What is Submission and how it can easily be Mistaken for Surrender

Recently I read a reflection by another teacher about the closure of a yoga organisation that I once trained with. There was one line in particular that stopped me:

When submission is mistaken for surrender.

I sat with that sentence for a long time.

Not because I believe my experience was the same as hers. Not because I want to tell anyone
else what they should think.

• But because it made me ask difficult questions of myself.
• Not long ago, I travelled to India to continue my studies.

If I am honest, I did not arrive because of devotion to a particular teacher, lineage, or personality. I arrived because the dates aligned. I wanted to travel. I wanted to immerse myself. I wanted to train. Like many yoga students before me, I carried an idea that perhaps India held something ancient, something deeper, something that would expand my understanding of yoga.

At that point in my life I was already a trained and experienced teacher. I arrived curious, open,
and willing to learn. And I did learn. I learnt practices. I learnt language. I met incredible people. I experienced moments of beauty and connection that remain meaningful to me. But with time and distance, I also began reflecting on aspects of spiritual culture that made me uncomfortable.

I found myself asking:

• At what point does respect become obedience?
• At what point does trust become dependency?
• At what point does surrender become submission?

These are uncomfortable questions because they are not only about teachers or organisations. They are about us. Yoga speaks often of surrender. Surrender to life. Surrender to practice. Surrender to something greater than ourselves. But yoga also asks us to cultivate awareness.

• To observe.
• To discriminate.
• To remain awake.

The older I get, the less interested I become in certainty, charisma, hierarchy, and the performance of spirituality. And the more interested I become in steadiness.

• In truth.
• In teachers who encourage questions.
• In communities where people remain human.
• Perhaps what burns a little is not what others did.
• Perhaps what burns is recognising my own capacity to look away.
• My own desire to belong.
• My own willingness to assume that intensity meant wisdom.
• That devotion meant depth.
• That surrender meant growth.
• I do not write this with bitterness.
• I do not regret travelling.
• I do not regret studying.
• I do not regret meeting the people I met.

But I do think yoga has matured for me. Today, I believe practice should leave us more ourselves, not less. More connected to inner knowing, not further from it. More able to stand steady in complexity.

Not rigid. Not submissive. Not asleep. Perhaps real surrender is not giving ourselves away. Perhaps it is trusting ourselves enough to stay awake.