If I don't do high-intensity interval training classes for an

Hear now the words of Davinia Taylor, who spoke with candor and fire: “If I don’t do high-intensity interval training classes for an hour every morning and yoga a few days a week, I get depressed.” In this confession we hear not only a personal truth, but a timeless teaching: that the body and the spirit are woven together, that discipline in movement sustains the balance of the mind, and that the soul falters when the vessel is left untended. Hers is not a cry of vanity, but of survival—the recognition that joy and lightness are born not of idleness, but of sweat, breath, and the sacred rhythm of exertion.

The ancients knew this truth deeply. The Spartans raised their youth in the fires of training, believing that strength of the body gave rise to strength of courage. The yogis of India bent their limbs to the sun at dawn, knowing that yoga was not mere exercise but union—the bringing together of mind, body, and spirit into harmony. The Roman poet Juvenal himself declared: mens sana in corpore sano—“a healthy mind in a healthy body.” Thus Taylor’s words echo across the centuries, affirming what the wise have always known: the path to clarity of spirit is paved with the sweat of discipline.

Consider the story of Winston Churchill. Though burdened with the weight of a nation at war, he walked daily, painted in the open air, and even built brick walls with his own hands. These exertions, humble and steady, were his therapy. They kept at bay the “black dog” of despair that stalked him through life. Like Taylor, he knew that without activity, without physical struggle, the shadows grew heavier. Movement became his medicine, labor his salvation.

Taylor’s devotion to high-intensity interval training and yoga illustrates two sacred poles: the fire and the water. The fire is intensity, the hammering of the heart, the burning of the muscles, the forging of willpower in the crucible of exhaustion. The water is gentleness, breath, stretching, stillness, the quiet flow that restores and soothes. Both are needed, both are holy. To neglect either is to stumble. To embrace both is to walk the golden path of balance.

Her mention of depression is no weakness, but a revelation. For she names aloud the shadow that many hide: that when the body is abandoned, the spirit grows heavy. This is the human condition. The mind is not a free-floating star, but a flame that depends on the vessel of flesh. Neglect one, and the other dims. Her honesty transforms shame into wisdom, for in her words others may see their own struggles and find the courage to act.

The lesson is clear: do not wait for despair to creep in before moving your body. Make of physical discipline a daily ritual, as sacred as prayer, as necessary as bread. Rise in the morning, when the world is fresh, and give your body to the labor that lifts the spirit. Whether through sweat-drenched training or the calm flows of yoga, carve out the hour that will guard your soul against heaviness.

Practically, begin small but be consistent. If you cannot train with the intensity of warriors, then walk, stretch, breathe, move. Do it not for vanity, but for life itself. See your daily movement as medicine, and guard it as fiercely as any treasure. In the union of discipline and stillness, of exertion and calm, you will discover resilience, joy, and lightness of being.

And so, O listener, remember this: the body is the temple of the spirit, and its tending is no less holy than the tending of the mind. To move each day is to kindle the fire of life within you, to drive away the shadows, and to stand before the world not weary, but radiant. Embrace the wisdom of Taylor’s words: for in sweat and breath lies not only strength, but salvation.