From Performance to Presence: Why I Stepped Away from Social Media

There was a time when sharing felt like a natural extension of my practice. I had been a part of that space since 2014.

In the beginning, it wasn’t something I needed to manage or maintain. It was simply an offering… a way of expressing what was moving through me, what was being lived and discovered on and sometimes off the mat.

But over time, something began to shift.

I’m not able to point to one exact moment where it changed. It was more of a slow erosion. What once felt like devotion gradually began to feel like a heavy obligation. What once felt like expression began to feel like something I had to keep up with. And I could feel this in my body… a kind of clenching, a tightening, a quiet, persistent sense of “I have to do this,” even when something deeper in me no longer wanted to.

There was a pressure that built, subtle at first, then more consuming.

A pressure to maintain what had been created. To keep up with the numbers. To continue offering advanced poses, consistent content, constant imagery. And as the platform evolved, it required even more… more video, more presence, more noise. There were seasons where I was posting multiple times a day, trying to stay connected, hoping to remain visible. And even when I shifted to posting once a day, there were moments where I simply could not keep up with what was being asked.

What held me there most wasn’t the work itself, but an underlying fear.

The fear of losing what had come forth. The fear of losing the people who had gathered. The fear that if I changed, or softened, or showed something different, it would all begin to slowly disappear.

At one point, I realized I had created multiple accounts for myself.

One space held my yoga practice, but even that began to take on a performative quality. Another held a creative expression through handmade soaps. Another became a place for poetry and art. And yet another held the quieter, more nourishing aspects of my work… Ayurveda, meditation, holistic care, flower mandalas, the slower rhythms that feel most like home to me.

Looking back, I see that I was dividing myself.

Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t feel fully safe bringing all of who I am into one space. When I would gently begin to share those other parts, there was a response… a loss, a shift, a subtle pulling away. And so, I adapted. I learned to separate. I found myself holding tightly to what had been built.

Somewhere along the way, the numbers began to take on meaning.

They quietly became a reflection of belonging. Of being relevant. Of being seen. They held a kind of validation that all the years of practice, study, and devotion mattered. And yet, at the same time, they became something I was chasing, something I was carrying, something I was trying to protect. There was a constant reaching… for the next post, the next moment of visibility, the next confirmation that I was still connected.

There were also things I witnessed that quietly shifted something inside of me.

I saw people share products they didn’t truly love. I heard conversations that revealed a disconnect between what was being offered and what was actually lived. And while I hold deep compassion for the reality that many people are simply trying to support themselves, it created a subtle fracture in my own trust… not just in the space, but in what I was receiving from it.

And there was a cost.

A real one.

Time with my family. Time in stillness. Time in meditation. Energy that could have been placed into something nourishing. There were evenings where I felt scattered and hurried, trying to create something because I felt I needed to, rather than because it was true to do so. There were tears. There were moments where the joy I once felt in sharing had faded into something much heavier.

More than anything, it began to affect my relationship with myself.

I knew, for a long time, that something wasn’t aligned. I could feel it clearly. And yet, I wasn’t able to step away. It felt like being in a relationship that I had outgrown, but didn’t yet have the clarity or courage to leave. That tension… between knowing and not acting… stayed with me for quite some time.

Until one day, I simply had enough.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t planned. It was just clear.

And I stopped.

It had been unraveling internally for a long time, but when the decision came, it came cleanly. I stepped away, and I’ve been away for nine months now.

In that space, something opened.

I began sharing in a different way, on a different platform… one that feels much more aligned with how I show up the world. There is a spaciousness there. A freedom. I no longer feel that I have to keep up or perform or produce at a certain pace. I share when it feels true. I bring all parts of myself into what I offer, without needing to pre-filter.

And I can feel the difference.

There is openness now. There is breath. There is a sense of peace that was not present before.

Looking back, I can see that what was most difficult was not the platform itself, but what I was asking of myself within it. It simply wasn’t aligned with who I am, and that was never really sustainable.

If I were to sit with someone who is still inside that experience, I wouldn’t try to convince them of anything. I would simply sit with them. I would let them know that I understand. And I would hold a quiet hope that they find their way… whatever that looks like for them.

Because we all have patterns.

We can notice them on the mat. The way we enter a pose. The way we hold it. The way we resist or push or hesitate. And those same patterns live in our lives… in our choices, in the relationships we stay in, even when something deeper is asking us to move.

And beneath those patterns, there are currents moving through us.

There is an energy that coils, that grips, that draws inward… and there is an energy that opens, that expands, that receives.

In many ways, this is what we are practicing in yoga.

We place the body into different shapes… not just to achieve something externally, but to feel these movements within us. To notice where we hold, where we resist, where we collapse, and where we can soften, open, and allow.

The practice is not to eliminate one or cling to the other.

It is to feel them.

To allow them to come into relationship.

To witness, gently, without judgment… the ways we hold, the ways we reach, the ways we stay longer than we need to, or move before we are ready.

And over time, to find a kind of balance… not forced, but felt.

A balance that allows a more honest response to emerge.

For me, that has meant returning to a way of sharing that feels whole. Not divided. Not driven. Just offered.

And that, in itself, feels like a kind of coming home.