The Thread—Letting the practice teach me how to speak
I was 19 and restless—the kind of restlessness that hums just beneath the surface when you know you want more but can’t quite name what more is.
It was 2017, and I remember sitting on my living room couch, endlessly scrolling through blogs, YouTube channels, and travel sites. I was searching—for what, I didn’t exactly know. Overlanding safaris, surf camps, yoga retreats… I wasn’t just looking to go somewhere. I wanted to feel something. I wanted purpose.
Eventually, it came down to two options: a 30-day, 200-hour yoga teacher training in Bali, or a four-week surf course somewhere further south. My parents, in their wisdom, offered their thoughts. The yoga training, they said, had a dual purpose. I had already been practicing for a year or two—it was something I loved. Plus, it could open the door to teaching, if I ever wanted to go that route.
Turns out, sometimes your parents are right.
I booked the training and bought a plane ticket to Denpasar, Indonesia. The training was set for July 2017, and I registered in February, giving myself five months to pay off the training, the flight, and save a little extra to stay in Bali afterward. I committed wholeheartedly.
I worked two jobs. I opened the Steve Nash Fitness gym at 5 a.m. (which meant waking up at 4 a.m.), then crossed the highway to open a restaurant at 11 a.m., working another five to six hours. I was working ten to twelve hours a day, five days a week, and was completely focused on making it happen.
My flight was booked for 12:00 a.m. on July 3rd, which to me meant 12 a.m. that night—the evening of July 3rd, not the very start. I knew what 12 a.m. technically meant, but in all my planning and mental countdowns, I had it in my head that I’d be flying on July 3rd, not needing to be at the airport late on July 2nd. It was a simple miscalculation.
There I was, my 30L backpack on, yoga mat strapped to the side, proudly walking into the airport at midnight on July 4th. I felt accomplished, prepared, and ready to begin the trip I’d worked so hard for. I walked up to the check-in counter, handed over my passport, and smiled. The agent looked at the screen, then looked at me.
“I’m sorry… this flight left yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” I blinked.
“Yes,” she said gently. “It departed at 12:00 a.m. on July 3rd. You’re here 24 hours late.” She hesitated, then added, “We called your name over the intercom several times last night.”
My stomach dropped. My face flushed. After five months of early mornings, long shifts, and careful saving, one small misstep, and everything felt like it was slipping away.
I thanked her, turned around, and walked back to where my family was waiting to explain what had happened. After everyone got over their disbelief and I shook off some embarrassment, I returned to the counter and asked the agent what my options were. She told me I’d need to buy a completely new ticket—and I definitely hadn’t saved enough to cover the cost of a second one. I had already paid for the training, which was non-refundable, and suddenly the entire trip felt like it was slipping through my fingers.
I was stunned. It was hard to believe that such a small mistake—one wrong mental note—could throw everything off.
Thankfully, my older brother stepped in. He offered to cover the cost of a new ticket that was leaving later that night, and I promised to pay him back once I returned from Bali.
That same evening, I boarded a plane to Taipei, which eventually took me to Denpasar, Bali. Fortunately, I had originally booked my flight two days before the training began, which gave me just enough time to make it. I still needed to travel to Nusa Lembongan, a small island about two hours southeast of Bali.
After checking into a hotel in the city, I remember feeling a little intimidated. I was young, alone, and in a completely foreign country. For a moment, I questioned whether I had made the right decision. There was a flicker of doubt.
But that doubt was gently met by the rhythm of the days that followed, being immersed in the training on a little island—waking with the sun, moving through morning practices, sharing meals, and slowly settling into the unfamiliar. Bit by bit, something inside me softened.
It happened during our final practicum, where each of us had to teach a 10–15 minute segment of a yoga class to our peers. I don’t know if I felt nervous, but I remember how natural it felt. Like something deep inside me exhaled the moment I stepped to the front of the mat.
I guided my classmates through what was likely a simple standing or seated sequence. There was no stage fright (well, maybe just a smidge), and no trace of the soft-spoken, quiet girl I’d so often been labelled as.
It just felt right.
That was eight years ago, and I can confidently say I’ve never regretted the decision.
To have made that choice at a young age, followed through with it, and carried it into a teaching path that’s remained a part of my life ever since—it’s something I’m proud of. Not just for the ability to share this practice with others but for the growth it’s offered me along the way.
Because if you ask any yoga teacher, I’d bet they’d say the same thing: during your training, you end up learning more about yourself than anything else. Teaching has taught me to trust my voice. To be patient. To listen before I react. It’s taught me to face discomfort and remember that nothing is permanent.
Even now, during a time when I’ve gone the longest without regularly teaching—nearly a year and a half, save for the odd class—I’m still learning.
What still blows my mind to this day is the sense of ease I often find whenever I teach; a calm sense of familiarity often meets me when I step on my mat and tune in, and it just flows. There's no questioning or uncertainty; it just is.
For quite some time, though, I’ve felt a shift—a not-so-subtle nudge toward something more. I’ve mostly taught public classes, only finding the confidence to host more intimate workshops in the last four years. But what I’ve come to understand is that I want to go deeper. I want to help others find their voice. I want to guide people inward, into the places where growth begins. I want to support those who are curious, evolving, and brave enough to meet themselves fully—just as I’ve been taught to do. And maybe, someday, they’ll spread these teachings too, in whatever way lights them up.
So even if I’m not teaching right now, I know this path is still a part of me. I’m still listening. Still learning. Still connected. And when the time comes to speak again, to guide again, I know the practice will be there.
Just as it always has been. A thread that gently weaves me back to myself.