Since high school, I’ve been preoccupied with the invisible scaffolding beneath our lives—how we think, how we believe, how we break. That led me east, first to Taiwan, then India, where I taught by day and studied the inner life by night—drawn to yoga, Chinese Medicine, and Buddhist meditation not by exoticism, but by necessity. I went looking for a name for the pain I carried. I didn’t find one. But I found a practice.

For over two decades, I’ve shared Yin Yoga and meditation not as disciplines to be mastered, but as invitations—ways to stop, pay attention, and feel what’s actually here. My teaching is less about transmitting knowledge than it is about bearing witness—offering frameworks for inquiry that students can test against their own experience.

I trust practice because it fails us cleanly. It doesn’t rescue. It doesn’t flatter. It just lays things bare. And in that bareness, something often shifts.

I subscribe to a spirituality shaped by imperfection—the kind that emerges through contradiction, not resolution. Most of what I value has come through error. I’ve stumbled more than I’ve soared. But I’ve come to believe that beginning again is its own kind of arrival. And that’s where I try, quietly, to begin each day.