Lessons in Motion
Across different seasons, my relationship with movement finds many more iterations than constants. It drifts carelessly along untended paths, swayed more by disorder than design.
Yet, each time I pause to reflect, the seemingly random wanderings always converge and intersect with a serendipity that proves fateful. What to a stranger may always appear as tangled terrain, to me unfolds clearly – its lines grow sharper and more precise with time.
As a child, I was drawn to movement for its intensity and challenge. On one occasion, spurred by a family member’s taunt that I was too poor of a swimmer to swim a hundred laps in a full-length pool, I willed my eight-year-old body through the water, propelled by the need to test the edges of my endurance. Gym class was always a measure of how far I could push, and every recess game was do-or-die. “Easy” Sunday fun-runs with my club soccer team were unspoken duels, where I measured my breath and pace against anyone who dare challenge me. For years, I was addicted to pushing the limits of my resolve.
Later on, as I transitioned to college and my athletic talent and ambition faded from focus, I found in movement the steady gift of community. My track and field teammates were gifted athletes who like me, had found that their love for competition had flared, then hollowed. Free from the expectations of pace and time, our miles softened into sagas of story and spirit. We laughed at the boys’ team, who hadn’t yet discovered what we already knew: competition could drive you to the edge, but only joy could carry you beyond it.
By the age of twenty, I had settled into routine and community, but my innate call for vigor and depth beckoned me towards a new adventure. I stunned just about everyone when I packed up a single bag and moved to Nairobi, Kenya. In Nairobi, I asked a taxi driver about where I might find a good place for a jog. “If you have the energy to run at the end of the day, you probably aren’t working hard enough,” he scoffed, “plus, if I saw a young woman running around here, I’d look for who was chasing her.” Determined to prove to my parents that I could keep myself safe halfway across the world; to maintain my fitness, I got a job at a local yoga studio, Africa Yoga Project (AYP).
Yoga both excited and intimidated me. I was conditioned for buzz, momentum and breathlessness. Yoga pushed me to slow down, to notice every feeling in motion, and to welcome it with curiosity rather than definition. Advice from a mentor to bring each pose “only to the point where you can still smile,” challenged my instincts to constantly seek discomfort. At the studio, movement became meditation – a deeply personal conversation between body and mind.
As my own yoga practice unfolded, my work at AYP gave me the chance to witness the same transformation in others. More than just a normal yoga studio, Africa Yoga Project (AYP) is actually a nonprofit that offers free yoga teacher trainings to low-income community members. Young men and women from Kibera, one of Nairobi’s most underserved communities, arrived at the studio each day, carrying the invisible burdens of poverty, addiction and instability. Over time, I watched movement take root, turning a simple practice of yoga into a profound unfolding of confidence, grounded presence, and self-worth. I saw first-hand what I had always known to be true in my own life: that movement and identity are intricately intertwined.
In the decade or so since I began my yoga practice, my relationship with movement continues to evolve. Things sharpen then blur, clarity comes and goes, and time reveals the intricate, yet beautiful chaos of a path still forming.
My draw to teach movement is rooted in this messy yet harmonious evolution – a journey I believe we all share, and one that can shape our lives far beyond the mat if we allow it to.
