For a long time, writing a book felt like a private activity. The kind of thing that lived quietly on my laptop, in notebooks, in random documents with names like “final_final_REALfinal.docx.”
Publishing it, on the other hand, feels a bit like standing on the front porch, ringing the doorbell myself, and then pretending to be surprised when someone answers. “OH. Hi. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
And yet, here we are. After more than a decade of writing in fits and starts, setting the project aside, returning to it, doubting it, reshaping it, and occasionally wondering who exactly I thought I was, the next sensible thing finally became obvious: It was time to let the book leave the house.
If you are someone who has ever worried that your life or your creative work is taking “too long,” I have accidentally written something that may comfort you.
This book, The Yoke’s On Us, did not arrive via a master plan, a productivity sprint, or a burst of heroic inspiration. It arrived through a long series of small, ordinary decisions to keep tugging at threads that wouldn’t leave me alone. Yoga, curiosity, everyday life, movement, teaching, questions, detours, second thoughts, and the occasional existential wobble all made their way into the process.
The timeline is, um, not linear. It meanders. It loops. It pauses. It takes scenic routes. It stops for snacks. In other words, it looks a lot like an actual human life. If nothing else, reading it may make you feel significantly better about your own timeline. You’re welcome.
The Next Sensible Thing
One of the themes that keeps showing up in my life and work (and play) is the idea that big things rarely happen because of grand heroic leaps. More often, they happen because we take the next sensible step, and then the next one after that.
The book is a collection of those steps. It is not a manual or a blueprint. It is more like a trail of breadcrumbs left by a very curious person who kept asking questions and occasionally getting herself into “situations” while trying to answer them.
It’s a memoir-in-essays about yoga and embodiment, yes—but not in the aspirational, perfectly-lit, “drink green juice and transcend your inbox” way. It’s about how curiosity, movement, and everyday life intersect under the floorboards of an ordinary human life: the awkward, the tender, the surprising, and the quietly meaningful.
Letting It Go
Releasing a book into the world is a strange experience. Writing is private. Publishing is public. Writing is quiet. Publishing is a small act of courage wrapped in a paperback cover. But eventually, the next sensible thing becomes clear. You open the door. You ring the bell.
You let the book go out into the world and trust that it will find the readers who need it—or who simply feel like spending a little time in its company. If you’re curious, you can learn more about the book and how to get it here.
And if not, that’s okay too. I’m still very glad I wrote it.
