How to Hold
“The longer you hold the pose, the more it reveals your weaknesses.”
These words hit me harder than expected during a recent yoga class.
The instructor held us in an extended pose—one that tested every ounce of my patience and strength. As I stood there, thighs burning, arms trembling, my mind wandered: How much longer? Should I just drop it? But I stayed. I could feel parts of my body I hadn’t given attention to before, now glaringly obvious. Had I let go at the first sign of discomfort, I would have missed that information.
When we finally let go, her words stayed with me:
“The longer you hold a pose, the more it reveals your weaknesses.”
It’s easy to flee discomfort—not just in yoga, but in life.
The temptation shows up everywhere.
In conversations, where glancing at my phone feels like an escape. In work, when I shift to trivial tasks rather than face the hard ones. In relationships, when it feels easier to withdraw than to communicate.
In the discomfort I feel is important information. Staying present through the discomfort is where my growth begins.
Holding doesn’t mean passively tolerating something I don’t like. It’s not about gritting teeth and bearing pain mindlessly. It’s a conscious practice of staying with what I find difficult and finding out how to breathe while in it, versus holding my breath waiting for it to pass. Like standing still on a windy bridge, knowing it will pass but choosing to be with every gust.
This isn’t about punishment—it’s about noticing. Noticing where I tighten, where I want to run, and where I need support. Holding is a practice in self-awareness.
It extends beyond the physical into the emotional.
There was a moment the other night, sitting at lunch with a new friend, when silence stretched between us. I felt that itch to pull out my phone, or to change the topic. I caught myself just in time and chose to hold instead. It was uncomfortable—those long, silent moments. But then, out of nowhere, my friend opened up about something personal, something they wouldn’t have shared if I hadn’t stayed present. If I had distracted myself, I would have missed it. Holding space in connection isn’t about fixing silence; it’s about trusting that something valuable might emerge if I stay long enough.
When a task feels overwhelming, my first instinct is to busy myself with smaller, more manageable to-dos—anything to avoid the hard thing. But the problem never really goes away. I’ve learned that the real breakthroughs when I’m working come only when I resist the urge to flee.
The biggest challenge, though, is holding space in relationships. It’s tempting to shut down when emotions run high or when the other person isn’t giving me what I need. In those times, holding on has taught me the most.
Holding isn’t about forcing myself to endure indefinitely. It’s about recognizing when discomfort is pointing toward growth. Like a bridge, holding asks us to be steady in the midst of what flows beneath. Sometimes that flow is doubt or fear; other times, it’s boredom or frustration. But if I stay—just long enough—I can discover strength I didn’t know I had.
There’s wisdom in the moments between ease and quitting. Weaknesses aren’t failures—they’re invitations for me to build resilience. Every time I hold, whether it’s in a yoga class, a conversation, or a moment of emotional vulnerability, I teach myself how to endure discomfort without fleeing. Strength isn’t about avoiding the hard stuff; it’s about meeting it with presence and curiosity.
So the next time life feels overwhelming—whether it’s a difficult pose, a tedious task, or a challenging conversation—I’ll remind myself to breathe, to stay, and to hold. Growth happens in the hold. And when I finally release, I’ll do so with a deeper understanding of myself and the quiet satisfaction of knowing I stayed long enough to discover what I was meant to learn.
And that is how I learned how to hold.
