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

I first rolled out a mat at fourteen, when my mom took me to a local class. No instant calling, no life-changing epiphany. I simply went, followed along, and then… kept showing up every now and then. Looking back, that quiet persistence mattered more than any dramatic beginning.

A couple of years later I switched to a studio that followed the traditional Ashtanga. I started with afternoon classes, and something clicked. At the time I was dancing a lot, collecting knee injuries and poor posture along the way, and despite the stereotype, I wasn’t flexible. Ashtanga began to change that. My body grew more resilient and responsive; alignment made sense; breath became a metronome I could trust. Soon I was so drawn in that I would ride my bike at dawn to make the 5 a.m. Mysore class before school—every morning, all the way through 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 played a big role in this. They encouraged me without pressure and made the room feel safe. I’m sure I would be a different person today if my mom and I hadn’t tried that first class. While many of my friends went out late on weekends, I often stayed home so I could wake up early and practice. It didn’t feel like sacrifice; it felt like care.

As the postures became more familiar, my interest turned inward. The physical practice opened the door; meditation and simple attention kept me walking through it. Watching the breath, keeping a steady gaze, staying a little longer in a pose—these basics began to help beyond the studio. They steadied me during exams, family stress, and the ups and downs of living with a chronic health condition. Yoga stopped being only a set of movements and became a toolkit for daily life.

For a long time, I wasn’t sure about teaching. I felt I didn’t have enough life experience, and I wanted to honour the practice with honesty. I respect my teachers deeply, especially the way they hold space: patient, clear, and grounded. I didn’t want to imitate the surface of teaching without carrying the values underneath it. To me, teaching should be service—believing in each student, sharing what you know, and keeping your own ego in check.

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

If there’s one message I’d offer 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 story about how far you should go or how fast you should progress. The hardest work is not mastering a handstand or conquering the deepest backbend; it’s practicing with humility, setting the ego down, and letting the practice do its slow, steady work. Some mornings it will feel magical; other mornings it will feel like brushing your teeth. Both count. Keep showing up, and the pose that matters most—the one where you meet yourself with kindness—will keep meeting you back.