Finding the middle way in Cambodia

Walking through the temple grounds, I found myself mesmerised by the murals narrating the life of the Buddha. Each intricate detail seemed alive, radiating wisdom. One mural, in particular, held me spellbound: the Buddha seated beneath the Bodhi tree, emaciated from severe fasting but illuminated by the realisation that would transform his life and the world.

This was the moment he discovered the Middle Way: the path between extremes of indulgence and self-denial. Having nearly died in his pursuit of enlightenment through asceticism, he realised that neither extreme offered true freedom. As I stood before this mural, something within me clicked. For the past year, my yoga practice had consumed my life. My tapas, a Sanskrit term for self-discipline or inner fire, had become all-encompassing. I woke before dawn to meditate and practice asana. Off the mat, I renounced romantic relationships, abstained from sex, avoided alcohol, and turned down social gatherings. Even the thought of joy outside of practice felt like a distraction. I began attending a Zen Buddhist temple multiple times a week, even considering monastic life. Restriction became my guiding principle, and I believed I was moving closer to liberation. While my meditation deepened and I learned some amazing lessons during this time, I also felt a growing unease I couldn’t ignore.

That unease crystallised when I encountered a teacher who embodied extreme asceticism. His devotion to abstinence seemed unwavering, and he demanded the same from his students. Yet, his body betrayed his rigidity: his movements stiff, his energy joyless. Something felt off. I started to notice that he wasn’t just using harsh language, he was verbally abusive. I decided to dig deeper and discovered he was abusive on multiple levels and had hurt others, including someone I cared about deeply. His repression had twisted into something destructive, spilling over in ways that left lasting scars. The betrayal felt devastating, compounded by the silence of those who had known but said nothing.

This reminded me of scandals in other spiritual or religious communities, where suppression often breeds harm. Tragically, the yoga world is not immune. Stories of abuse by once-revered gurus like Bikram Choudhury and Yogi Bhajan have left legacies marred by exploitation and broken trust. For me, yoga had been a path of healing. After years of enduring abuse in my own life, yoga helped me reconnect with my body, find peace, and rebuild trust in myself and others. To see it misused as a tool for harm was heartbreaking.

Standing before the mural of the Buddha, I understood: repression isn’t the answer. Freedom cannot be born from chains, whether self-imposed or enforced by others. I realised I needed to find my own Middle Way: a path of balance, not extremes.

Yoga, at its heart, is about liberation, not control; connection, not harm. Yet, my own practice had become harsh, rooted in self-punishment rather than love. One morning, pushing too hard during pranayama, I blacked out and hit my head. The resulting concussion left me unable to practice for two weeks, forcing me to sit with my thoughts. Why had I embraced such extreme discipline? Why was I so angry: at the abusers, at others, and at myself for letting someone like that into my life again? Slowly, I understood: my harshness toward myself stemmed from unhealed wounds. I wasn’t practicing self-discipline, I was punishing myself.

Around this time, Cambodia called to me in an unexpected way. From the moment I arrived, I felt an unshakable connection: to the land, the temples, and the people. It was a belonging I hadn’t felt since my time in Wales, where nature had once offered me a similar solace.

Letting go of my plans for Thailand wasn’t easy. For years, building a life there had been my dream. I had sacrificed so much to make it happen: a stable life in the Netherlands, a promising career, and close relationships. I had been looking forward to this chapter with everything in me, imagining a life rooted in purpose and fulfillment.

But life has a way of surprising us, especially when we change in ways we don’t expect. My 300-hour yoga teacher training was a turning point, that shifted not only my motivations but also my understanding of myself. What once felt like my ultimate goal no longer aligned with the authenticity and freedom I had been seeking since completing the training (read my blog post on the 300h training here). The reality was different than the plans I once had for Thailand, and I had to accept that my path had shifted. I knew that I needed to surrender to the flow of karma (cause and effect) and dharma (one’s true path), trusting that the journey will unfold as it’s meant to.

In Cambodia, the ancient temples stirred something profound within me. Their silent presence seemed to whisper of balance, inviting me to reevaluate my life. I had fallen in love: a choice I might once have dismissed as a distraction. Yet, this love taught me balance in ways I hadn’t anticipated. It demanded presence, grounding me in both my practice and the simple joys of life. For the first time, I experience love on a deeper level, not as something that needed to fit neatly into my life but as something to embrace freely. It became about loving the other person for who they truly are, without conditions or constraints. I began to see love not as something that detracted from my spiritual path but as a beautiful enrichment and as an opportunity to grow, deepen my understanding, and learn from in ways I hadn’t imagined.

I began to see that my earlier restrictions weren’t acts of self-discipline but manifestations of self-hatred. Loving someone fully illuminated how unkind I had often been to myself. Though I believed I had overcome self-loathing, I realised my self-love was still fragile, requiring constant care and intention to grow.
This awareness felt like an invitation, not a failure. Just as love requires attention and presence, so does the journey of truly loving oneself.

True discipline, I’ve learned, doesn’t reject joy: it chooses with awareness. Discipline born from love feels expansive, not restrictive. Skipping a day of practice no longer fills me with guilt but gratitude for honouring my needs in the moment. The repression I once admired in others was not freedom but fear. The Middle Way isn’t about abandoning effort; it’s about practicing with compassion. When you love yourself, your practice becomes an expression of that love, not a tool for control.

Now, I hold my plans lightly, trusting life to guide me. I no longer seek monumental achievements, only to live authentically and lovingly. The Middle Way has become my compass, guiding me toward a life where practice and pleasure coexist, where discipline and freedom walk hand in hand.

Here in Cambodia, among these ancient temples, I feel I’m finding it and perhaps, this is the lesson I am meant to learn here.