Sitting With It: A Quiet Solar Plexus Practice for NHS Appointment Days

There is a particular kind of tiredness that lives in a waiting room. The low hum of a vending machine. A call board flicking through numbers. Somebody's coat rustling in the seat beside you. The car park ticket quietly expiring on your phone.

It is not, on the face of it, yoga. No mat, no candle, no soft-focus light. But yoga has never really been about the props — it's about where your attention goes. And a waiting room, for all its fluorescent honesty, gives you somewhere very real to put it.

This practice is for GP surgeries, outpatient clinics, phlebotomy queues, physio waiting areas and the slightly-too-warm corridor outside a consulting room. It takes about eight minutes, all of it seated. Nobody will know you're doing it. That's rather the point.

Why the solar plexus, of all places

In the Manipura tradition, the solar plexus is where steadiness meets self-respect — the soft, warm centre just below the ribs that tends to tighten when we feel small, examined or out of our depth. Appointment days press on that exact spot. You are asked to sit still, be sensible, answer questions about your body to a stranger with a clipboard, and then wait again.

A little attention there — kind attention, not fixing attention — can shift the whole tone of an hour. Not because it makes the wait shorter. Because it makes the waiting yours.

First, a permission slip

You don't need to close your eyes. You don't need to look serene. You can keep your coat on, your bag on your lap, your phone in your hand. If anyone glances over, you're simply a person sitting comfortably, which is a perfectly normal thing to be doing in a waiting room.

Skip anything that doesn't suit your body today. If your back is sore, if you're in a wheelchair, if you've had surgery recently, if you're mid-flare-up — take the version that works and leave the rest. Chair yoga is not a test. There's no one marking it.

The practice: six small movements

1. Feet first (about 30 seconds). Plant both feet flat if you can. Feel the floor — the actual floor, under the actual shoes. Press down gently through the soles, then let go. Repeat three times. This is your arrival. You are here, and the floor is holding you, which is more than the appointment letter managed.

2. Hands to the centre (about a minute). Rest one hand flat over the soft space below your ribs, above your navel. Breathe normally. Don't deepen anything yet — just notice the hand rising and falling. If your shoulders creep up, let them slide down again, like a coat off a hook.

3. Seated cat–cow (four rounds). Hands on your thighs. On an inhale, tip the pelvis slightly forward and lengthen the chest — a small, dignified arch, nothing theatrical. On the exhale, round softly, tucking the chin a touch. Keep the movement the size of a whisper. The person opposite is reading a leaflet about norovirus; they will not notice you undulating gently.

4. A quiet side stretch (both sides, twice). Sit tall. Reach the right arm across to the left, or simply lean your torso a few inches to the left, letting the right ribs open. Breathe into the stretch for two breaths. Swap. This one is excellent for the specific tension of holding yourself upright on moulded plastic.

5. Seated twist (both sides, three breaths). Right hand to the back of the chair, left hand to the outside of your right thigh, turn gently to the right. Keep it small and easy. Breathe out a little longer than you breathe in. Swap sides. Think of wringing out a cloth — slow, unhurried, nothing forced.

6. The long exhale (one minute, or as long as the queue allows). Hands back to your thighs. Inhale through the nose for a count of four. Exhale for a count of six, or as long as feels comfortable. If counting irritates you, hum instead — a low, quiet hum on the out-breath, which does the same job of lengthening it and gives your mind something to hold.

Breath cues when there's an audience

Some of us find breathwork impossible in public. That's fair. If closing your eyes or lengthening your breath makes you feel exposed, try these quieter versions:

• Breathe only through the nose, no counting, and simply follow the out-breath from start to finish.
• Whisper the word soft on each exhale, in your head.
• Rest a hand on your belly under your coat. Nobody can see, and the touch does a lot of the work.

If breath-focus makes you more anxious rather than less, that is not a failure — it's information. Anchor on your feet, or on the texture of the chair fabric, instead. Sensation is a perfectly good home base.

Kind self-talk for the appointment itself

Before your name is called, try one of these, said silently and without irony:

I can be nervous and still be here. My body is not a problem to be solved today. I'm allowed to ask for things — a chair, a chaperone, more time, plainer language. Being seen is not the same as being judged.

You may also want to jot a couple of things down on your phone while you wait — symptoms, questions, the thing you always forget when the door opens. That's a form of practice too: giving your yes, no and not-yet a bit of structure before you're asked.

Afterwards, in the car park

Before you drive off, or before you get back on the bus, take ten seconds. Feet on the ground. Hand on the solar plexus. One long exhale. Then the radio, the traffic, the rest of the day.

Waiting rooms are not designed for us. They're designed for throughput. But you can still be a person in one, breathing, taking up your own space, treating your body like something worth being gentle with — even while a screen tells you that you are now sixth in the queue.

That's the practice. Small, quiet, and entirely yours.