The Desert Called Me Back : Remembering Myself Through Breath and Trust

Many of you know that I have been in the process of selling my Joshua Tree home. Some of you have joined me there for breathwork, tea ceremonies, or simply to sit together beneath the vast desert sky.

For months, I believed I was saying goodbye.

I reorganized the house, negotiated with the buyer, packed my belongings, and did everything I could to begin a new chapter.

My Desert House

In my mind, I had already left.

Then, unexpectedly, the sale fell through.

I was disappointed, not because life changed its plans, but because I had already begun letting go.

I questioned whether I had misunderstood where life was leading me.

So I returned.

When I arrived, I did what I know best.

I breathed.

The desert did not offer explanations.

It did not tell me what would happen next.

It simply held me, as it always has.

Somewhere between the wind, the ancient rocks, and my own breath,

I realized something.

Perhaps I wasn't being called back to a house.

Perhaps I was being called back to myself.

Santa Barbara has been a beautiful place to begin again. I have found wonderful people, meaningful work, and a growing community.

Yet I also noticed how easily I had become shaken while trying to build a new life there.

Quietly, almost without realizing it, I had started measuring myself by outcomes, whether the house would sell, whether enough people came to my events, whether I was doing enough, becoming enough, succeeding enough.

The desert reminded me of something much older than all of that.

It reminded me who I am.

Breathwork is not simply something I teach.

It lives in my bones.

It lives in my blood.

It is the language through which I understand life.

For years, I wondered whether I should make my work lighter, more popular, more marketable.

Whether I should teach something easier to explain.

Something easier to sell.

But breathing beneath the desert sky, I remembered that my work has never been about helping people escape themselves.

It has always been about helping people meet themselves.

Not every breathwork session ends in relaxation or happiness.

Sometimes people meet grief they have carried for decades.

Sometimes they discover anger they have never allowed themselves to feel.

Sometimes they encounter tenderness, forgiveness, or a quiet strength that has been waiting beneath the surface all along.

This is not the quickest path.

It is not always the most comfortable path.

But it is sacred work.

And I realized...

This is enough.

I do not need to become someone else to be successful.

I simply need to become more fully who I already am.

I was born in Korea, carrying the breath, intuition, resilience, and quiet strength of the women who came before me.

I often wonder if what I offer today is not something I created, but something I remembered.

Over the years, another lineage has adopted me.

The desert.

Joshua Tree has become more than a place where I lived or worked.

It has become my desert mother, a quiet teacher of spaciousness, endurance, silence, and trust.

This time, I felt as though my desert mother was calling me back.

Not because the house needed me.

Because I needed to remember.

My backbone had become a little unsteady in a new place.

While trying to build a new life, I had forgotten the ground beneath my own feet.

The desert reminded me.

I am a Korean woman carrying an ancient lineage of breath, intuition, and deep listening.

I am also a daughter of this desert.

Wherever I live, both belong to me.

Perhaps this is my path.

Not to build the biggest business.

Not to become the most popular teacher.

Not to make the most money.

But to continue offering breathwork to those who are willing to meet themselves honestly.

My work may never be for everyone.

It isn't meant to be.

It is for those who are ready to descend beneath the surface.

To sit with what is true.

To remember that healing is not about becoming someone new.

It is about remembering who we have always been.

Perhaps the house will sell one day.

Perhaps it won't.

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.

Work with Yuna

Yuna, a breathwork facilitator.