Finance, Yoga, and the Illusion of Control
One of the most rewarding intersections in my life has been the space between finance and yoga. Two disciplines that might seem worlds apart, but which I’ve found deeply connected. At the heart of both is the question: Does what I do matter?
In yoga, the answer begins with karma. Not in the simplistic, pop-psychology sense of “what goes around comes around,” but in the deeper, more deliberate idea that action matters. Karma is the acknowledgment that we live in a moral universe. One where our choices, however small, have consequences. That’s a powerful antidote to nihilism. It suggests that we’re not just being tossed around by random waves of circumstance. There is meaning. There is intent. What you do echoes.
And yet… we’re not in full control. We never were.
In the world of finance, this tension becomes especially real. Volatility. Noise. Exchange rates. Inflation. Market crashes. Investor sentiment. Black swans. You can act with the best of intentions and impeccable logic, and still see outcomes that seem arbitrary or even contradictory. This is where another Yogic idea comes in. Maya, the illusion.
Maya is the veil that filters how we see the world. It’s not just that others are mistaken; it’s that we all are, to some extent. Every one of us sees reality through our own lens, shaped by upbringing, culture, emotion, ideology, and the stories we tell ourselves. In finance, Maya shows up as the illusion of rational markets. We build models and strategies based on data and assumptions, but the map is never the territory. There’s always uncertainty. There’s always noise.
So how do you act in a world that seems too complex to understand, and still believe that your actions matter?
This is where I’ve found yoga’s framing of Dharma incredibly useful. Dharma is about duty, purpose, and alignment with your role in the world. One of the foundational texts of yoga, the Bhagavad Gita, is a text set on the brink of war. A conversation between a warrior, Arjuna, and his charioteer (and divine guide), Krishna. Arjuna is paralysed by doubt. He doesn’t want to act. He sees both sides. He feels the futility of the battle ahead. And yet Krishna urges him to step into his Dharma. To act anyway.
Not with attachment to outcomes, but with commitment to doing the right thing in the moment. To act because it is right. Not because it will guarantee a certain result.
That, to me, is where yoga and finance collide most meaningfully.
Financial planning, at its core, is about building structure in a chaotic world. It’s not about certainty. It’s about cultivating a posture. An attitude of resilience, of deliberate, grounded decision-making despite the noise. Like yoga, it’s a practice. You stretch, you breathe, you hold difficult positions, and you return to centre. Over time, you build strength. You create space. You develop a capacity to sit with discomfort and still act.
In my own practice (personal and professional) I’ve found it helpful to anchor to something. In Finance, that is "get your money a job". In yoga, there’s the idea of Ishvara. Your personal deity or symbol of ultimate meaning. It doesn’t need to be literal. It can be a principle, a metaphor, a story that helps you make sense of the world.
For me, I’ve chosen Saraswati, the goddess of learning, wisdom, and creativity. Not because I’m religious in the conventional sense, but because Saraswati represents the way I engage with life: through curiosity, through writing, through thinking things through. In a world I often find overwhelming, she’s my symbol of how I want to show up. My Ishvara.
Writing is my way of making sense of the chaos. I don’t always know what I think until I’ve written it down. And even then, it’s only ever provisional. A first draft of understanding. But the act of articulating thoughts is a kind of karma in itself. A way of doing the work, even if the outcome is never fully in my control.
And here’s another layer: not all karma is your own.
Some of it is inherited. We’re born into systems. Into privilege. Into intergenerational wealth, or the lack of it. Into the consequences of past decisions made by our families, our communities, our nations. In that sense, I often think of wealth and capital as crystallised karma, the compounded result of previous actions, sometimes going back generations.
That doesn’t mean we’re powerless. But it does mean that fairness isn’t the starting point. Some people are handed a ladder. Others are handed a shovel. Recognising this isn’t about guilt or shame. It’s about context. It’s about choosing to build responsibly on top of what came before, to contribute rather than just consume. To plant seeds, not just harvest fruit. To be a custodian.
This is where financial planning becomes more than just spreadsheets and forecasts. It becomes a form of karma yoga. The yoga of action. It’s about detaching from the illusion that you can control everything, while still taking full responsibility for your corner of the world. For your people. For your values.
You can’t fix everything. But you can do your work. You can build financial capacity, not as a flex, but as a foundation. As something that allows you to ride the waves with more ease. To provide stability in times of chaos. To extend a hand when someone else needs it. To create optionality, not just for yourself, but for others.
It might feel tone-deaf in a world that’s noisy, unjust, and full of struggle. But doing your Dharma (your work, your contribution) isn’t selfish. It’s essential. The noise doesn’t go away. But you can learn to hear through it. To move through it. To hold your position.
And maybe that’s the real yoga of finance.
