March Newsletter

The Quiet Obstacles of the Mind

“Ignorance, egoism, attachment, aversion, and clinging to life are the causes of suffering.” Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, II.3

In a recent men’s yoga class, a story surfaced that began as little more than familiar golf-course conversation.

One of the men had just participated in a member–guest tournament at his club. In this format, a member invites a guest to play alongside him-often someone he would like to introduce to the club. In this case, the guest happened to be the boyfriend of a friend of his wife. They had never played together before.

Before the round began, the customary question came up: What’s your handicap?

The guest replied that he was a 15.

My student responded that he was a 16 and that he played like a 16.

With that simple exchange, the expectations for the day were quietly set.

But as the round unfolded, something didn’t quite match the story that had been told. The pace slowed. Shots scattered. A round that normally would have taken four hours stretched toward five.

By the end of the day it had become fairly clear that the number offered at the beginning of the round had been more aspiration than reality.

At first glance it seemed harmless enough. A small exaggeration. No real damage done.

And yet the ripple moved outward.

The group arrived nearly an hour late to the gathering that followed the tournament. Wives were waiting. Plans shifted. The rhythm of the entire afternoon had changed because of a single small distortion.

When the story surfaced in class, nearly every man in the room nodded in recognition. Most golfers have experienced some version of this moment-when the story someone tells about themselves doesn’t quite match reality.

 Yoga invites us to pause when moments like this appear. Not to judge the other person, but to look more deeply at the nature of the mind itself.

In the Yoga Sutras, the sage Patanjali describes five forces that quietly shape human perception and behavior.

 He calls them the Kleshas—the obstacles of the mind.

The first is Avidya, often translated as ignorance or misunderstanding reality. It is the tendency to confuse the story we wish were true with the reality that actually exists.

From that misunderstanding arises Asmita, the sense of ego or identity. The mind naturally wants to protect the image we hold of ourselves—the capable golfer, the competent professional, the person who has it all together.

Once that identity forms, attachment follows. This is Raga, the attachment to the version of ourselves we want the word to see

And naturally the opposite begins to emerge: Dvesha, aversion. We resist situations that might expose our weaknesses or challenge the identities we have built.

Beneath all of it lies Abhinivesha, the subtle but powerful fear of losing our footing- the quiet anxiety that if those identities fall away, we may feel uncertain or exposed.

What makes these teachings so powerful is that they are not describing “other people.” They are describing the quiet patterns that live within every human mind.

Avidya appears when we mistake our personal narrative for truth.Asmita surfaces when we protect an identity we have carefully constructed.Raga binds us to that identity, while Dvesha pushes away anything that threatens it. And Abhinivesha whispers beneath it all, reminding us how deeply we wish to feel secure in who we believe ourselves to be.

Seen through this lens, the story from the golf course becomes less about a misrepresented handicap and more about something deeply human.

We all carry versions of ourselves we hope the world will see.

Yoga does not ask us to judge those tendencies. It simply asks us to notice them. And that noticing is where the deeper practices begin.

This is where Pratyahara quietly enters the conversation. Often translated as the withdrawal of the senses, Pratyahara invites us to step back from the external story-the frustration, the chatter, the surface details-and turn inward.

Instead of asking, Why would someone do that?

The practice asks a different question:

What is happening inside of me right now?

Why does this moment linger?Why does it stay with me long enough to show up days later in a yoga class?

When we turn inward in this way, the practice of Svadhyaya, self-study, naturally follows.

Self-study is not simply noticing that something bothers us. It is the willingness to explore the deeper layers of our own reactions.

Why do certain situations frustrate us more than others?

What expectations were we carrying into that moment?

What assumptions did we make about how the day, the conversation, or the experience would unfold?

The answers to those questions reveal something important:

we are often participating in the very patterns that unsettle us.

This is where yoga quietly leaves the mat and enters everyday life.

How often do we walk into a room carrying the emotional residue of the day?

How often do we remain in situations that, if we are honest with ourselves, leave us feeling drained or unsettled?

 How often do we sit down for coffee with someone while our mind is still replaying something from hours earlier?

Without awareness, we simply move through these patterns unconsciously.

With awareness, something begins to shift.

We soften.We become curious.We begin to see ourselves more clearly.

And when we see clearly, our choices begin to change.

The ancient yogic texts are remarkably honest about the human condition. They remind us that the mind is not always a reliable narrator. It protects identity, defends stories, and quietly reshapes reality in ways that help us feel secure.

 Yoga offers another possibility.

Through awareness, through self-study, and through the willingness to pause, we begin to recognize these patterns as they arise.

And in that moment of recognition, the obstacles of the mind begin to loosen their grip.

Sometimes all it takes is an unexpectedly long round of golf to remind us how quietly they operate.

“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.”- Aristotle- 

Read Full Newsletter