Why I Started Yoga

I spent the better part of my early life in pointe shoes. Ballet was everything — the discipline, the artistry, the relentless pursuit of perfection. But somewhere along the way, I lost my breath. Not literally, but in all the ways that matter.

I found yoga almost by accident during a summer intensive in New York. A friend dragged me to a rooftop class in Brooklyn, and I spent the first twenty minutes silently critiquing the instructor's alignment cues. (Old habits die hard.)

Then we hit savasana. The city noise faded. I stopped making lists in my head. For a few minutes, I was simply here.

That was it. That was the thing I didn't know I needed — not another routine to perfect, but a practice to come home to. From that rooftop in Brooklyn to a solarium on a lake in Ithaca, yoga has been the thread running through every chapter since.

If you're reading this and you've been putting off starting — don't wait for the right mat, the right studio, or the right level of flexibility. Come as you are. The practice meets you there.