life of practice

There’s something endlessly fascinating about that balance between doing and being, thinking and feeling, effort and surrender, action and stillness. It’s the tightrope we walk every day, though sometimes we forget we’re even on it.

This life of practice keeps showing me the formless, timeless stillness within—the quiet undercurrent that mirrors the simple wonder of being alive. It is the process of shedding what no longer serves, layer by layer, and dancing along this endlessly shifting path of alignment. Alignment that doesn’t arrive as a final destination, but as an ongoing negotiation between moving forward and leaning back, acting and observing, holding on and letting go.

Moments like this sometimes feel like surfacing for air after being submerged too long. Other times, they are entirely mundane, tucked between the coffee spills and toddler tantrums, the errands, the emails, the endless hum of life. And yet, I am grateful—grateful for falling in and out of balance, for the clumsy grace of being fully human, and for the lessons that come in both the chaos and the quiet.

Yoga, more than anything, has given me an invitation: to travel inward, to sit with myself in a way that demands honesty, curiosity, and a little patience. It reminds me that all the knowing about loving, living, and being human resides somewhere deep inside, waiting for the moments when I am still enough to notice it.

Balance isn’t a posture. It isn’t a perfect pose or a flawless day. It’s a conversation between the body, mind, and heart, punctuated by breaths that remind me I am here, alive, and exactly where I am supposed to be—even when I feel off-center. And, if I’m honest, sometimes it’s hilarious how off-center I am. But the practice invites me back, every time, with a wink, a sigh, and a little bit of grace.