I began practicing yoga asana when I was about 20 years old. At the time, I was strong, flexible, and a quick learner. I could easily replicate movements I watched, which helped me progress quickly in both yoga and karate. Within two and a half years, I earned my black belt and became an instructor. Not long after moving to Bucks County, my yoga teacher asked me to start teaching for her program—despite my lack of formal training (teacher training programs were rare back then).


I am not bragging, I am just telling you what happened.
In many ways, I believe that quick advancement wasn’t great for me.
But, it is how it happened.
What do I understand about that now? I had a lot of catching up to do, and my training is not over. (Thank goodness!)

I suppose you could say it was my dharma to practice and then teach these embodied disciplines. Even though I began yoga in 1986, I can honestly say I wasn’t really practicing until 1999, when I started teacher training with Parvathi. Then in 2003, when I met Mukunda, I realized just how much more there was to learn. Before that, my practice relied almost entirely on my physical strength and flexibility. There was no depth, no current, no real juice flowing through the poses—I wasn’t plugged in! I was mostly performing. Yes, there was plenty of sweating, but that is just one kind of effort, and that physical effort is not the one that has truly served me these many decades. Ironically, now—older, less flexible, and physically weaker —I’m more engaged than ever.


Something in yoga clearly touched me at a deep level, given how much time and money I’ve poured into trainings, immersions, retreats, and workshops. Before the blessing of Zoom, I would travel wherever my teachers were teaching, never once hesitating about the cost—as long as I could find coverage for my kids. (These days, it’s more about coverage for my dog.) Of course, I always searched for the cheapest flights and simplest accommodations, because resources are often scarce.


I know how fortunate I am to feel this strong pull—this choiceless choice—to keep showing up. That, more than physical strength and flexibility, I now realize is my greatest superpower: I continue to participate. I don’t see it as praiseworthy; it’s simply the hand I was dealt. If there’s a training with a teacher or lineage I love, I’ll be there. Whether I’ve studied the material before, whether it seems repetitive or too basic—it doesn’t matter. Save me a spot, because I’m coming. I don't know why I am this way, I just am. 


But maybe it isn’t just me falling in love with the practice. Maybe it’s the practice calling me. That’s certainly how it feels at times—like I’m being pulled, and my only real superpower is that I say yes without hesitation. For that, I’m profoundly grateful. Life hasn’t always made it easy—raising kids, divorce, moving, running a store and studio, navigating all the inevitable “life stuff.” And yet, it has always worked out.


I remember when I was newly divorced and worried about not being able to afford a retreat our teacher was holding, my dear friend told me that if I ever needed money for something like that, she would give it to me. But,  she reminded me, I didn’t have to worry, because the resources would always show up. And I believed  she knew what she was talking about—she had gone through graduate school and pursued her own spiritual studies while raising three young boys on her own. And she was right: the support always has arrived.


She helped me see that when you intentionally stand in the path of Grace, the universe conspires to meet you there. It does require a leap of faith now and then—but those early leaps taught me to trust. So when the universe calls, I don’t doubt. I simply go.


Of course I send this message now because we have the immersion, and a lot of other workshops and series, coming up. If you are asking yourself should I, and the pull is strong, maybe it is time to let the pull, let grace, win. 

I love eating out! Like many people, I usually skip ordering dishes I can easily make at home. When I go out, I want to experience something new, delicious, surprising, and maybe even a little mysterious.
I am often inspired to recreate the amazing dishes I enjoy at a great restaurant in my own kitchen.
Just today, I ate at one of my favorite spots down the Shore. There’s one dish in particular I like to order—it’s absolutely delicious, and to this day, I have no idea how they make it. Part of me loves the mystery, and I am mostly content just enjoying it. But in the back of my mind, I’m often thinking, How can I make this at home?

Well, guess what? They just released a cookbook—yay! Will I be buying it? Most likely… YES!

When I first discovered yoga, it felt like one of those beautifully complex dishes you taste at a restaurant and can’t quite figure out. It was intriguing, nourishing, and left me wanting to know how to recreate it at home.
In my 20s, I had the time and energy to take four or five classes a week after work. But as life got busier—with more responsibilities on my plate—I found myself going to class less often, and I began to miss the elements of the practice that I knew brought me peace of mind.

Then I met my teacher. She was offering something special, something beyond the usual ingredients. This wasn’t a quick meal at a fast-food restaurant—this was mastery. When she offered a teacher training, I jumped at the chance. I knew that if I could understand the recipe behind this practice, I could recreate it at home whenever I wanted.

I was pregnant with my first child during that training. Then, life got even busier: two toddlers, a business, and not much time to “dine out,” so to speak. But I had the recipe—or at least the foundation of it.
Since then (my first training was back in 1999), I’ve slowly gathered more ingredients, refined my technique, and learned how to create a practice that nourishes me. As with anything you’ve practiced and honed for years, I’ve been able to pass on techniques and methods—and offer a list of “ingredients”—to help others create what nourishes them in their own space.
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Yoga teaches us that we already have what we need. Understanding how to blend it all together is the study that allows us to recreate what we know feeds our soul.

A client recently told me her therapist said she wouldn’t heal from a trauma for at least two years. I found that such an interesting—and limiting—way to frame healing, as if it has a start and end date. That might make sense if we’re talking about a cure, like a round of antibiotics the doctor prescribes: take the meds for two weeks, and the infection will clear. But healing is not the same as curing.
So what is healing?
Healing, as I see it, is a continuum. It requires patience and sincerity. It's not about returning to who you were before (unless you're using magic—or just not paying attention). According to the Yoga Sutras, the path to higher consciousness requires effort, discipline, self-study, and surrender. In other words, you have to actively participate, it requires work, and you have to let go of wanting everything to be like it was before. Every small shift in consciousness is a kind of healing. Each moment of insight, each upward movement, helps us stitch back together the illusion of fragmentation.
Yoga teaches that true healing comes when we remember we are not separate from the whole. The belief that we are seperate is the first and deepest wound. From there, life continues to fragment us in small and large ways, leaving us like a shattered mirror, reflecting much smaller parts of ourselves that are often in battle with each other. Each role we play—at work, at home, with friends, etc.— represents one of these fragments, and will most likely be in conflict with the others. While shifting roles can be skillful—and often necessary—we risk exhaustion if we forget that beneath them is one unchanging self. Once you see that, the roles can play together very nicely. 
The healing journey, then, is a return to wholeness—so we become like an unbroken mirror and see the full reflection of who we are. And that takes time. Integration is key. Without it, even profound insights remain theoretical—and those just become more shards in the shattered mirror. Integration means you know something in your bones. It becomes so real, you no longer feel the need to defend it. (Want to test that? Reflect on what you feel compelled to defend—and what you don’t.)
Healing isn’t just about one incident, trauma, or wound. If we try to heal in fragments, we’re just putting tape on the mirror. The bad news? You can’t heal selectively. The good news? You don’t have to. True healing leaves nothing behind.