I’m a pro at keeping busy.

In college, I juggled a full-time schedule of classes. They were usually Honors courses taught in a Socratic method style that demanded constant preparation and full presence. In addition to this, I worked as a research assistant part-time, conducted my own research for both my senior project and a graduate school prep program, and taught group fitness classes a few nights a week. Somehow within all that, I also tried to stay socially involved through my sorority and holding leadership roles in at least three different campus clubs.

Was I 100% committed to each of these things at once? Impossible. I can see that now. But damn if I didn’t try. I overworked myself constantly, desperate to give my full attention to every single responsibility. I thought “balance” meant giving equal mental bandwidth to all of it, slicing myself into perfect portions.

Despite taking every stress management class I could get into and even basing my senior research project on the benefits of mindfulness, I didn’t actually have a mindfulness practice of my own. The closest I got was savasana at the end of a yoga class (usually one I was leading). I thought I could read my way into mindfulness. I believed I understood it because I’d studied it. But I didn’t yet know what it felt like to actually embody it.

At the same time, the anxiety and depression I’d been carrying since adolescence had deepened. On the outside, I looked accomplished, motivated, involved. Inside, I felt disconnected from myself, untethered, and pushed around by my own thoughts, afraid to slow down for fear that my harsh inner critic would catch up with me. The very yoga that had once saved me, that gave me healthier ways to cope when I’d previously turned to self-harm, could only take me so far when I was spread so thin.

Writing this now, my current instructor self wants so badly to reach back and hug that younger version of me. To say, It’s okay. It gets better. But the truth is, it’s still hard to revisit how torn I felt back then. I was pulled in a million directions, doubting every decision, wondering if I was enough in any of the roles I held.

Fast-forward to today, and I’m still juggling a lot. I’m still teaching group fitness part-time, but now it’s alongside teaching undergraduate psychology courses at a community college, pursuing my PhD, and oh yeah…running my own business.

But the biggest difference, aside from a decade of growth and therapy, is that I now have a personal mindfulness practice. It’s the glue that holds everything together.

And I’ll be honest: when I first tried mindfulness meditation, I hated it.

I know hate is a strong word but I really really didn’t like it. I knew it was important, from a scientific perspective I’d seen proof it could work, but I just “couldn’t do it.”

I couldn’t sit still. My mind raced. I placed impossibly high expectations on myself — silence, blissful peace, ignoring all distractions — and when those didn’t come, I labeled myself a failure.

I thought mindfulness was supposed to feel like instant relief. I didn’t understand that it really meant showing up as you are, allowing space for however you’re feeling, and letting go of the urge to turn stress into relaxation or anger into joy. I didn’t understand that it could also mean learning how to remain present with discomfort.

The turning point came when I realized: no one but me was telling me I had to sit still.

That was a profound revelation even though it seems so obvious now. By this point, I had already found my mindfulness practice through movement, I just didn’t know to call it that.

Yoga, Pilates, Barre… I gravitated toward any “mind-body” class I could find, not because it always made me feel good, but because it helped me feel.

Movement gave me permission to be present in my body. It taught me how to stay with the not-so-good feelings, instead of running from them. I could breathe through the tightness in my chest. I could find my footing despite the shakiness of anxiety.

I learned to trust that I was capable of being with whatever showed up. The steadiness or wobbles in Warrior III, the melting ease or the pinching hips of Child’s Pose, all were each equally deserving of my attention. And the sound of my footsteps on a walk could be an anchor when my breath wasn’t. These experiences reintroduced me to what it meant to be mindful.

Eventually, I gave “formal” mindfulness another shot, but this time with help from other teachers. I took an eight-week mindfulness course. I listened to guided practices so many times I could recite them. I went on a retreat. And, thanks to COVID, I joined virtual group sessions that helped me feel less alone in my practice.

What I’d been missing all along, without realizing it, was community. I had found connection in group fitness, most definitely. But my mindfulness journey had been largely solitary. I didn’t realize how much I needed the reassurance that my questions weren’t silly, that others were struggling with the same things. I needed the insight that comes from witnessing myself in others, the camaraderie of learning together. I needed just that one teacher to tell me “no one is saying you have to sit still.”

So I stopped limiting my definition of mindfulness. I stopped thinking I had to look a certain way, sit a certain way, or achieve a certain state of mind. I let go of the belief that wandering thoughts were signs of failure. I discovered that even open eyes and fidgety hands were all perfectly fine within my practice.

Eventually, I opened so fully to mindfulness that I felt called to help others expand their own definitions of it. I completed my first mindfulness meditation teacher training during lockdown and co-created a mindfulness program at one of the colleges where I teach. Together with a campus therapist, we offered students a space to pause. To witness the present moment. To discover that mindfulness doesn’t have to look like what pops up when you type “meditation” into Canva.

That program continues today. It runs for eight weeks each semester and remains one of the most meaningful parts of my work.

When I look back on my earlier years without a mindfulness practice, I sometimes picture my life as a circus act. I was trying to balance too many spinning plates, wearing too many hats, and constantly performing for everyone, while barely keeping it all together.

Now, I no longer expect myself to give equal attention to everything, all the time. I don’t try to hold it all in my mind at once. Instead, I’ve learned to focus on what matters in each moment, and to gently guide myself back when my attention strays.

Instead of spinning plates, I now imagine all the areas of my life as planets in orbit. Each one — teaching, research, business, fitness, home — has its own rhythm. Some days, one pulls with more gravity than the others. But I can see how they move together and in relation to eachother, how they revolve around the same center: me, grounded and present.

These days, stillness in my meditation practice doesn’t scare me the way it used to. I can close my eyes, usually, without that sinking feeling in my gut. I can be with myself without the relentless voice that used to inventory every mistake. And more often than not, I can meet myself with kindness.

More importantly, I can now see how everything I’ve done has brought me here. Here, where I no longer feel like a circus act. Here, where I can hold space for it all. Here, where I’ve learned to move through life with presence, not pressure or performance

And now, I’m here, ready to help you do the same.

If you’ve been stretched thin trying to give everything your all…

If you’ve lost touch with your own practice while showing up for everyone else…

If you feel like your passion is flickering but not out just yet…

I see you. I was you.

And if you’ve tried mindfulness or meditation before and found more frustration than freedom, you’re not alone. You don’t have to force stillness. You don’t have to be silent to be practicing. You can start right where you are. Moving, breathing, living.

I’d love to show you how I’ve shaped my own relationship with mindfulness and how it’s transformed my teaching, and maybe help you shape your own practice too.

There’s a more grounded way to lead fitness classes, one where your impact doesn’t cost you your well-being. One where you can reconnect to what moves you and teach from that place. I’m here to help you find it.