Over the years, both practicing and teaching yoga, I’ve become a quiet observer. And I’ve come to believe that every yoga mat holds a secret story, a silent biography written not in words, but in tight hips, tender knees, guarded breath, and the quiet courage it takes to keep showing up.
Each time I guide a class, I’m reminded that no two bodies move the same way. No two people feel the same pose the same way. We are all walking into the room carrying something, years of experience, old injuries, heartbreak, joy, fatigue, a sleepless night... all of it shows up with us.
And this is exactly why yoga can never be one-size-fits-all.
Years ago, I experienced two injuries that shifted everything I thought I knew about my practice. I won’t lie — they were painful, frustrating, and humbling. But they were also the greatest teachers I never asked for. They forced me to slow down and listen to my body with a level of care I had never practiced before.
I stopped chasing shapes and started listening for sensations.
I stopped asking, “Am I doing this right?” and started asking, “Does this feel safe, true, and alive in me?”
That shift changed everything, not only in my own practice, but in the way I teach. I no longer look for perfect lines. I look for presence. For breath. For the quiet peace of someone discovering their own rhythm.
Now, when I cue a pose, I offer direction rather than commands. I invite instead of insist. I give modifications not as a sign of limitation, but as an expression of liberation, of personal power, because what works for one body might not work for another.
Energy, too, is a wild and wonderful variable. Some days we arrive on the mat feeling strong, light, and open, and everything flows with ease. Other days we’re dragging ourselves there, feeling heavy, scattered, or low. I tell my students all the time: your energy doesn’t have to be high for your practice to be meaningful. In fact, the low-energy days often offer the richest insights… if we’re gentle enough to receive them.
We also carry emotions into the room, whether we’re conscious of it or not. The grief we thought we buried. The joy we haven’t made space to feel. The stress that’s curled up in our shoulders or clenching behind our jaw. Yoga gives those feelings a place to stretch, to breathe, and maybe, if the timing is right, to let go.
Looking back, I know those injuries didn’t break me. They rebuilt me. They made me more curious, more compassionate, and more committed to creating a practice that meets people where they are, not where someone says they should be.
If you’ve ever been in my class, you know I don’t care if your Warrior II looks like the cover of a magazine. I care about how it feels in your body. I care about whether you feel steady, supported, awake. I care that you know it’s okay to back off, to try a different variation, to rest in Child’s Pose if that’s what your body asks for.
This is what I hope people feel when they practice with me: that yoga isn’t something they need to “perform” but isomething they get to experience. Something that reflects the ever-changing, beautifully imperfect flow of their life.
We practice side by side, all of us different, all of us worthy.
My hope is that each student leaves class not just feeling a little more physically flexible and strong, but more connected to their own body, more aware of their own needs, and more empowered to practice in a way that truly serves them.
This, to me, is the essence of yoga: a personal journey of discovery, healing, and growth.
