I’ll never forget standing in the fluorescent hallway of that gym, clutching my rolled-up mat like it was the only thing keeping me afloat. I had been practicing yoga at home for a couple years from a VHS, but decided to join the gym. Yikes!  Maybe this was a BAD decision!

Marcie & Rachelle practicing yoga at home 2002.

My heart was pounding so loud I could hear it over the Zumba bass next door. I had no idea what to wear—were my faded Target leggings and old T-shirt screaming “impostor”? I stood there frozen, talking myself into opening the door, terrified I’d walk in late and every eye would turn to me, or that I’d spend the whole class flailing while everyone else flowed perfectly.

When I finally slipped inside, the room was packed mat-to-mat, not an inch of free floor. The air smelled like rubber and too many bodies. I wedged myself into the only open corner in the back and prayed the dim lights would hide the heat rushing to my face. The teacher never looked my way. Soft spa music started, everyone dropped into poses I only half-recognized, and for the next seventy-five minutes no one spoke. I held my breath, copied shapes, and waited to be found out.  That day I felt small and completely alone.

For years after that I kept showing up anyway—six mornings a week. I got to know the teacher and she was a major influence in my life for all things good! Slowly the arthritis in my hands and knees began to quiet. I’d wake up the day after class and realize I hadn’t had to crawl from bed to bathroom like I used to. My body was remembering how to move without punishing me. More than that, in the rare quiet moments between the teacher’s cues, my mind unclenched. For the first time in years—five kids, CEO of a business, a marriage held together by habit—I could hear something gentle underneath the noise: God whispering, my own intuition whispering back, “You’re still in here.”

I started finding my voice outside the studio too. One night I sat my husband down and told him—hands shaking—that I wasn’t happy and what I needed to feel connected again. The conversations were hard and slow, but for the first time I believed I deserved to ask.

Then came the evening I felt strong enough, clear enough, to say the hardest truth: “I think we need to separate.” I said it from sadness, not anger, believing honesty was the most loving step left.

Three days later he took his own life.

The guilt and grief were crushing. Some nights I wasn’t sure my heart could keep beating under the weight. But the simple tools I’d practiced six days a week for years—breathwork, stillness, listening—became the only thing that kept me alive. I knew how to sit in the dark, place my hands on my belly, and ride the waves instead of drowning. I knew how to be quiet long enough to hear God say, “You are held.”

When the worst of the storm finally passed, I got certified to teach at Bodhi Yoga—not because I ever planned to (teaching sounded terrifying), but because I knew exactly what had saved me, and I couldn’t keep it to myself. And it has been 25 years now since I started in my bedroom with kids hanging all over me and watching a beginning yoga class with Rodney Yee from a video cassette.

That’s why I teach the way I do now: small classes (ten people max), where questions are celebrated, we move slowly, laugh often, play upbeat music (yes, even 80s), and nobody ever has to feel lost, silenced, or embarrassed.

I’ve lived both sides.

I’ve been the terrified woman in the hallway who didn’t know what to wear.

I’ve been the woman whose entire world shattered on a random Wednesday.

And every breath between those two moments taught me the same unshakable truth:

The most effective way to fall in love with yoga—and to let yoga heal your body, quiet your mind, and rebuild your life—is to learn it in a small, safe, talk-allowed room where you are never left alone with your fear.

I’ve watched it happen many times: nervous beginners walk in clutching their mats exactly like I once did, shoulders by their ears, certain they’re the only one who doesn’t belong. Within one or two classes they’re laughing when they wobble, asking “Wait, which foot goes where?” out loud, and leaving with light in their eyes saying, “I actually get it now… and I can’t wait to come back.”

If you’ve ever stood outside a studio too scared to open the door…

If your body hurts, your stress is constant, and you just need one gentle place to land…

If you want the peace and strength everyone talks about but you’re convinced it’s not for you because you’ll look stupid…

I built my classes for you.

You don’t have to be flexible, young, or “good” at anything.

You just have to be willing to show up exactly as you are.

Send me a message or grab one of the ten spots in the next beginner series.

I saved the corner spot in the back for you—the one with the extra blanket and the friendliest smile in the room.

Try it. You’re going to like it… and it might just save you too!