My journey to yoga was anything but linear. It was shaped by contradictions, faith and skepticism, devotion and defiance, discipline and destruction.

My mother was a woman of unwavering faith, her spirituality woven into every aspect of daily life. My father, an atheist and deeply political, challenged those beliefs with sharp logic and debate. But rather than leaving me confused, their opposing worldviews gave me something invaluable, the ability to think critically, to question, and to practice belief rather than blindly accept it.

Yet in those early years, there was no question where my heart belonged. Inspired by my mother’s devotion and my love for her, I was consumed by faith. By the age of nine, I prayed five times a day, read the Bible verse by verse before bed, and delivered public talks with the conviction of an evangelical preacher. While other kids were immersed in cartoons and climbing trees, I was standing before congregations, speaking on scripture, convinced that salvation was my calling.

And then, I rebelled.

The intensity of my devotion gave way to the intensity of rebellion. I found drugs, sex, and music, diving headfirst into a world that stood in stark contrast to the discipline of my childhood. What began as curiosity spiralled into recklessness. At nineteen, I became a father unplanned, unprepared—but determined. I worked full-time, did the school drop- offs, played the part of a responsible dad. But behind closed doors, I was spiraling. Addiction crept in, toxic relationships followed, and soon, I was living a double life, one foot in responsibility, the other in self-destruction.

Then came the breaking points.
An accidental overdose.
Being chased out of a drug house by a rival gang wielding machetes. I survived both, but survival wasn’t enough. I needed to change.

Meditation was my first step, not because I was seeking enlightenment, but because someone offered to teach me. And I was desperate enough to listen. In those moments of stillness, something shifted. For the first time, I experienced peace, not the fleeting numbness of intoxication, but something real.

Yoga came later. It reintroduced me to the discipline I had abandoned. It gave me structure, a practice I could return to, a foundation upon which to rebuild. It didn’t turn me into someone new, it reconnected me with the person I had lost along the way. It showed me that I could be more, a better father, partner, friend. Even a teacher.

And so, the path that began with childhood sermons and veered into chaos eventually found its way back not to faith as I once knew it, but to something broader. To practice. To presence. To the belief that transformation isn’t about becoming someone else, but about remembering who you were before the world told you who to be.

I didn’t walk into my first yoga class seeking enlightenment. I wasn’t looking for transformation. I was looking for sleep. A friend had recommended yoga to help with my relentless insomnia, and with nothing to lose, I agreed to try it.

I left early.

Underwhelmed, irritated, and scathing in my judgment, I marched through the gym, loudly declaring that yoga was for people who didn’t like real exercise. I mocked the teacher’s soothing tone, convinced she spoke in nothing but thinly veiled innuendos. I relished my role as the cynic, swearing freely, showing off to the personal trainers.

Then, an older man approached me. I expected a reprimand—maybe a complaint about my language, my arrogance. Instead, he simply asked:

"Why did you go to yoga?"

"Why didn’t you enjoy it?"

His calm, measured presence disarmed me. I found myself explaining—about my insomnia, my frustration, my restlessness. He listened without judgment. Then, instead of telling me I had been rude, arrogant, or unkind—though all of that was true—he made an offer.

"Let me teach you meditation."

I agreed.

He became my first teacher—not of yoga, but of stillness. I didn’t take to meditation immediately, I couldn’t grasp the idea or techniques but eventually, in his presence, for the first time, I experienced a quiet I had never known. Not absence, not emptiness, but a sense of something vast, steady, waiting. It was the first moment I ever felt truly at peace.

That was my beginning.

Over the years, I have watched students arrive weighed down by stress, grief, or uncertainty. And I have seen them leave lighter, clearer, more at home in themselves. I have witnessed yoga become a refuge and a path forward.

That’s what I offer here.