I didn’t grow up in an ashram or with a yoga mat at my bedside. My path into yoga was far more accidental than planned. Before teaching, I lived in a world that prized outward achievement: modelling, pageants and a career built on appearance. From the outside, it looked like I had “made it.” Inside, I was searching for something deeper than the next accolade. I first stepped into a yoga class in my early 20s while living in London. At the time, it was practical — I wanted something to replace the expensive dance classes I had grown up with. Coming from dance, I could move well and was eager to master the postures. But yoga wasn’t about perfecting shapes. That first class gave me something I hadn’t felt in years: presence. I walked out alive and connected, and that glimpse of inner silence drew me back again and again. Yoga became my anchor through heartbreak, grief and the unraveling of who I thought I was. As I navigated betrayal and divorce, the practice reminded me I didn’t need to be fixed. I just needed to remember who I already was. Over time, my practice expanded beyond the body into meditation, mantra, kriya, breathwork and the science of the nervous system. What began as movement became a way of living...