The Intellect of the Heart

"Yoga must be practiced with the intellect of the head as well as the intellect of the heart."– B.K.S. Iyengar

As both a physical therapist and a yoga therapist, I’ve spent years studying the body—its structure, its patterns, its capacity to heal and grow. I love the precision of alignment, the logic of biomechanics, and the clarity that comes from a thoughtful, well-sequenced practice. But over time, I’ve realized that something essential is missing when we rely only on the facts and rules that can be stored and retrieved from our minds.

Iyengar’s words remind me that our practice—and our healing—needs more than knowledge. It also needs heart.

And not just the physical heart, although of course that organ sustains our practice. In the yogic tradition, the heart is also called Anahata—a Sanskrit word that translates to “unstruck.” It refers to the place within us that is self-sustaining and untouched by external noise or chaos. The part of us that is whole and steady, even when everything around us is changing.

Learning to practice from that place has changed everything for me.

In my early years as a therapist, I approached the body like a puzzle: assess, correct, fix. And sometimes, that’s what’s needed. But the longer I’ve practiced and the more "issues" I have treated—both clinically and personally—the more I’ve come to see that healing doesn’t always come from fixing. It comes from listening and the heart listens in a very different way than the head does.

The head often wants to get it “right.” It asks, Am I doing this correctly? Am I doing enough? The heart asks something simpler, but deeper: What do I need right now? What is true for me in this moment?

Now I know, practicing with the intellect of the heart doesn’t mean abandoning alignment or structure. It means bringing curiosity and compassion into the conversation. It’s the shift from trying to perform a pose to inhabiting it. It’s letting your breath lead instead of your ambition.

Some days I come to the mat with a plan, and that plan serves me well. Other days, I notice my body or breath or energy asking for something different—and if I can get quiet enough to listen, I’m always grateful I did.

This isn't about becoming passive or overly emotional. Trust me, I am not that kind of yoga teacher. It’s about letting the heart’s clarity lead. When we do, we often find a new steadiness—a kind of inner equilibrium that isn’t dependent on how the pose looks or how "good" the practice feels. Instead, it’s rooted in truth. It feels like alignment, not just in the body, but in the self. It’s the moment we stop “doing yoga” and start being in yoga. That’s the kind of steadiness I want for myself, and it’s the kind I wish for those I work with, too—not just in their yoga, but in their lives.

The next time you practice, begin by placing your hand over your heart. Let your breath land there. No need to force anything—just notice.

Then move slowly. Listen in. Ask yourself gently:

• What am I feeling?

• What would it mean to practice from the heart right now?

• Can I allow enough space for both structure and softness?

And at the end of practice, notice if anything has shifted—not in your poses, but in your inner state.

Yoga, like life, is not something to master—it's a place to find a balance between effort and ease, a "yolking" of seemingly unrelated things. When we practice with both the intellect head and the heart, we remember that we’re already whole. Not because we’ve done everything right, but because at our core—at the level of Anahata—we’ve never been broken.

And maybe that’s the most important thing of all.