From the Track to the Mat: How Yoga Found Me

I never planned on becoming a yoga teacher. At nineteen, my whole identity was running. I was a distance runner at UCLA, the girl doing 6 a.m. loops around Drake Stadium and logging miles up Sunset before most of Westwood was awake. Then, halfway through my sophomore cross-country season, my body made the decision for me. A stubborn hamstring strain turned into a hip problem, and I spent the spring watching my teammates race from the bleachers. Our athletic trainer suggested I try yoga for mobility, and I went in skeptical and grudging. I expected an hour of stretching. What I got was the first class in years where nobody was timing me, and I left feeling like I’d finally exhaled.

What started as rehab turned into something I couldn’t stop thinking about. I began sneaking into early classes at a tiny studio on Gayley Avenue called Marigold & Moss, a candlelit, plant-filled space where the teacher knew everyone’s name and always ended with a little reading from her journal. By my senior year I was running again, faster and pain-free, but I’d fallen harder for the mat than the track. The summer after graduation I completed my 200-hour teacher training at Saltwater Sangha in Santa Monica, a month of sunrise practices on the sand, anatomy sessions that finally explained everything my body had been through, and long talks about breath, patience, and listening to yourself before you push.

Since then, I’ve taught at yoga studios, music festivals, and events all over the country. Music festivals and corporate events are my favorite rooms to teach in, and today I also work with a number of private clients. At 24, I teach the practice I wish someone had shown me sooner: one that’s strong and sweaty when you want it to be, but also soft, restorative, and built around taking care of the body you live in. Running taught me how to push. Yoga taught me when not to, and that’s the lesson I try to bring to every single class.