Aparigraha: What yoga teaches about letting go

I was holding onto a version of my life that didn't exist.

It was a specific simulation I had in my head so many times that it felt more real than the life I was actually living. The problem was that nothing was falling into place. I was trying to force my life into a specific shape, and the only way to do that was by melting me, shrinking me, breaking me to adjust into that shape. None of it worked. And none of it was self-love.

What I was struggling with has a name. In yoga philosophy, it's called Aparigraha.

What is Aparigraha?

If you've heard of Patanjali’s eight limbs of yoga (yama, niyama, asana, pranayama, pratyahara, dharana, dhyana, samadhi), the yamas are the first limb, the ethical foundations that guide how we relate to ourselves. Aparigraha is the fifth and final Yama usually translated as non-grasping, non-possessiveness, or non-attachment. The word itself breaks down into three parts: "graha" means to grab or seize, "pari" means from all sides, and the prefix "a" negates it.

The other four yamas are ahimsa (non-violence), satya (truthfulness), asteya (non-stealing), and brahmacharya (moderation). Aparigraha sits at the end, and I think there's a reason for that. It might be the hardest one.

Because aparigraha isn't just about not hoarding material things, although that's part of it. It's about not clinging to possessions, to outcomes, to relationships, to identities, to the way we think things are supposed to be. It's about taking only what you need, keeping only what serves you in the present, and letting go when the time is right.

The Bhagavad Gita teaches this beautifully: act for the sake of acting, not for a specific end result. Let your concern be with the action alone, not with the fruits of it. Easy to read on a page. Brutal to practise in life.

And here's what most explanations get wrong: aparigraha doesn't mean not caring. It doesn't mean detachment in the cold, checked-out sense. It means engaging fully in life while releasing the grip on how it's supposed to turn out. It's the difference between loving out of choice and loving out of need.

Aparigraha on the mat

Every yoga class is a small exercise in letting go. Whether you realise it or not. You let go of how the pose looked yesterday. You let go of the person next to you who seems to float into every posture. You let go of your expectation of what your body should be able to do today.

Or you don't let go. You grip. You push. You force your body into a shape it doesn't want to be in, because you've decided this is where you should be by now. Sound familiar? It should, because it's the exact same pattern that plays out off the mat.

I remember being in the perfect pigeon pose. All joints in a 90-degree angle but hurting and having my jaw clenched. The teacher saying, "Can you soften here?" and my immediate internal reaction was no, because softening felt like giving up. I thought that if I just pushed harder, my hips would eventually relax. That if I kept forcing, the pose would surrender to me.

That's not how it works. Not in pigeon pose. Not in life.

The moment I stopped trying to force my hips into the "full expression" of the pose and simply let them be where they were, that's when they started softening. Not because I gave up, but because I stopped fighting. Aparigraha on the mat is exactly this: practising for the love of practising, not for a specific result. Letting your body be where it is today without dragging it toward where you think it should be.

Aparigraha in meditation

If aparigraha on the mat is about letting go of physical expectations, in meditation it's about letting go of mental ones. And honestly, this is where it gets really uncomfortable.

You sit down. You close your eyes. You try to meditate. And immediately the mind goes: "Am I doing this right? I should be calmer by now. Why am I thinking about what happened earlier? A good meditator wouldn't be this distracted."

That's grasping. That's parigraha from all sides. You're clinging to an image of what meditation is supposed to look and feel like, and when your actual experience doesn't match, you judge yourself for it.

My meditation practice got infinitely better the day I stopped trying to have a "good" meditation. The day I accepted that some sits would be restless, some would be emotional, some would be boring, and that none of that meant I was failing.

I think meditation is the purest training ground for aparigraha because there's nothing to hold onto. No pose, no alignment, no physical anchor. Just you and your thoughts. And the practice is simply this: notice the thought, let it go. Notice the emotion, let it go. Notice the urge to fix or judge or control, let it go.

Over and over and over.

It sounds simple but it's the same muscle you need when life asks you to let go of something much bigger: a relationship, an identity, a dream.

Aparigraha in life

Which brings me back to where I started.

I held onto that version of my life for far longer than served me. Not because I didn't see the signs. I saw them, but I couldn't let go because the dream was so vivid, so detailed, so deeply embedded in who I thought I was supposed to become, that releasing it felt scary.

The Bhagavad Gita says not to be attached to the fruits of your action. I think the harder version of that is: don't be attached to the fruits of your imagination. But once you see the illusion for what it is, you get your present back. The only real thing is now. Not the life you imagined. Not the shape you were trying to squeeze into. Just this. Just here.

I won't pretend the letting go is clean or graceful. It is messy, but somewhere in that mess, if you stop trying to force it you can finally breathe.

Aparigraha doesn't ask you to stop wanting things. It doesn't ask you to stop caring or dreaming or loving. It asks you to hold all of it with open hands instead of a clenched fist. To love without gripping. To dream without demanding. To live fully in what is, instead of aching for what was supposed to be.

I'm still practising. On the mat, in meditation, and in life, every single day. Some days I grip. Some days I soften. But I know the difference now, and that knowing changes everything.

What are you holding onto that's asking to be released?