This morning, at the start of my yoga class, I lay on my back, noticing every part of my body that was in contact with the mat. The teacher invited us to soften our gaze or close our eyes and pay attention to the rise and fall of the chest and abdomen as we breathed.

It was then that I felt a sudden, deep sense of relief. For the next hour or so, someone else was taking over, telling me what to do. A kind, measured voice was giving me instructions. I didn't need to plan or make decisions, I didn't need to organise, and most importantly, I didn't need to respond to anyone else. I could focus all my attention on myself.

As a nurse, I spend much of my day looking outwards. My senses are constantly on alert: assessing patients' conditions, monitoring for change, responding to alarms, sensing their needs and the needs of their families, communicating and negotiating with colleagues, supporting and asking for support.

As a yogi, I turn my attention inwards.

The physical practice of asana requires me to focus my attention on my body and breath. Can I feel my ribs expand as I breathe in? How long is my exhalation? Can I feel my weight shifting as I balance on one foot? Does the other side feel the same, or how is it different?

The practice allows my busy mind to settle, and I become absorbed in the here and now, simply noticing what is happening in my body, my breath and my mind. My nervous system, so accustomed to being alert and ready to respond, relaxes a little.

When I leave the mat, the world may come rushing in, demanding my attention and response. I turn my attention back outwards again, but I find I can meet the world with a little more calm.

Night shifts. There is something almost romantic about being awake and keeping the world safe while everyone else is asleep. Night shifts are usually quieter too; fewer procedures, no therapies, no visitors and less senior staff around. The lights are dimmed, the corridors grow quiet, and the hospital — this enormous machine that never stops running — seems to slow down and feels like a different place.

And yet, I often feel a little anxious before a night shift, and sometimes just sad.

Like many anxieties, it isn't necessarily based on a rational fear. I have worked countless night shifts and I know I can do them. Perhaps some of the unease is simply rooted in the strangeness of being awake when my body expects to be asleep, and preparing to work when the rest of the world is winding down.

I have found that a short yoga practice before a night shift helps with that transition.

Nothing ambitious. Gentle movement, some quiet breathing, perhaps sitting still for a few minutes. Moving my spine, stretching my arms and legs, relaxing my shoulders, noticing where I feel stiff or tired. Paying attention to my breath.

Night work asks something quite unnatural of the body. We are asking ourselves to stay awake, alert and responsive through hours when our circadian rhythm is encouraging us to sleep. Yoga doesn't change that, but for me, a short practice creates a little space between the day I've just had and the night I'm about to begin.

I arrive at work feeling that I have already checked in with myself before I start checking on everyone else.

Over the weekend, I went camping at a campsite beside a beautiful reservoir. It was a particularly hot day, and I had a wonderful time fooling around on the paddleboard.

Everyone gets excited about doing a headstand on a paddleboard, and I admit, it is pretty cool and looks impressive (and I just LOVE looking at the world upside-down). But the truth is that Warrior, with its asymmetrical stance, is much harder.

In yoga, we're always being told to root down, to work strongly through our legs, to find stability through our feet — and on a paddleboard, you really understand what that means. My legs were burning! I kept falling into the water, climbing back onto the board and trying again, until eventually I found my balance and could float along quite beautifully.

The next day, I had a particularly busy shift, working as the ICU floor coordinator for the first time in a long while. At some point during the shift, I found myself returning to that physical sensation of working really hard to stay balanced on a floating board, with the wind and water currents constantly changing.

One of my favourite nurses once told me that ICU nurses are like swans — gliding gracefully across the surface while paddling frantically beneath the water. I thought about that during my shift, and about just how much effort it takes to float along on a paddleboard or coordinate an ICU floor, hopefully looking a little elegant while doing so.