None of us knows how long we have: in this city, this home, this life.

Until this past week, I hadn’t run at all, not even after the bus, for the past 8 years.

Over the years, I have often felt the presence of something I later came to think of as God. But how could you ever know?

All I ever wanted to be was myself. Why did that take so much work?

What happens when you stop?

We are all somewhere on a spectrum from dirt poor to Epstein-level unethical.

The year ahead will be filled with seismic shifts. I don’t know if I am ready.

In which I struggle to hold onto who I have chosen to become.

This is my intention for the year: presence.

Where does love go, when it goes away?

We, none of us, chose where we were born.

Belonging is not about possession. That is the hardest part.

Anchoring myself in a place through movement is not nothing. It took me a while to figure out that it is, in fact, yoga.

Our nervous systems were never meant to know about suffering halfway across the globe.

I have learned to ask for what I need. I have not yet learned to not feel silly or rude.

Our imaginations have to stay larger than reality. And yet, I long for certainty and calm.

Try as I might, I cannot practice detachment to the nth degree.

May we all have a family that never asks us to stop singing along.

Yoga teaches us that we only can know this very moment. We can feel our breath rising and falling with the rhythm of wherever we are.

Why is it so hard to love myself unconditionally? Even in this question I find remnants of the berating that is antithetical to getting there.