I came to yoga the way many people do — looking for relief. Relief from pain, from a body that felt unpredictable, from a nervous system that rarely felt at ease. What I didn’t know then was that yoga would not fix me, cure me, or return me to some imagined version of who I was before chronic pain. Instead, it would slowly, quietly help me build a relationship with the body and mind I actually live in.

I live with chronic pain, including fibromyalgia, and my teaching is inseparable from that reality. Pain has shaped how I move, how I rest, how I listen, and how I teach. It has taught me humility, patience, and a deep respect for variability — day to day, moment to moment. Some days my body feels capable and spacious; other days it feels foggy, tender, or resistant. Yoga didn’t make those fluctuations disappear, but it gave me tools to meet them with a little more kindness and a lot less judgment.

My path into therapeutic yoga was not about mastering advanced shapes or pushing limits. It was about learning how to stay. How to stay with sensation without immediately trying to change it. How to notice when effort becomes strain. How to rest without apology. Over time, yoga became less about performance and more about presence — less about what a pose looks like and more about what it feels like to inhabit it.

I teach Yin Yoga, Therapeutic Yoga, and meditation with an emphasis on accessibility, nervous system awareness, and lived experience. My classes are intentionally slow, spacious, and invitational. You will hear frequent reminders that opting out is part of the practice, that rest is not a failure, and that your body is not a problem to solve. I don’t believe in one-size-fits-all yoga, especially for those living with chronic pain, anxiety, trauma histories, or fatigue. Instead, I offer frameworks, options, and permission — permission to explore, to modify, to pause, and to change your mind.

Much of my teaching is informed by yoga philosophy, particularly the yamas and niyamas. Ahimsa — non-harming — sits at the heart of everything I offer. In practice, this often means redefining what “effort” looks like and questioning the cultural narratives that tell us more is always better. I also weave in the concept of samskaras: the habitual patterns we carry in our bodies and minds. Chronic pain can create deep grooves — patterns of bracing, fear, self-criticism, or disconnection. Yoga, as I teach it, is not about erasing these patterns, but about noticing them with compassion and gently creating space for something new.

I’m honest with my students about the messiness of this work. Healing is rarely linear. Yoga can stir things up before it settles them down. Learning to listen to your body may reveal grief, frustration, or anger alongside relief. This is not always pretty or Instagram-friendly, but it is real. I believe there is grace in that messiness, and that showing up as you are — even when you’re tired, distracted, or hurting — is a powerful practice in itself.

Because I live with chronic pain, I understand the vulnerability of being in a room where bodies are moving. I understand the fear of being watched, the worry about falling behind, the internal negotiations about whether today is a “good enough” day to practice. My classes are non-judgmental spaces where comparison is gently discouraged and curiosity is encouraged. You are never asked to push through pain, perform for the room, or prove anything — to me or to yourself.

I offer group classes, private sessions, workshops, and teacher trainings, all grounded in the same values: safety, consent, accessibility, and respect for individual experience. Private sessions, in particular, allow for deeper exploration — whether that’s working with a specific condition, navigating anxiety around movement, or simply having a quiet space to practice without an audience. While these sessions come at a higher cost, they offer personalized support that can be profoundly supportive for those who feel overwhelmed or unseen in group settings.

My teaching is also shaped by the understanding that yoga doesn’t stop when we roll up the mat. The practices of pausing, noticing, softening, and choosing less harm ripple outward into daily life — into how we speak to ourselves, how we set boundaries, and how we relate to others. Yoga, for me, is not about becoming more flexible or more calm; it’s about becoming more honest.

I don’t promise transformation in the dramatic sense. I don’t offer cures. What I offer is companionship on the path — practices that can help you make space for your experience, just as it is, and perhaps feel a little more at home in yourself along the way. This work is slow. It asks for patience and trust. And while it may not take the pain away, it can help make the pain yours — held with awareness, agency, and care.