For now, I choose not to fight what is unfolding. Instead... I choose to trust. To stay creative. To stay open. To keep serving. The desert reminded me that we do not always move forward by leaving. Sometimes we move forward by remembering. So I will keep breathing. And wherever life carries me next, I trust that the path beneath my feet will recognize me before I recognize it.

I was backing out of my driveway on my way to the yoga center when I saw the old woman. She was standing beside a car parked on the street. She looked at me and raised her hand. Not a wave. A signal to wait. I stopped the car. She stepped into the road. She was tiny and bent forward at the waist. One foot dragged slightly behind the other. There was something lying in the middle of the street. At first I thought it was a piece of trash. The woman kept walking. When she reache

There are children who grow up like old houses beside cold oceans. From the outside, the windows glow warmly at night. The family looks close. The child is polite. Sensitive. Attentive. Someone says, “You are so lucky to have such a loving parent.” But inside the house, the walls have absorbed decades of weather. The parent walks through the rooms carrying invisible winter. Loneliness follows them like wet fabric. Disappointment sits quietly at the dinner table. The marriage

The house grew quieter in December. Not peaceful, only quiet, the way people become when they are tired of explaining themselves.

I communicate well with almost everyone. I stay mindful. I speak calmly. I listen deeply. Even in difficult situations, I can hold space with softness and clarity. People often tell me I’m grounding to be around And I know that’s true until it comes to someone I’m emotionally close to. That’s where everything becomes harder. Not because I suddenly lose my skills, but because intimacy opens the door to old wounds my body still remembers. When my body reacts before I do With an

How to maintain our truths while inviting in the smoothness and flow

A reflection by Yuna There was a time I thought love meant letting people in, fully, without pause. Especially those who were unraveling. Those in the middle of heartbreak or some private war. I held space like it was oxygen. I saw their potential and mistook it for presence. I thought, if I love them well enough, they’ll heal. They didn’t always. Instead, I often found myself sitting in rooms where silence was heavy, where I was listening more than living. Where my energy be

Not Asked For, But Meant to Be What is meant for you finds its way, almost like it had been walking toward you the whole time. Some things don’t arrive because we hustle for them. They arrive because we’re ready. Because something in us, quietly, sincerely, called them in, long before we knew what we were asking for. This is the story of how a gong came into my life. Not because I chased it. Not because I knew how to use one. But because it was time. When I moved to the deser

I I just returned from the Pacific Northwest, where everything smells like memory and moss. The forests of Olympic National Park held me in a way the desert never has. Somewhere between moss-covered roots and the hush of Olympic rain, I stopped, trying to understand. I just listened. The desert teaches you how to survive. The forest reminds you how to receive. In Joshua Tree, everything is bone and sky. Clarity. Silence. A kind of holy emptiness that strips you down to the ba

Vol. 1 – The Ones Who Left with Lighter Hearts Dear You, There’s a quiet that settles in after a session ends. Not silence exactly—more like something exhaled. You leave, and I sit for a while, watching the desert light gather itself across the floor. Something lingers. A trace of your presence. A color that wasn’t there before. I’m not a healer. I don’t fix or rescue. But I witness. I listen. And I hold space while you do the work your body has been longing to do. Sometimes,

My home sanctuary for breath and sound A quiet reflection on lineage, love, and learning to stop proving myself Sometimes I wonder if certain stories are passed down, not by words, but by air. Like steam from a cup of tea, or the way one silence echoes another. In my family, the story goes something like this: If you want to be loved, you have to earn it. Be impressive. Be beautiful. Be helpful. Be less of a burden. If you're tired, don’t show it. If you’re hurt, smile kindly

by Yuna Lee In breathwork, tea ceremony, and healing spaces, we often speak of “holding space.” But what does that really mean? It’s not a technique. It’s a presence. A kind of stillness we choose together. This poem is a quiet reflection on what it feels like, what it asks of us, and what it gives in return. The Art of Holding Space (*Inspired by the structure of Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art.”) The art of holding space—we keep it with breath. Not fixing, not advising, not nam