This text is born from several reflections that I have been sharing on Instagram during the last months. Loose fragments about non-violence, about armor, about the silent demand. Today I wanted to gather them in a single thread, not to repeat them, but to deepen them. Because sometimes ideas need space. And because ahimsa, when it is truly lived, does not fit in a post.
I have lived in three countries, on three different continents, in different languages and if migration teaches you anything, it’s this: you learn to grow armor quickly.
You learn how to scan a room before speaking, how to adjust your tone so you don’t sound “too much.” How to soften your accent, to hide confusion behind a polite smile or become adaptable — which is a beautiful word for survival. From the outside, none of that looks violent. It looks resilient, but over time, I began to notice something uncomfortable: the most persistent form of violence in my life wasn’t external. It wasn’t in borders, paperwork, or cultural misunderstandings, it was in the way I spoke to myself.
When we think of violence, I guess we imagine shouting, hitting, insults. The visible kind. The kind we can point at. But the most common form is much quieter. It happens when we ignore what we feel because it’s inconvenient. When we belittle what we do because someone else does it better. When we feel ashamed of who we are because we don’t quite match the room. When we shrink in front of life because old insecurities are still negotiating on our behalf. That is violence too.
And often it is the hardest kind, because it uses our own voice. It sounds responsible, even humble. It disguises itself as discipline, ambition, cultural sensitivity, professionalism, But underneath I felt it as erosion.
Ahimsa — non-violence — is not an abstract spiritual concept. It is not a decorative Sanskrit word to place next to a candle. It is a daily practice that begins in the most unglamorous place: self-awareness.
It begins by noticing the small gestures through which we hurt ourselves without calling it harm. The sarcastic inner commentary. The refusal to rest. The constant self-correction. The pressure to be pleasant, productive, and emotionally regulated at all times.
Migration sharpened this for me. When you live between cultures, you become hyper-aware. You learn to adapt — which is a gift — but you can also begin to amputate parts of yourself in the process. Tone it down. Blend it in. Don’t be difficult. Don’t be too intense. Don’t be too foreign. Don’t be too different. At some point, adaptation stops being flexibility and starts becoming self-erasure. That is where ahimsa becomes radical for me. My daily practice of Non-violence starts in how I speak to myself when I make a cultural mistake, allow myself to be tired of translating — literally and emotionally or how I give myself permission to exist without constantly justifying my presence. So maybe…only from there can non-violence extend outward in a way that is real. Otherwise, what we call “kindness” toward others easily becomes self-abandonment disguised as maturity.
So, now let’s talk about armor. Wearing one is heavy. It protects, yes. I needed it. Many of us did. When you move across countries, you build layers fast. You learn to anticipate discomfort. You brace before it arrives. Downside… armor also isolates. It exhausts. It hardens the very places that long for connection.
Letting it go is not dramatic. It doesn’t happen all at once. It is learning when to set it down and here at this very point Yoga has been one of the places where I practice this consciously. Not because it makes me “peaceful” in a decorative way, but because the body does not lie. In a posture, in a breath, I notice the shield in my jaw, in my shoulders, in my diaphragm. I notice how much tension I carry in anticipation and knowing that, noticing that sometimes, for a few breaths, I let go, experiencing what it feels like to exist without bracing against the world, learning how to loosen my own armor a little so as not to live imprisoned inside it.
And just to clarify — because spiritual language can get slippery — ahimsa is not about letting people walk all over you. It is not playing the zen martyr in your own life story. It is not becoming emotional Play-Doh and absorbing everyone’s projections with a decorative Buddha smile. You will certainly need clear, very clear boundaries.
Now let’s look at Ahimsa from another angle: there is also a homemade version of violence that hides behind productivity and politeness. Pushing yourself until you break and calling it commitment. Shaming yourself for having emotions and calling it strength. Minimizing your achievements so you don’t seem arrogant. Swallowing your words to keep others comfortable and calling it maturity.
Ahimsa is a very human — be human — attempt not to explode or implode. Not to victimize yourself. Not to live in self-deception. Not to destroy others or yourself just because unfamiliar tones of voice or cultural differences activate old defenses. Is it hard, uncomfortable? Yes. Impossible? I think not.
Acknowledging that we live in a world that often confuses harshness with strength, choosing tenderness toward yourself is not weakness. It is revolutionary. It is refusing to continue an inner war that no one else can even see. Let’s try to surrender to the endless internal struggle that keeps demanding more perfection, more control, more adaptation than any nervous system can sustainably give.
Perhaps, letting the body rest without negotiating, allowing support without guilt, admitting you are tired without turning it into a personal failure. That could be embodying Ahimsa ina realistic way, embodied practice
For me, now Ahimsa is no longer just a philosophical principle. It is a daily migration — from self-judgment to self-respect. From armor to discernment. From survival to presence, pausing in the chaos.
A gift to myself, so tomorrow can find me a little softer, a little steadier, and maybe — just maybe — a little more awake.