From 5 a.m. Mysore Classes to Finding My Voice: My Yoga Story

I first unrolled a mat at the age of fourteen when my mom took me to a local class. There was no immediate calling or life-changing realization. I simply attended, followed along, and continued to show up occasionally. In hindsight, that quiet persistence was more significant than any dramatic beginning.

A few years later, I transitioned to a studio that practiced traditional Ashtanga. I began with afternoon classes, and something clicked. At that time, I was dancing a lot, accumulating knee injuries and poor posture, and contrary to the stereotype, I wasn’t flexible. Ashtanga started to change that. My body became more resilient and responsive; alignment began to make sense; breath became a reliable metronome. Soon, I was so captivated that I would bike at dawn to attend the 5 a.m. Mysore class before school—every morning, until the end of high school. On the rare mornings I missed, I felt off for the rest of the day, as if I’d skipped a conversation with myself.

My teacher, Erika, and the early morning group encouraged me without pressure and made the space feel safe. I’m certain I would be a different person today if my mom and I hadn’t attended that first class. While many of my friends stayed out late on weekends, I often stayed home to wake up early and practice. It didn’t feel like a sacrifice, it felt like self-care.

As the postures became more familiar, my focus turned inward. The physical practice opened the door; meditation and simple attention kept me walking through it. Observing the breath, maintaining a steady gaze, and staying a bit longer in a pose, these basics began to help beyond the studio. They steadied me during exams, family stress, and the fluctuations of living with a chronic health condition. Yoga evolved from being just a series of movements to a toolkit for daily life.

For a long time, I was uncertain about teaching. I felt I lacked sufficient life experience and wanted to honor the practice with honesty. I deeply respect my teachers, especially their ability to hold space: patient, clear, and grounded. I didn’t want to mimic the surface of teaching without embodying the underlying values. To me, teaching should be an act of service: believing in each student, sharing what you know, and keeping your own ego in check.

Now, at twenty-two, I feel ready to step forward. Not because I have all the answers, but because I’m committed to learning out loud. If I do teach, I aspire to be the kind of guide who listens first, believes in others, and continually returns to the basics: breath, presence, patience. I want my classes to resemble the early mornings that shaped me: quiet, supportive, and honest.

If there’s one message I’d offer to anyone reading this, it’s this: there is no perfect time to begin. Don’t wait to be more flexible, less busy, or somehow “better.” Just step onto the mat today, as you are. Show up without a preconceived notion of how far you should go or how fast you should progress. The hardest work isn’t mastering a handstand or achieving the deepest backbend; it’s practicing with humility, setting the ego aside, and allowing the practice to do its slow, steady work. Some mornings will feel magical; others will feel routine, like brushing your teeth. Both count. Keep showing up.