Behind the Book: A Glimpse into the Writing Process

My book is still in the making, but it already carries pieces of my life, my teaching, and my healing. This is a glimpse into the process and the heart behind it.

I am writing a book.

It does not have a public title yet, but it has a heartbeat. Steady, persistent, impossible to ignore.

It began quietly. Scraps of poetry scribbled after heartbreak. Notes from the trail when the air felt thin and my legs were burning. Scripts I had written for my yoga classes, each one a reflection of something I had lived, learned, and overcome. Nothing borrowed, nothing filler. All authentic. All true.

Over time, those scraps began to braid together. Not perfectly, not in order, but with a rhythm. The same kind of rhythm that lives in my movement practice, in the steady climb of a hike, in the way we arrive at ourselves one breath at a time.

Writing as Healing

Writing this book has felt like standing in the middle of a long transition on the mat, that place between shapes where you have to trust the movement even though you cannot yet see the landing.

Some days the words pour out like a long exhale. Other days, they come slow, like the heavy steps of a climb. Both are part of the process. Both are necessary.

I have learned that writing, like yoga and hiking, is not just about discipline. It is about staying present through the discomfort and noticing the small mercies along the way.

The Vulnerability Thread

It would be easier to keep my story to myself. To go inward. To stay safe. But every time I have shared something raw, in a class, in my writing, or on a trail, someone has reached out and said, Thank you. I needed to hear that.

That is why I write.

Because our vulnerability is not weakness. It is an offering. And when we speak from it, it creates a ripple effect. Someone else breathes easier. Someone else feels less alone.

The Weaving

This book is not just mine. It holds the voices and the faces of so many others. Friends who hiked beside me. Students who rolled their mats out next to mine. Strangers whose names I do not remember but whose eyes told me we understood the same thing.

It is part memoir, part poetry, part ritual. A weaving of movement, nature, community, and the quiet ways we come home to ourselves.

The Gift

When it is finished, I want this book to feel like movement in your hands. Like a ritual you can return to. Like a conversation you did not know you needed.

Because the truth is, the story of my healing is not just for me. It is for you. For anyone standing at the start of their own climb. For anyone in the in-between, unsure of the next step.

The journey, in writing, in yoga, in hiking, in life, is always a return.

A return to strength.

A return to softness.

A return home to yourself.