You only have so much time. Which is exactly why pretending otherwise never helps.

Here's a question I want you to sit with. Where does the knowledge live? Not what do you know. Where does it live. Because in most Ashtanga rooms, the honest answer is: in the teacher. And that turns out to be the whole problem.

You're mid-conversation, and somewhere along the way you drifted three thoughts off. Or you're holding a pose and you notice you've been mentally drafting an email. You left. You didn't decide to. You just weren't there anymore.

You're the CEO of something unusual. Your own transformation.

Your harsh inner critic isn't just distorting the evidence. It's refusing to look at it.

I used to think students only wanted to know two things. The schedule and the sequence. What time to show up, and what to do when they got there. I was wrong, and being wrong about it cost me trust I didn't know I was losing.

Some insight doesn't come from thinking harder. It comes from paying attention longer — and not to your own thoughts.

For a while, I banned props in my Mysore room. I thought I was protecting the practice. What I was actually doing was teaching people to lie to me.

Patience isn't waiting. Patience is collecting better data.

"Take this pose." "Do this now." I used to talk like that all the time. It was efficient. It was also making the room a little more brittle every time I opened my mouth, and I couldn't figure out why.