There’s a moment in yoga practice when something subtle but profound begins to shift.
For me, it has come after years of trying to ‘get it right’ – holding shapes, building strength, increasing flexibility – all while breathing and trying to be mindful while on my mat.
And then, almost unexpectedly, a different question has emerged: what if I’m doing too much?
We’re often taught that progress in yoga comes from effort – deeper stretches, stronger engagement, better alignment. And to a point, that’s true.
Strength and flexibility matter. They create the conditions for stability and range.
But they are not the end of the story. In fact, when they begin to balance, they open the door to something, that sounds dull, but is actually much more interesting: efficiency.
Efficiency in the body feels like ease. Not the ease of doing nothing, but the ease of doing only what’s necessary.
It’s the difference between holding yourself in a shape and being supported in it. Between gripping and responding. Between effort and intelligence.
And, most meaningful for me, between feeling sluggish and springy, heavy and light – ultimately, into a sense of being deeply alive and full of vitality.
And I’ve not felt that since I was a child (I’m now 45).
Take a familiar posture like Warrior I (Virabhdrasana 1). It’s often approached with determination – feet firmly planted, muscles engaged, chest lifted, arms straight and palms forced inwards.
But if you pause and notice more closely, you might find extra effort layered in: tension in your jaw, tightness in your shoulders, stiffening of your joints and a subtle holding of your breath.
None of these are helping. They’re just habits. And something we think support us to create the ‘perfect shape’ – to be good at yoga.
But yoga is about so much more than that.
What happens if you begin to soften in these places?
This is where the idea of ‘minimum effective effort‘ comes in. Instead of asking ‘how much more can I do?’, the question becomes: what can I stop doing?
If you reduce your effort by even 10–20%, something surprising often happens. The breath deepens. The body reorganises. The shape feels lighter, not weaker. More stable, not less.
This is the beginning of what many describe as buoyancy – a sense of lift that arises not from force, but from release.
It’s closely connected to the breath. On your exhale, unnecessary tension drains away. Your jaw softens, your belly releases, your pelvic floor lets go. Then your inhale arrives naturally, and with it, a quiet, effortless lift through you’re spine. You’re no longer holding yourself up; you’re being lifted by what feels like an invisible force.
This approach is central to Scaravelli-inspired yoga, which is my approach. It emphasises working with gravity rather than against it. Instead of bracing or fixing your body into shape, you allow certain areas – like the pelvis – to release downward, creating space for the spine to respond and rise.
The result is a body that feels both grounded and light. Stable, yet mobile.
Importantly, this isn’t about collapsing or disengaging. There is still effort – but it’s refined. Your legs support, your feet root, your structure holds. But everything else is free to soften. Over time, you begin to distinguish between support (which you need) and tension (which you don’t).
And this doesn’t stay on the mat. As your body learns to use less unnecessary effort, the effects carry into daily life. You may notice less physical fatigue, more ease in movement, even a quieter mind. The practice becomes less about achieving shapes and more about changing your relationship with effort itself.
So the next time you step onto your mat, try a different approach. Instead of pushing further, do slightly less. Soften what isn’t needed. Let your breath move you.
And see what happens when you stop trying to hold yourself up – and allow a sense of lightness to emerge instead.
Enjoy x