I’m not the happy, bubbly yogi I was 10 years ago.
I’m wiser.
More self-aware.
More me than I’ve ever been — and that’s worth more than chasing happiness ever was.

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I’ve lived through burnout, perfectionism, people-pleasing, depression, anxiety, trauma, disconnection, and the endless pressure to keep it all together. I’ve known the ache of not knowing who I am beneath the masks, and the exhaustion of constantly trying to be “enough” for everyone else.

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Yoga didn’t magically fix me.
It gave me tools.
It gave me space.

It gave me the courage to burn down what wasn’t working and begin again — over and over, if that’s what it takes.

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I came to yoga in 2013 for the physical part. I stayed for the inner work — the uncomfortable, beautiful, messy kind. I got certified. I started teaching. And somewhere between the breath, the breakdowns, the breakthroughs, and the sweaty savasanas, I started to feel something real again.

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Fast forward through marriage, motherhood, a pandemic, an ADHD diagnosis, more trainings, therapy, grief, and growth...
This practice has walked with me through every version of myself.

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Now, I teach yoga that doesn’t shy away from the hard stuff.
I hold space for people navigating trauma, overwhelm, neurodivergence, or just the weight of being human.

I help others reconnect with their bodies, their truth, and the fire that’s still burning underneath it all.

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This isn’t about pretending everything’s fine.

It’s about rising — messy, honest, and fully alive — from the ash.