Hello lovelies,
Today feels like a good day for a story. One from a much younger version of me.
If you had told teenage me that I’d grow up to be a teacher, healer, or guide, I would have assumed you meant I’d be the friend holding your hair back in a bathroom while offering questionable life advice.
Let’s go back to the beginning when I found myself walking down a shady alley, climbing a long, narrow staircase, and entering what can only be described as a yoga space that felt one part spiritual awakening, one part fire hazard.
At the top sat a man I clearly remember as ancient. Truly ancient. Wrinkled, wise, probably 147 years old.
In hindsight, he was likely my current age. Life is humbling like that.
He spoke in strange, mystical words I did not understand. Those words were Sanskrit. At the time, it sounded less like language and more like something ancient and coded that I was not yet meant to fully understand, but was oddly captivated by anyway. Cast your spells old man!
In that very first yoga class, somewhere between the awkward shapes and unfamiliar breathwork something happened.
My entire nervous system dropped about 5,000 notches.
I didn’t have language for it back then, I just knew I felt… safe. Calm in a way that felt almost suspicious.
I went back the next week. And the next. And the next.
I was the youngest person there by at least 20 years. At first, I kept to myself, hiding in the back of the room. But over time, the elders began talking to me.
And they were so kind.
They shared their stories. Encouraged me. Told me how wonderful it was to see someone so young on the path.
Eventually, I started talking to the “ancient” man himself. He told me the same thing: that it mattered I was there.
And without realizing it, a seed was planted.
My yogic journey had begun.
Then I did what many of us do.
I left.
I traveled. I explored. I lived. I made incredible memories and… let’s just say educational mistakes.
Then slowly, without that grounding practice, I noticed something else:
I slipped.
Back into old patterns. Old ways of coping. Old versions of myself.
This went on for a while. Until life guided me back.
I became a yoga teacher. I committed. I took vows to live a yogic lifestyle - which felt deeply sacred to young me.
I lived unconventionally. Off-grid at times. In community. In spaces where life felt intentional and a little bit magical.
And it was beautiful.
But then…
I’d return to the “real world.”
Cities. Noise. Expectations and lots of hustling.
And suddenly, staying aligned felt like trying to meditate mid-loop-de-loop on a roller coaster ride.
But that was the work. Because it’s one thing to feel peaceful in a quiet forest, and another to feel peaceful in a packed subway car where personal space is more of a philosophical concept.
And then, as life tends to do, time moved forward.
Years passed. And then - another plot twist.
I became a mother.
Which meant I was officially living among…regular people.
I entered the world of mom groups.
Playdate planning circles that felt oddly structured for something called “play.”
Small talk about things I did not care about in any way.
Conversations turned into weekly brain dumps, gossip, or one-upping. Ugh.
I tried, I really did, to fit in and belong.
But I couldn’t be authentic.
There were failed friendships. Awkward attempts at connection. A lot of internal questioning like, “Is it me? Am I the problem? Should I care more about social calendars and someone’s very confident opinions about carbohydrates?
And then one day…I stopped. I just thought:
Eh, f*ck it.
It has always been me and the trees.
Why am I pretending otherwise?
So I began to gently step back.
Out of the noise.
Out of the gossip.
Out of the urgency that wasn’t actually urgent.
Out of the comparison.
Out of the friendships that didn’t feel like truth.
And in doing so…
I found myself again.
I’ll save the rest of that story for another day.
But if there’s a point to all of this, it’s this:
Sometimes your path doesn’t begin with a grand calling.
Sometimes it begins in a weird studio above an alley, with a flickering light and a man you’re pretty sure is a wizard.
And sometimes, becoming who you are isn’t about adding more…
It’s about walking away from everything that was never really you to begin with.
Even if that means choosing trees over whatever the world insists is urgent.
(Highly recommend, by the way.)
With smiles,
Jennifer