In the beginning, there was dance—my body a prayer in motion, raised within the walls of Catholic tradition and the wild embrace of Northern California. Mountains and slopes became my first temples, hiking trails and snowboard runs my earliest spiritual practice. I was always moving, always active, yet carried a free spirit that couldn't be contained by any single path.
Something wild stirred beneath the surface, a knowing that the divine lived not just in doctrine, but in the raw truth of my being—in the rush of powder snow and the quiet of mountain peaks, in the rhythm of my feet on earth and the freedom of my untamed soul.
When rebellion met body dysphmorhia, I found myself fractured, searching. Then yoga called—and the moment I closed my eyes on that first mat, I came home. No mirrors to distort, no judgments to navigate. Just breath, heartbeat, and the profound recognition that I had always been whole.
Even as my practice deepened, wildness coursed through me like untamed water. When heartbreak shattered my world, that wildness became my escape—a beautiful, chaotic dance away from pain that ultimately led me further from myself.
Then Bhakti found me. Or perhaps I finally surrendered enough to be found.
In the devotional songs, in the offering of my heart through sacred sound, something cracked wide open. I was converted—not to another religion, but to the church of my own heart. The divine I had sought in stained glass windows was singing in my chest all along.
My first teacher training became a sacred threshold. I chose sobriety, chose the narrow path that leads to the infinite. I chose to meet my inner child—wounded, wild, and waiting—with the tenderness she had always deserved.
Now I walk this path not as one who has arrived, but as one who remembers–we are all coming home to ourselves, one breath, one song, one moment of surrender at a time.