There’s a shape my body knows.
I didn’t learn it in a class or from a book.
I don’t even remember deciding to do it.
But I find myself in it — every morning, every night.
Balasana. Child’s Pose.

It looks simple from the outside — a quiet folding inward.
But from the inside, it feels like something else.
A bowing. A returning.

In the morning,
I press my forehead to the earth.
I whisper, I surrender. I accept what is. I am content. I trust life unfolding.
I don’t say it to be wise.
I say it because my body already believes it.
Because some part of me — the part that doesn’t need language — knows it’s true.

At night, I curl into the same shape.
But this time, I say:
Today has been well. I have done everything I have to do.
It’s a closing, not a giving up.
A soft exhale into rest.
A bow to the day for all that it was — and all that it wasn’t.

Balasana is more than a stretch for me.
It’s a ritual I can’t quite explain.
A place where I feel both held and free.
A posture of presence.
A return —
to myself, to the breath, to something older than habit.

The body remembers things the mind cannot name.

Maybe Balasana is my deepest prayer.
Maybe this quiet, gentle way —
is enough.
Is sacred.
Is yoga.

Karin Sabrina