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A couple of years ago, I took a few months’ leave from work and lived in Bali. During that time, I volunteered at an elementary school in Kelusa, teaching English on weekday afternoons. My mornings and evenings were my own.

In the years leading up to that trip, my relationship with my body had changed dramatically. I had developed a rare medical disorder that left me with severe limitations in my left arm and hand. I could no longer participate in most of the athletic pursuits that had long been central to my identity. Yoga entered my life not as a passion, but as a necessity — a way to move at all within the constraints of a body that no longer behaved the way it once had.

My time in Bali served two purposes. It was both a way to distance myself from the grief of losing my former physical self and an attempt to restore the emotional and mental parts of me that felt fractured in the aftermath. I knew my body would never return to what it had been. I was searching for something that could still make me feel whole.

Being on the other side of the planet helped. Bali created literal and psychological distance from who I had been. The children at the school helped too. Their excitement when they saw me each day, their pride when they remembered new English words, and the way they would spend their small amounts of pocket change to buy me snacks from a nearby cart all softened something in me that had been clenched for a long time.

Bali was also the perfect place to practice yoga daily. Many days, I practiced twice — once in the morning and again in the evening. During the week, I stayed in a small village outside Ubud. On most weekends, I traveled to beach towns across the island, each with its own studios and retreats. Over those months, I practiced in many different spaces, guided by many different teachers.

One weekend, I traveled to a beach resort town in the northeast part of the island. I arrived late on Friday night, planning to attend a sunrise yoga class the following morning. The retreat hosting the class was perched high on a hill, taking advantage of the elevation to provide sweeping views of the sea, sand, and cliffs below. The studios were open-air, with few walls and expansive views. I was deeply looking forward to practicing there.

I woke early and made the fifty-minute trek up a steep road to the retreat. When I arrived, I was told the class had been canceled. There had been no notice online — not on their website, Instagram, or Facebook, all of which I had checked repeatedly. I was frustrated. I felt as though my entire morning had been lost, and I was convinced I wouldn’t be able to practice yoga at all that day.

Sensing my disappointment, the staff kindly offered to let me use the yoga space on my own. They suggested I practice in the bird’s-nest viewpoint and stay as long as I liked.

I was immediately overcome with terror.

Practice by myself? That sounded like the worst possible outcome. My eyes widened, my mouth fell open, and I responded with something only half-professional: “Thank you, but that sounds like the worst thing ever.”

My mind raced. What would I even do? Stand alone in a vast, beautiful space with no guidance, no structure, no one else there? I had no problem traveling the world alone. I was comfortable eating alone, going to bars alone, trying new experiences alone. I thrived on novelty and on meeting strangers.

But practicing yoga alone on a beautiful island? Absolutely not.

What horrified me wasn’t just solitude — it was the absence of community and inspiration. I relied on instructors, on their sequencing, their words, their presence. I enjoyed sharing space with others who loved the journey of yoga. Without that, the practice felt empty.

I left the retreat irritated and stormed back down the hill toward town.

At the time, I had no idea how much my perspective would change in the following year.

While living in Bali, one of the studios I frequented was located just down the road in the village of Pejeng where I stayed. Over time, my interest in yoga expanded beyond the physical practice into its history and philosophy. I began attending classes that had nothing to do with movement at all. After returning to the United States, that curiosity continued to deepen.

Within months, I enrolled in a yoga teacher training program. Six months and two hundred hours later, I became a yoga teacher myself.

What had once been something I resisted doing alone became central to my life. Practicing by myself no longer felt empty. Even when I was alone on my mat, there was a social dimension — I was holding space for a community. There was novelty — I was creating the words and movements meant to inspire others.

What once terrified me had transformed into a source of meaning, connection, and purpose.

What changed wasn’t the practice itself — it was the responsibility I learned to hold within it.