I remember being very young, amoeba young, still years away from second-grade soccer. On a regular basis, my mom would guide my sister and me through yoga and breathwork, though at the time, we simply called it “stretching.” I remember feeling calm, centered, and happy. I also remember noticing how my sister’s body moved with ease while mine felt impossibly stiff. My mom would gently remind me, “Our bodies are all different, just keep practicing.”

As kids do, I drifted in and out of my practice. Then one day, when I was home from university in my late teens, I joined my mom for her regular yoga class. The teacher didn’t show up, and somehow, I stepped forward and led the class. That moment marked a quiet but powerful shift: I had unknowingly stepped from student into teacher. Jedi to Master (just kidding). But truly, it felt natural, fun, right. From that point on, I began my journey of teaching. I moved to Los Angeles and threw myself into yoga, meditation, and growth.

Then, life delivered one of its hardest lessons. On December 12, 2003, my mom lost her battle with pancreatic cancer, her third cancer diagnosis. I had just turned twenty-eight. I packed up my life in LA and returned home to the cold, grey winter of Chicago. I also walked away from my mat. I couldn’t bear to be alone with my grief, my thoughts, or my heart. The drinking I had quietly worried about for years escalated. I remember running five miles a day on a treadmill with a green plastic Gatorade bottle in hand, filled mostly with vodka and a splash of energy drink.

Winter slowly gave way to Spring. My parents were born on the same day, May 30. As their shared birthday approached, I had been sober-curious for a while, quietly wondering if my drinking was normal. And then one day I finally said the word: alcoholic. I quit drinking. Just like that. And I stayed sober for years. Until I didn’t. Yoga came and went.

As time passed, my father and I would often reminisce about my mom, her strength, her softness. He’d recall walking in the door and finding her standing on her head or twisted in a pose, or simply meditating, cross-legged in stillness. I know we all think we have the best parents. But I’ve always known that I won the lottery with mine. To know them was to understand love as a verb instead of a noun. I try to honor their memory in all that I do, but I am human. I am chipped, flawed. And still I try.

Eventually, I found my way back to the mat again – first in practice, then in teaching. In 2012, I got certified in Chicago by a teacher who reminded me so much of my mom. She was warm and grounded, yet expansive, full of compassion, empathy, and quiet power. She was, quite simply, beyond.

Throughout my life, I’ve moved. A lot. From Chicago to Kentucky, LA, Denver, Michigan (where I briefly opened Spaceyoga studio), and now Boston. My connection to the mat has come and gone, just like sobriety. But this current season of recovery has brought me back to the strongest awareness I’ve ever felt. I feel deeply connected to the universe, to presence, and to the now. I’ve come to understand that I am only as strong as my heart is clear and my mind is quiet.

I’ve learned from many great teachers. I’ve sought out education, practice, stillness, and growth. And I always will. Because for me, this path isn’t about perfection – it’s about presence, honesty, and the ongoing return to self.