You’ve heard it before, probably many times: yoga is a practice. And what does that mean? When I hear the word “practice” I think of training for a final result: the big game, opening night, a concert solo.

What’s the “performance” we are practicing for in the yoga studio? I suppose if we’re referring to one limb of yoga — the asana, or “pose” — a rewarding finale can be nailing the textbook-perfect backbend with photo evidence to post on Instagram. I don’t mean to sound dismissive: we may not be awarded a trophy but capturing the results of an achievement to share can be very satisfying.

But exploring beyond impressive party-trick asanas, what else is happening in our yoga practice? Let’s look at an asana that, on the outside, looks pretty much like we’re doing nothing: tadasana, or “mountain pose.” AKA, standing in place.

This is a pose we do in almost every class. In the Hot Series, we do it between almost every other shape. When we look at physical details, from your feet to the top of your head, there is really a lot to consider. (We *could* spend an entire class exploring tadasana, but I don’t know how long we’d stay in business.)

But beyond refining physical details, it’s the psychological ones that we find most challenging. An attitude in yoga that is sometimes interchangeable with the pose itself, we hold tadasana with samasthitihi: balanced calm, awareness, and mental presence.

Now, this is a practice. It’s difficult enough to hold samasthitihi in the controlled stress environment of a 105° studio, wet clothes clinging to your body, sweat dripping in your eyes, your mat just begging you to take a break and lie down.

I tell students the “game” we’re practicing for is what we encounter right outside the studio doors: traffic, long lines, delays, disruption, inconsideration, difference of opinion…I don’t need to go on. You know it’s not so easy to get through a day having mastered balanced calm, awareness, and mental presence. And this is a game that never ends.

In the studio you hear us say “new day, new body” repeatedly: “Don’t worry about what you did last week or last year, what you want to be doing next month, what your neighbor is doing,” I say. “Be with the body you brought in today.”

Philosophically, what we are practicing here is santosha: Sanskirt for “contentment” and one of ten ethical tenants laid out as Yamas and Niyamas in the Yoga Sutras.

In yoga practice, santosha can mean accepting the body’s abilities on a particular day without judgment. One day a pose feels energizing and accessible. Another day it feels heavy and restricted. Santosha teaches us that by releasing comparison and expectation, we create space for genuine presence on the mat.

The thing is, I remind students to work with where they are so often, I take it for granted myself sometimes. But a few days ago, outside of the studio, participating in the life for which we are practicing, I drove from meeting to appointment to errand and was reminded concretely of what I mean when I say “new day, new body” in our yoga classes.

It’s March. It’s the month I promised myself I would get back to the grind, back to the hustle, back to the straight-and-narrow after months of holiday interruptions, darker days, and a slower pace.

Alas, as I had places to go, people to see, and papers to sign, I found myself just… tired. My analytical brain got loud: why are you so tired? You slept well; the sun is out; your fitness tracker says you have energy. You have no reason to be tired and you need to stop feeling this way now and get it together like everybody else. Remember how you powered through your 20’s and 30’s? You can’t let yourself become a tired old person.

The negative self-talk was relentless. But then, probably because I say it it to dozens of people several times a week, a softer voice whispered, “new day, new body.”

Practicing santosha — working with what you have each moment — changes the relationship between effort and outcome. There is no trophy waiting for us at the end of this game called life; instead, when we focus on the quality of the engagement with the process itself, we move with intention, clarity, and presence rather than with anxiety and pressure.

I stopped. I looked at the list of things I’d recorded that needed to be accomplished that day. That week. This month. When I took a breath and allowed the weight of my fatigue to settle, I realized that really, if I kept pushing, the primary effect I would have on what matters most — others around me — would be a stressed, anxious, negative person in their presence. What does my list matter, then?

I scratched some things off the list and reordered others. I went home to rest. I trusted myself and my integrity enough to know that the higher priorities would, indeed, get done and anything that didn’t — or was later than scheduled — well … the earth will keep spinning.

March ushers in a new season with the energy of growth, anticipation, and change. Yet sometimes this momentum creates a restlessness, impatience for the practice, dismissal of the process in the drive to check off something as complete: a final result, an achievement unlocked.

Look, we’re participating in this event of life that requires perpetual practice; we need to experience moments of achievement, accomplishment, and closure. But March — and santosha — reminds us that the earth does not rush the arrival of spring. Seeds are as they are beneath the soil; there is no rushing them along with comparisons and expectations.

In the same spirit, santosha invites us to trust our own process — to practice samasthitihi: balanced calm, awareness, and mental presence –with contentment. We can trust that each time one of those impactful moments we’ve been practicing for come up in this game, it will unfold exactly as it should. With or without a trophy waiting for us.

-maria

I have an unfortunate history with January and February, the first two months of our calendar year, but I’m happy to report that things are turning around.

Ever since I was a kid, January has never felt like the “New Year” in the rhythms of my life. Prone to deep melancholy even as a teenager, I’ve always fought the late-December “post-holiday blues,” found New Year’s celebrations performative and inauthentic, and don’t get me started on what the arrival of February has represented….grey skies, relentless wind, and biting cold that feels like kicking me while I’m down.

Over the years, I’ve experimented with a fluctuating one-woman New Year’s. I’ve played with the Lunar New Year — the second new moon after winter solstice — and the Astrological New Year, which is at spring equinox when the sun enters Aries, the first sign of the zodiac.

It’s not so much a celebration I’m looking for, but a time that I’m energized and optimistic enough to feel deep in my bones that good things are coming. That my evolved-from-mermaids body will feel warm air, warm sun, and warm waters again. I’ve accepted that this ambiguous transformation will likely never happen at the same time every year but I trust now that it will, indeed, happen.

This year, it arrived at the most surprising time yet: February 2nd, which was both Groundhog Day and Imbolc, the midway point between winter solstice and spring equinox. It was the full moon the night of the 1st, February’s “Snow Moon,” that got my attention, whispering to me on a drive home from Tahoe.

Pretty, I thought. Quite bright. Super round.

The next night, as I was leaving the yoga studio, she was no longer whispering.

PAY ATTENTION TO ME!

I took her seriously. I looked up what we can glean from the Snow Moon and read, “February carries the seed of the spring that is coming. It combines both rest and activity, the silence and the crackle.”

“Everything is is still, but everything is about to move…the energy in this period is associated with purification, renewal, cleansing, clearing space, and renovation.”

Renovation?

I happen to be preparing for a renovation: the biggest one in my life thus far. Swell is opening a second location. And for the two months that bridged hearing about the opportunity to having the keys in hand, I wasn’t sure if I was even looking forward to this reality I’d been pursuing for years.

To be clear, it’s our second time to open a second studio. I suppose the first time was a practice run, open for three years from 2021-2024. Soon after we opened the small space adjacent to our current one, we’d already outgrown it. I knew that if I wanted to manifest the vision I had for Swell, we’d need a larger second space.

What I didn’t know is how long it would take to find it and how much I’d endure both as a business owner and general human before it happened.

Not to trivialize any of the following events by lumping them together because some were so much more brutal than others but to make a long story kind-of-short:

Within a month of closing our first South Swell and after a year of chronic sinus infections, I had surgery in June 2024 that involved an intense a 6-week recovery. During this time I got the news that the belongings we moved from South Swell to storage were destroyed in a fire that started in the unit adjacent to ours.

In August, after hitting several dead-ends while searching for a new lease, my husband and I spent two months researching, adjusting future plans, and putting together an offer to buy a commercial building. We were outbid. I was devastated. I needed time to lick my wounds.

A few months later, I was relieved not to be owning, renovating, and paying for that space when we lost my brother and then a vey close friend to cancer at the start of 2025. It was all I could do for months to get out of bed and simulate a life.

When I finally felt ready, I made an offer for another lease option. The owners wanted more. I moved on. A year later, the space remains empty.

Finally, finally… we are opening another South Swell. The space checks every box I needed it to and even feels like it fell in my lap. Every professional disappointed I experienced on the path to this moment suddenly makes perfect sense. Yoga reminds me again and again to trust. Have faith. Lao Tzu said, “nature is not in a hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”

So, here I am, at this year’s New Year. Basking in the light of the Snow Moon, trusting the time it will take to get proper permitting, renovate, clean, clear, and plan(t).

The sun is in Aquarius, in direct opposition of my Leo sign, where the full moon shines. Aquarius characteristics typically emphasize intellect, innovation, and the collective. Leo, on the other hand, chases passion, creativity, and individualism. This is what I call a power couple.

After five years owning a business, I’m looking ahead to five more. I’m ready to put on my CEO pants and embrace an opportunity to till the soil, plant, and harvest, all in good time. I’m ready, as my New Year’s affirmation goes, to envision a better future.

-maria

I’m currently on a rampage of sorts, the same one I embark on annually. It begins with scouring every room in our house, looking at the items on — or inside — every surface. What are the things we don’t use, that collect dust, or that would be appreciated more by someone else? I snatch them up, thank them for their service, and plop them into the growing pile by the front door to be sorted for trash, recycling, or donations.

I am ruthless, and I have regrets—I’ve gotten rid of my wedding dress, furniture I now want back, and once, as my children still remind me regularly, a collection of toys I thought they’d outgrown and, ahem, didn’t fit my aesthetic. Since that time, I’ve compromised with my family, agreeing on designated areas that are off-limits to my plundering. This last time, when I poked my head through my son’s door, he saw the look in my eyes.

“Mom, remember you can’t just go into a person’s room looking for things to get rid of.”

This adrenaline-fueled purging is all in anticipation of what is coming: holiday knickknacks temporarily strewn across the house, gifts we will receive that need a place to live, and guests visiting who want to settle in with access to a clear surface.

In addition to being wrapped in paper and bows, the holiday season is wrapped in an unspoken pressure to accumulate—decorations, gifts, events. But in this swirl of abundance, there’s a yogic principle that invites us to pause, breathe, and realign our intentions: aparigraha, or the virtue of non-attachment.

I used to take pride in the identity I describe as being a minimalist when it comes to possessions. I don’t hold on tightly to a lot of stuff—maybe the satisfaction I get from a big purge developed when I was young and we moved often. Now everything I have left from my childhood—mostly letters and photographs—fits in the one plastic tub I’ve carried with me for decades.

But when I was introduced to the concept of aparigraha in yoga teacher training, I was humbled. I may not feel too attached to my things, but my clinging to ideas, expectations, and old wounds is the baggage I carry—weighing me down, causing me to be anxious, reserved, afraid.

At its core, aparigraha teaches that fulfillment comes not from what we hold onto, but from what we’re willing to release. This principle serves as a reminder of what we Gen-Xers remember from the movie Fight Club: what we try to possess, possesses us.

In her book The Yamas and Niyamas, Deborah Adele writes of aparigraha: “Anything we cling to causes a maintenance problem for us… Subtle attachments come in the form of our images and beliefs about ourselves, about how life should be, about how others should be.”

Just as clearing our home’s surfaces makes room for what will land next, letting go of my mental and emotional clutter helps me land in the moment I’m in—both with myself and with others.

In design, there’s the concept of white space—not literally white, but empty of design elements. We say this creates space for what’s around it to breathe and improves clarity. Adele uses the breath as an example of aparigraha: What if we could trust life like we trust breath? What if we could take in the moment as it is, experience the nourishment it provides, and let go of our attachments with faith that what comes next will be just as nourishing?

Just as the breath requires both inhalation and exhalation, life requires both offering and accepting. A gift aparigraha offers during the holiday season is the invitation to practice presence. When we release grasping—whether it’s for perfection, possessions, or past traditions—we become more attentive to what is, instead of tangled up in wanting things to be different.

Like so many people, I grieve the loss of loved ones with an extra layer of reminders during the holiday season. Letting go does not mean I experience less pain or pretend the grief doesn’t hurt. These losses, like aparigraha itself, encapsulate the reality of impermanence. Everything changes; nothing stays the same. When we take in what’s in front of us and then let it go—without expectations, opinions, or disappointment—we experience the truth of impermanence.

At first, I found the concept of non-attachment to seem cold, unbothered, dispassionate. But in practice, the gift it brings is what we could use most during the holiday season: presence, generosity, simplicity, and peace.

– maria

When I hear people describe what initially brought them to yoga, they often have a similar beginning to mine: it started as a physical thing. We were looking to gain flexibility or strength; looking for alternative ways to move after injury or illness; looking to touch our toes, do a headstand, or twist into a pretzel for a cool photo.

For some people, this is enough and all yoga needs to be. Yoga is inclusive: there is a way for everyone. Still, many of us begin to explore the endless layers of yoga that transform it into something beyond a physical practice. We find stress relief and relaxation. And/or, alternatively and just as important, discomfort and resiliency. We explore mindfulness, meditation, and presence. And something that has become just as important to me (if not more) than the physical practice is the philosophical one.

I love nothing more in life than layers, nuance, and ambiguity and yoga — its postures, language, and concepts — provides an endless supply. Take the word hatha. One of our class styles is specifically called “hatha,” as this has become a common way to describe a style of class in American studios. But, as we clarify in the class description, technically all of our classes are hatha. This is a more traditional understanding of the word as being an umbrella term for any physical yoga practice.

There are many translations from the yoga language of Sanskrit to English, but a more common one for Hatha is “sun” (ha) and “moon” (tha), symbolizing balance in opposing efforts.

I hear a lot about “finding balance” in life and have said I’m looking for it more times than I can count. So much so that I feel like I’m not sure what it means anymore. And when I’m struggling to understand an abstract concept like this, it always helps to explore it first using something concrete and tangible. In this instance, discovering balance in my body — through hatha — gives me lightbulb moments for how I might apply it in life.

The way to sustainably hold a yoga posture isn’t achieved with a clenched jaw and shear will: it’s to find balance between steadiness (sthira) and relaxation (sukha). Effort and release. Or, my favorite descriptors: sweetness and strength.

If you’ve experienced those moments in your body when suddenly, what seemed like a struggle to find, build, and maintain clicks into place and feels effortless, you’ve found hatha. And it’s not a stretch to think the benefits of balancing opposing physical energy can be applied to mental, social, and emotional energy.

We’re entering a season that embraces and amplifies needs we have as humans: connection, reflection, and consumption. These needs are layered, nuanced, and ambiguous. There are times connection is invited and planned for. There are times it is not. The same is true for reflection: a tradition, memory, or nostalgia may evoke feelings of gratitude, happiness, and safety in one moment and yet that very same reflection, a moment later, brings a wave of resentment, grief, and fear.

We are meant to consume, too, and I don’t just mean in the usual way we hear consumption associated with holidays—food, drink, materials. We also consume (and feel consumed!) mentally, socially, and emotionally.

I’m asking myself, as I move through this season, how might I emerge feeling the ways my very best intentions would have me feel—reinforced, connected, grounded, grateful?

I suspect hatha will help. And I love that hatha is a practice. There’s no final score in balance; there’s no way to “win.” Each moment is a chance to feel, asses, and adjust. And if we forget our practice and the moments turn into days or days turn into weeks—we simply, at that moment, notice it and try again.

What are little (and big) ways to practice hatha through this season?

A small start: every home kitchen from Pescadero to Pacifica ran out of cinnamon at the same time and I have to squeeze myself through the store wearing jammy pants and wanting to talk to no one. I’ll pay for my eggs, walk through the parking lot, and linger for a moment in the quiet of my car, warm from the sun and shut off from the world.

Maybe it was too many cookies, or cocktails, or cheese spreads the night before. Ok, it’s a new day. I’ll open the front door and step outside. Doesn’t matter if I don’t have a destination, plan, or the right shoes. Keep putting one foot in front of the other, feel the air on my face, the sun (or fog) on my skin, and listen for the sounds of life around me.

What about this: in the middle of a gathering, I’m feeling sturdy and confident: planning, laughing, remembering, and out of nowhere, grief brings me to my knees. I’ll find somewhere — or someone — safe and let it. I’ll fall to my knees, hold on tight, and wail. I’ll know I’m not the only one.

(I’m not far enough along in my practice to find “balance” in the wild, feral, deep woods of grief but I have learned that time heals and brings me closer to this insight. And what are holidays, rituals, and traditions if not markers of time and remembrance?)

Hatha for the holidays. May this season bring us all connection, reflection, consumption. Joy, gratitude, and peace. And may it bring us remembrance, discomfort, and unease. May we accept all of it as practice to balance our sweetness and strength.

– maria