually feel. For some people, this can subtly replicate patterns of override or disconnection that already exist in their nervous system.
Trauma-informed yoga offers something different. It slows things down. It removes assumption. It invites you to notice what is happening internally and to trust that as your primary guide. You are always given permission to stop, to rest, to adapt, or to simply observe. Language is invitational rather than directive, and there is no expectation to achieve a particular shape or outcome.
What often emerges from this kind of practice is a gradual rebuilding of trust—with the body, with sensation, and with choice itself. Instead of overriding signals, we begin to listen to them. Instead of pushing through, we start to notice what supports regulation and ease. Over time, this can gently shift long-held patterns in the nervous system, supporting a move out of survival states and into a greater sense of presence and steadiness.
This is where the influence of Vanda Scaravelli feels especially relevant. Her approach, though not originally described in modern trauma language, carries a deep respect for individuality, gravity, and inner intelligence. She encouraged students to let go of force, to soften unnecessary effort, and to discover movement through listening rather than imposing. There is no ideal shape to chase, only an ongoing conversation with breath, spine, and ground.
In many ways, Scaravelli’s work anticipates what we now understand about trauma-informed practice: that healing does not come through force, but through safety, attunement, and choice. When we are not pushed beyond our capacity, the body can begin to reorganise itself naturally. Movement becomes more fluid, breath becomes easier, and a sense of aliveness returns—not as something we create, but something we uncover.
This is the space I am interested in offering in my teaching: a yoga practice that honours both science and lived experience, that understands the nervous system as central, and that recognises each person as the expert of their own body. A space where nothing needs to be forced, and everything begins with listening.