A Quiet Storm Took Her Home

There’s this painting—one that’s been with me through some of the rawest, wildest chapters of my life. It lived behind me in my yoga space for years. It’s watched me grow, teach, cry, breathe, and rebuild. And now… it lives behind one of you.

A student of mine, one of those people with giant hearts and quiet storms living inside them, took it home. She picked it up on her way out of town, and I honestly haven’t been the same since. She took a piece of me with her. I mean, really—I miss her.

She’s a dog lover (which makes her immediately elite in my book), and someone who’s out in the world doing real, beautiful things for kids—though I’m not even sure of the exact title, I know it matters.

The painting was made in a storm of its own—a night I was wrecked, hollowed out from years of being emotionally torn down. I was still making art. Compulsively. Wordless and overwhelmed, I flung color around like I was trying to stitch myself back together. A gross, lusty man watched me while I painted (gross is right), and I stayed solid, using soft pinks and strong movements until I looked at the finished piece and just knew—this was power.

It didn’t come to Japan with me, but it waited. Carefully laid in storage back in Florida, it was one of the first things I pulled out and hung when I returned. It reminded me of the force inside soft things. The nuance of healing. The way our art holds multitudes, even when we don’t have the words.
And now… she’s in a new home. Behind someone else. On Zoom calls, in sacred spaces. She’s still doing what she was made to do: holding and witnessing strength. Just from a different wall.

Thank you, friend. For seeing her. For seeing me.