Why I’ve Stopped Saying Namaste at the End of Class

What lineage, colonial history, and personal integrity have taught me as a yoga teacher

If you’ve taken one of my classes in person recently, you may have noticed something quietly missing at the end. I no longer close the practice with namaste. That change wasn’t sudden or flippant. It came after a lot of reflection, study, listening, and a willingness to sit with some discomfort.

So let’s start at the beginning, with what the word actually means.

Namaste (pronounced nah-mah-stay) is a respectful greeting from Sanskrit. It translates roughly as “I bow to you” — nama meaning bow, as meaning I, and te meaning you. Traditionally, it’s accompanied by pressing the palms together at the heart. On a deeper level, it acknowledges the divine light, or inner essence, within another person. You’ll often hear it interpreted as “The divine in me honours the divine in you,” a recognition of shared humanity, oneness, and mutual respect.

It’s a beautiful word. Dense with meaning. Ancient, relational, reverent.

I did my teacher training in India, and my teacher was Indian. He impressed upon us the importance of lineage — of honouring his teachers and gurus, and the long, unbroken chain of knowledge being passed down. From teacher to student, from student to teacher, again and again. Yoga, as it was taught to us, was never a finished qualification. We remain students for life, continually learning, studying, evolving.

Within that context, ending a class with namaste made sense. In traditional settings, it’s a gesture of gratitude and recognition. Teacher and student bow to one another, acknowledging that neither stands above the other. We are equal participants in the exchange. We are all vessels of shared knowledge. It closes the practice with humility, unity, and respect.

The heritage of yoga is deeply important to me, and it always has been. I don’t see philosophy or Sanskrit as optional extras, or as aesthetic flourishes layered on top of movement. I consciously try to include them in my classes because yoga is so much more than asana. The physical shapes are one doorway, but they aren’t the whole house. Ethics, philosophy, language, myth, and inquiry are all part of the practice, and removing them entirely risks flattening yoga into something it was never meant to be. Continuing to study and share these elements feels like one way of honouring yoga’s roots rather than erasing them.

Outside of yoga spaces, namaste is also a fairly common greeting in parts of India and Nepal. It’s used to say hello or goodbye, a little like “aloha.” It can be casual, but it’s often more formal than a simple “hi,” especially when addressing elders or respected figures. Context matters.

And context is where things begin to get complicated.

In recent years, there’s been growing conversation — and controversy — around whether it’s appropriate for non-Indian yoga teachers to use namaste at the end of class. To understand why this question even exists, it helps to zoom out.

India was a colonised country. From 1757 to 1947, under British rule, many traditional Indian practices — including yoga and Ayurveda — were suppressed, mocked, or actively discouraged. This wasn’t accidental. It was part of a broader attempt to erase or devalue local culture in favour of Western norms.

Fast forward to today, and yoga is a global, multi-billion-pound industry. Much of what’s marketed as “yoga” in the West has been heavily reframed — stripped of philosophy, ethics, language, and context — to make it more palatable, profitable, and consumable. In many ways, this sanitisation can be seen as a continuation of colonial dynamics: taking from a culture while disconnecting it from its roots.

Cultural appropriation is generally understood as the adoption of elements from a non-dominant culture by a dominant one, without sufficient acknowledgement, respect, or understanding. Because of historical power imbalances created by colonialism, the West has been able to extract, repackage, and profit from Indian cultural and spiritual practices, while the originating culture continues to experience systemic marginalisation.

Within that framework, the use of namaste can become uncomfortable.

In some settings, it’s used to add an “exotic” or “spiritual” veneer to what is otherwise a secular exercise class. It can be tacked onto the end of a session that has used no other Sanskrit, offered no philosophical grounding, and bears little resemblance to traditional yoga beyond the shapes. In those moments, the word can feel less like reverence and more like decoration. Less like honouring lineage, more like borrowing aesthetic.

For me, there’s also a personal responsibility to acknowledge who I am within this system. I am a white yoga teacher teaching a practice that does not originate from my own culture. That awareness matters. If there is a genuine possibility that a word or gesture could cause offence, it costs me nothing to leave it out. Namaste carries spiritual and devotional connotations that go beyond everyday Sanskrit terminology, which is why it sits in a slightly different category to using Sanskrit pose names or philosophical terms within a class. Those words can be taught, contextualised, and explored as part of learning. Namaste, especially when used as a closing ritual, carries a weight that deserves careful consideration.

That doesn’t mean namaste is inherently wrong. It doesn’t mean no non-Indian teacher should ever say it. But it does invite us to ask whether we’re using it consciously, relationally, and with integrity — or whether we’re repeating a habit without fully inhabiting its meaning.

For me, stepping away from namaste has been an act of satya — truthfulness. Not because I don’t love the word, or respect its depth, but because I want my teaching to be aligned rather than automatic. I want the closing of a class to reflect where I am, what I’m offering, and the cultural responsibility that comes with teaching a practice rooted in a tradition that is not my own.

Yoga asks us to stay awake. To notice when something once meaningful becomes rote. To question, to listen, to evolve.

So while you won’t hear namaste at the end of my classes right now, the intention behind it hasn’t disappeared. Gratitude is still there. Respect is still there. The bow is still there — just expressed in a way that feels more honest for me at this point in my practice.

And, as always, I remain a student.