All the King’s Horses: Reflections on Pedestals and Falls

Some years ago, I was a regular at yoga classes in the town where I lived. Back then, I fully embraced the belief that yoga connects you to your inner spirit—the divine part of you linked to the universal spirit or God. In my mind, yoga teachers were almost celestial beings, certainly more enlightened than the rest of us mortals who struggled through awkward poses and deep breathing. I placed them on pedestals, thinking they were somehow more “in” with the cosmos.

But over time, cracks appeared in this polished image. One teacher seemed egotistical—too much “me, me, me”—which, I thought, was the antithesis of spiritual enlightenment. Another had a streak of sharpness that bordered on being outright unkind. It was a strange mix of disappointment and smug satisfaction when I noticed these flaws, like I had caught them out as frauds. Of course, I wasn’t exactly winning any awards for spiritual growth myself. Judging them so harshly was hardly in the spirit of yoga.

Looking back, it’s clear that the problem wasn’t them—it was my unrealistic expectations. Pedestals aren’t platforms; they’re traps. We put people up there, thinking they’re above us, and when they inevitably stumble, there’s almost a perverse pleasure in watching the fall. Think of Lance Armstrong and how society delighted in dismantling his heroic narrative. The higher we raise someone, the harder they hit the ground.

This pattern isn’t limited to celebrities. It starts in childhood. I remember believing my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world—until adolescence introduced me to airbrushed magazine covers. Similarly, my children once thought I was invincible. Then they hit their teenage years and became part of the most critical audience imaginable.

Even in my work, I’ve felt the sting of misplaced expectations. People often assume I should be a flawless manager because I work in HR, as if my job description grants me immunity from mistakes. I’ve heard the phrase “you should know better” more times than I can count. It’s as na?ve as expecting a doctor never to get sick or an accountant to always have perfect finances.

This tendency to elevate professionals isn’t new. For generations, people have put blind trust in anyone with a fancy title or a string of letters after their name, as if credentials were a guarantee of moral or personal superiority. But those pedestals come at a cost. When we elevate people to untouchable heights, we lose the ability to truly connect with them. As someone once said, “People on pedestals are very hard to get hold of.”

The truth is, we all excel at something. Beauty, intelligence, talent—these aren’t moral victories; they’re attributes, often as random as a winning lottery ticket. They don’t make anyone inherently better or worse than anyone else. Yet we persist in putting others above us and then tearing them down when they falter.

Looking back on those yoga classes, I realize now how unkind I was—not just to my teachers but to myself. Expecting them to embody perfection robbed me of the chance to appreciate their humanity. And expecting perfection of myself, as a parent, a professional, or a person, is equally destructive.

So, I’ve made peace with the flaws, both in others and in myself. I’ve learned to forgive my yoga teachers for their humanity, just as I hope my children forgive me for mine. Parenting, after all, is less about perfection and more about doing our best, however messy that might look.

We may not stand on pedestals, but we can still stand tall. And from that height, the falls—when they happen—hurt a little less.