The reality is, I never once thought about becoming a yoga teacher. That was never in the goals I set out for myself. In fact, the first time I attended a yoga class, I stumbled through the postures with the grace of a baby giraffe. I, like many, arrived with a physical goal, to lose my post-partum weight. I soon realized there was far more to this ancient practice than what it could sculpt or shrink.
Somewhere between a trembling warrior sequence and an awkward attempt at stillness, yoga began to work on parts of me I hadn’t known were asking for attention. It wasn’t just my muscles that were tight, but my expectations. Not just my breath that was shallow, but my patience with myself. Each class became less about doing the pose “right” and more about noticing what surfaced when I slowed down. Grief, joy, exhaustion, hope. All of it was welcome on the mat.
What surprised me most was how yoga followed me home. The practice seeped into how I responded instead of reacted, how I listened instead of rushed to fix, how I learned to sit with discomfort rather than immediately escape it. The mat became a mirror, quietly revealing the ways I pushed, performed, and judged myself far beyond those studio walls.
I didn’t wake up one day with a calling to teach. There was no lightning bolt moment or neatly wrapped spiritual awakening. Instead, there was a gentle accumulation of change. A steadier nervous system and a more compassionate relationship with myself.
Yoga didn’t give me a new identity. It gave me permission to return to myself. And in that return, I discovered that the most profound transformation wasn’t the body I was trying to change, but the way I learned to inhabit it, breathe within it, and trust its quiet wisdom 🧘♀️🌿
Nourish Your Body, Mind + Soul 