I did not find yoga.
Yoga found me.
I was managing a small independent bookstore in Malibu in my early twenties when I was invited to come to a vinyasa flow class in Santa Monica taught by Julian Walker.
  
The class was beyond challenging for someone inflexible and not body conscious, such as I was at the time. I sweat swimming pools on my mat, and struggled to hold even the simplest of poses, eyeballing my toes as if touching them would take me to the promised land.
  
But there, on that mat, and in that struggle, my ego released a little, and I was able to perceive how often, and how harshly I judged myself. And I just observed how often those types of thoughts showed up. And gradually, I weeded them out of my garden, and healed my self-esteem. But like any garden, the wedding process is continual. There is no such thing as a finished practice.
  
I never really imagined as I kept practicing that anything would change, that I would one day be supple and strong. I figured I would always be the yoga dork at the back of the class, hiding from the humiliation of being seen doing so poorly. If you told me I would one day be a teacher, I would have died.
  
And so yoga found me. The sanctuary of the practice opened the doors of my heart, and continues to be my greatest teacher. My hardest mirror, and my most beautiful daily opportunity to see God.
  
I practice for how good my body feels, and I practice to remember who I am. I practice to find joy, and love, and some sense of gratitude for my life no matter how hard it gets. It’s a PRACTICE. Not a perfect. And for that freedom, the freedom to simply be, it is the greatest gift I know.