It’s not lost on me that she used the words “afoot” and “steps” on the same day that Felix had his right leg amputated and my own dear mama underwent total knee replacement surgery after debating getting the procedure done for years. Yes, years. Both of these beloved beings experienced a complete and total physical severing with what was before, and hopefully Felix and Kate are headed for pain-free trail adventures and pickleball matches, respectively, once they heal up.

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As I write this, a massive afternoon thunderstorm is rolling through Bozeman just after I’ve talked to my dad, who’s reassured me that Mom is settling in well in her hospital room. I’ve also received the call from Felix’s surgeon that he is out of surgery and resting peacefully.

Lightning strikes to the south and I can see the rain falling in Hyalite. Skies to the north are calm, though. This is one of the things I love most about living in the West. Sitting in stillness, I can see multiple horizons, perspectives, weather patterns.

As I read about and feel into what this eclipse means for me in the midst of my resilient mom and sweet dog undergoing significant surgeries, I realize that when big astrology arrives with the message, “Something has to go,” I often assume it’s something external. A person, a habit, my sweet tooth, Felix’s right leg – to name a few.

But this summer with Felix, culminating in today’s eclipse and his surgery, is reshaping my mindset. There is a part of me to which my ego is desperately clinging for dear life. It’s the part of me that seeks external clues, signs, signals, events to ensure I’m doing the right thing, headed in the right direction, making the right choices for myself and for my dogs.

The universe held the feet (there’s that appendage again!) of this part of me to the fire when it came time to make the decision about Felix’s leg. While I received excellent advice and perspective from his surgeon, our vet, trusted friends and many of his fans on the Internet, I knew the decision was ultimately up to me.

And I knew exactly what we had to do. My voice quivered as I held Felix close in the exam room and let the surgeon know I wanted to move forward with amputation. I strung together barely coherent sentences but ended with the one that mattered most: “I have to trust myself here.”

The surgeon, an incredibly talented and smart woman who keeps communication matter-of-fact, said, “I completely support your decision.”

The validation arrived, but only after I’d made the decision myself.

In life, we will sometimes contemplate multiple potential paths forward. And, like a Montana sky, we can’t ever control, ultimately, what rains down upon us. But as my yoga teacher, Jimmy, reminded us in class this week, surrender is not about letting go and trusting that everything will work out in your favor. Surrender is about letting go and trusting that YOU will be there when things don’t go as planned.

So, as the dust settles on eclipse season and Felix begins his road to recovery and three-legged glory, I’m choosing to trust the part of me that knows the truth instead of the one that seeks it somewhere outside of me as we move forward in a new direction. Felix’s right leg is gone, and so is the part of me that believes someone else has the answers I seek. We’re both free.

This week, we collectively mourn, celebrate and honor the life of a woman who built a life trusting herself to make the right decision despite the noise that must have threatened to engulf her myriad times over the course of her 80 profoundly impactful years on this planet.

I saw a clip of a reporter asking her in an interview what she views as her biggest mistake, and Dolly responded with “I haven’t made any.” The reporter laughs but Dolly doubles down. “I try to look at my life as a series of events, and what other people would call ‘a mistake,’ I wouldn’t. Sometimes, what would look like to be my biggest mistakes turn out to be my biggest blessings. I don’t regret things. I don’t go back because I’ve never done anything that I didn’t feel I should have done exactly that way at exactly that time. So how can you say that it’s a mistake?”

When we have the courage to make decisions from the part of us that isn’t seeking external approval or validation or certainty, we liberate ourselves from the energy of second-guessing, regret and worry and make room to experience the wonders of a life uniquely our own.

Felix, my mom, Dolly, the wide open Montana sky and the lunar eclipse remind us that while we’re able to conceptualize many options for our future, the path forward becomes simple when you realize there’s only one that aligns with your heart’s truth. The path can be disruptive, will maybe even require you to sever your ties to the only way of being you’ve ever known, and sometimes requires painful healing. But it’s the only way, and it will set you free – no matter the weather.

I’ve quoted this poem at least twice since the inception of this substack, but I must today, too. Somehow, these lines mean more to me with each passing season.

“Sometimes everything
has to be
enscribed across
the heavens

so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.”

- David White, “The Journey”

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Songs for the season…

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In the midst of it all, I find myself relating many moments in life recently to the fourth door of the Seven Doorways style of yoga that I have now spent hundreds of hours studying this year. The fourth doorway is called stoke, or “logs”, as we affectionately refer to it.

The Seven Doorways uses a bonfire as a metaphor for the structure of class. In the first three doorways, we build an internal fire by arriving as we are and creating a sacred space for practice (the fire pit), igniting our spirit/breath (the kindling), and lighting the fire within through our asana/breathwork practice. The fourth doorway, stoke, involves metaphorically throwing a giant log on the fire we’ve built to heighten the flames and bring ourselves to the edge of safe physical discomfort. We do this by holding poses that demand our whole attention for several minutes at a time. Warrior 2, goddess pose, or sometimes, a good ol’ fashioned plank, to name a few. We hold and deepen our presence in these poses to bring ourselves to the edge of our physical experience.

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As doorways master teacher, Heidi, reminded me last week, this part of class is meant to remind us that while our egos may break, our spirits never will. We lean into the sensations occurring within our bodies and we endeavor to soften there. To meet our edge with curiosity instead of assumption. To engage our breath to connect more deeply with ourselves. To burn away the layers standing between us and our hearts.

I’m certain it’s not a coincidence that Heidi, who is a logs master, taught two of the most challenging doorways classes I’ve ever taken while she was in town last week, because life filled the spaces in between with plenty of heat.

I received the news that Felix’s ankle fusion began to weaken as soon as his splint came off. We face either another surgery to insert another rod in his leg or, most likely, amputation.

I had a vulnerable conversation with a friend about the status of our friendship.

And I made a decision about a relationship with someone about whom I care deeply that’s requiring me to stand in the center of one of the biggest bonfires of my life.

The doorway after logs is called “utilize the fire.” We hold yin poses for several minutes (think pigeon, lizard, half frog, full frog, etc.) to use the heat we’ve generated to notice the space we’ve created within our bodies because we had the courage to burn away the noise. This part of class always reminds me that standing in the fire is worth it because of what follows. There is physical relief on the other side, and validation arrives via the body’s gratitude. Letting the log burn allows me to release so much because I’ve come face to face with the discomfort to which I’ve previously bowed, instead of letting it direct my course of action. When this feeling arrives on the mat, I know I’ve honored my soul.

Off the mat, too.

I sobbed in the parking lot with Felix after learning the news about his leg. My heart broke for my unflappably happy little dog, who has been in one constant log since he broke his leg. In the days since, I’ve come back to the knowing that Felix is one of my greatest teachers. We are in this log together. It has taken us both to our edges more than once and our only choice is to stay with each other and each moment as it arrives, leaning into the love that continues to grow between us every single day even when everything else feels unsure.

When in conversation with my friend, I desperately wanted to cave to the physical aversion I experienced throughout my entire being to telling my friend my truth, but because I have become more practiced in leaning into that sensation on the mat, I was able to breathe through my fear and speak from my heart. She met me there, and we both feel safer in our friendship because of it. The relief for having stood in the fire together was palpable.

Regarding the relationship, the me prior to experiencing logs would have leaned on my thoughts, my what ifs, my ego, to make this decision. The me of this moment was able to cut through the noise between myself and my heart and honor its truth, even as the rest of me ached – and still does – with the decision. My fearful ego broke. My spirit flooded my being with gratitude.

I received multiple texts from friends this week who’ve found themselves on their own edges recently, and are embracing them. Hello, eclipse season! They’re leaning in because they know growth arrives on the other side of walking through the feeling that accompanies the thought, “I really don’t want to. But I know I must.”

And they have the courage to face the heat because they’re not wasting energy thinking they have to go it alone.

One of the things I love about getting older the MOST is that my friends and I don’t try to present the best versions of ourselves to each other… we are real. We are messy. And we are in it together. While only we can do the work towards which our souls call us, we need each other to support the process and we’re not afraid about asking to be seen. To remind each other that we’re not crazy for wanting to do things differently. To find our edges, and soften into the support we find there when we do.

So, sending love and courage to your heart from mine. The logs will burn down. You’re not alone. Your spirit? Invincible.

P.S. Over the course of the yoga retreat and the days that followed, I took nine yoga classes in eight days. By that ninth class, my appreciation for the logs portion of practice had completely diminished. I was exhausted. And it reminded me: we aren’t capable of pushing our edges all of the time. We have to take care of ourselves in those moments more than we have to keep seeking the challenge in the name of growth.

My teachers say that, before it is anything else, yoga is a breathing practice. When it all does feel like too much, take a deep breath. Place one hand over your heart and the other over the hand that holds the heart. Hold you, and let that be enough, because it is.

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P.P.S. One of the things I love most about the Seven Doorways is the music. And the songs we choose for logs are often dramatic, cinematic, emotional, intense, worthy of asking our students to stay in the heat longer than they would in silence. This week’s playlist includes some of my favorite logs songs. Enjoy.

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But within minutes of posting, I received a call from the surgeon’s office. They swabbed his bone and the metal implant for bacteria, since clear signs of infection persisted pre-surgery, and we’ve been awaiting results. Turns out the bacteria that grew from the culture is especially resistant to normal antibiotics, and that Felix might need an especially intense round of medication with potentially severe gastrointestinal and neurological side effects to defeat the bacteria that’s plagued his leg for months now. Because everything looked so good at his check up yesterday, they did tell me I had the option to wait and see if the bacteria resurfaces, noting that often the bone flush during surgery removes the bacteria, but of course I started googling, and let’s just say, I’ll have a lot of questions for the surgeon when we meet with him early next week.

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I got off the phone feeling crestfallen. And selfishly, not really for Felix, although that sadness came pouring in shortly thereafter. Despite my big talk about letting go of timelines and plans, I must admit that I am so ready for us to be done with this chapter. To not have to leave him in his cone every time I leave the house without him. To take him off his leash and let him run completely free in mind, body and spirit. To not be watching his every move. To be able to devote more attention to Charley and Lua. To stop spending so much money on medications and vet appointments and surgeries.

In honor of this week’s announcement that a Clueless sequel is in the works, I just have to say, I’m totally buggin’.

Simultaneously, this week brought us our annual Aquarius full moon. Aquarius is the sign of the innovator, the rebel, the one not afraid to do things differently in the name of advancing the collective. On the opposite end of its astrological axis lives Leo, the sign of the light-filled individual whose shine attracts many and whose lion heart loves to care for its pride. The two signs together remind us that we as individuals are part of something bigger than ourselves, but that in order to contribute to and feel the support of the collective, we must discover, love and allow our true selves to shine through, because that’s what the collective needs more than anything: more of us who’ve come home to ourselves.

I asked my yoga students to try a simple exercise in class this week that I learned during my 300-hour teacher training earlier this spring, and I’ll invite you to do the same.

After you read this paragraph, close your eyes. Notice a sensation you’re having internally, whether that be the feeling of your heartbeat against your chest, the feeling of your breath moving into your body as you inhale and out of your body as you exhale. Keep noticing. Then, place your palm on a surface nearby. Notice the sensation of your hand on this object. And then notice how you can both track your internal and external sensations simultaneously. They are connected to one another because you are aware of them at the same time.

This ability to notice and feel the internal and the external reminds us that we are both: individuals through which Consciousness is experiencing itself on a human level, and also, beings not only connected to every other manifestation of Consciousness, but to Consciousness itself. We are not separate from it.

How does this relate to Felix? Goodness, I’m honestly not sure. But I believe that Felix and I are physical manifestations of the same source code. His healing is my own, and so, too, can his happiness be. It’s miraculous to me that he wags his tail at every opportunity, no matter what medications are in his system – seriously, trazodone, the sedative the surgeon prescribed him, has zero effect on this dog – or bandage is covering his leg.

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At our checkup this week, our typically straight-laced – but incredibly excellent and compassionate – surgeon said as she left the room, “He is a very, very good dog.” And you know what? He really, really is.

In the midst of my personal sadness, he is my ever-present ray of furry, smiley sunshine reminding me that happiness and healing not only co-exist, but support one another. That overthinking does no one any favors. And that ultimately, when we are brave enough to share our scars and hurts with one another, to let someone hold our paws as we navigate the unknown, we all feel a little bit more found, seen and loved in the midst of our own individual experiences.

I was lucky enough to go on a gorgeous mountain biking ride yesterday morning with my friend Jess and put on a playlist that I’d used to fuel another bike ride earlier this summer. So many of the songs allowed me to breathe a sigh of relief even in the midst of a continual climb and reminded me just how good life is when we get out of our heads, into our hearts, and take a look around. This life is awe-inspiring in every single way. I hope these songs help you remember the same. Have a beautiful weekend. Sending you all so much love.

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Felix, my mom, and I went to a consultation with his orthopedic surgeon this week, and we received the best news we could have hoped for. After reviewing all of his x-rays, she was confident his bone has healed enough to support his leg without the plates that have helped him rebuild strength and bone over the past few months. She happened to have an opening that same day, so a few hours later, he was back in surgery having them removed.

He’s recovering well. We have to keep things low-key while the small holes left behind by the screws heal, but with a little patience – and lots of short daily walks to encourage the bone to continue strengthening – we’re hopeful he’ll be pain- and bandage-free in just a few weeks.

Needless to say, life has been wonderfully Felix-focused lately, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. After months of uncertainty and seemingly countless bandage changes, Felix and I are grateful for a little extra spring – or summer, as the case may be – in our step.

These are a few of the things that have been bringing me joy alongside his healing.

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I didn’t publish last week and while I know that not everyone is refreshing their inboxes waiting for the next installment of the Aerie to arrive on Friday mornings, the accountability and purpose I find in writing each week feeds my soul, and I felt a little empty last Friday. But last week brought multiple vet visits and potentially tender news for Felix, my newest dog, about whom you can read more here if this is the first you’re hearing of him. I noticed over the Fourth of July that the wound on his leg wasn’t just NOT healing – it was getting bigger. I took him to see his wonderful vet, and she let me know that because of the rod in his leg, his bone is most likely infected, and because of multiple other issues his leg and nerve-damaged paws are experiencing, ultimately, amputation might be the best option for him. It’s too soon to know, and we have an appointment with one of the best animal surgeons in the state next week, but in the meantime, we’re in limbo. Or at least, I am.

Because concurrently, I’m listening to Andrew Huberman’s recent podcast episode with Cesar Millan about dogs. Both men emphasize that projecting our humanness onto dogs does neither species any favors, and I’m trying my best to remember that as my heart cracks for Felix, this little creature, resilient by nature, has no idea that he might be losing a limb soon, along with no concept of the future. Felix is present, always, and appears mostly unconcerned about everything. I know my own human perspective colors my observations of his own embodied experience, and that his peace benefits the most from my ability to protect mine.

I also acknowledge that I’m frustrated that his healing isn’t complete. That we can’t really be on the long hikes and trail runs I envisioned for us this summer. That Felix and I continue to spend hours bandaging and re-bandaging his leg, even though he is the BEST patient. That he has to spend every minute I’m not with him in a cone. That life feels very different than I expected it to a few months after adopting this precious dog.

But ultimately, Felix is reminding me of the truth of my own words and beliefs – healed is not a destination we reach. It’s not linear. Expectations surrounding it will only ever create disappointment and heartache and a festering wound. The antidote, of course, is presence, and remembering what Felix and I do have: a bond that grows deeper every day, a back porch on which we snuggle every single summer evening, Charley and Lua’s acceptance of him as one of the pack, and myriad other things that make our life not just beautiful, but charmed. Magical. One for which we never could have planned and one that feels so completely our own. Also, I’ve never met a dog who wags his tail when a cone is being affixed to his neck. But Felix? Unbothered king.

A new friend at the dog park last night said, “I can’t believe Felix is here, in Montana!” And I thought, “You and I both, sister.” Just as I couldn’t have planned for Felix’s arrival in my life, this summer is reminding me that plans themselves are illusory concepts. Comforting to a human brain, unknown to a dog’s, disregarded by the Universe’s divine timing.

Speaking of comforts, one of my new, dear friends from my Mexico yoga teacher training, Ashley, published a sub in which she shared her insights from having practiced a yogic breathwork technique called Nadi Shodhana, or alternate nostril breathing, multiple times daily for the past two months. She made one distinction that, since reading it, has reshaped the way I think about this moment in time. She writes, “It became less about the breathwork and more about devotion. How often do we abandon the commitments we’ve made to ourselves because they’re inconvenient? Because someone else needs us? Because comfort sounds more appealing?”

I find this juxtaposition between devotion and comfort profound, especially when I consider it alongside everything I’d been reading about this week’s Cancer new moon. Lauren writes that, “Cancer is the sign of the original home, the womb within the mother.” This new moon creates the opportunity to return home, which really, is not an external place but one deep within. Home is wherever we happen to be because, as I’ve said many times in the classes I teach, our bodies house our lives and our souls. They are the living vessels that allow us to experience the physical world like no other species on Earth can.

And yet, how often do we choose comfort in the form of old stories, habits, grudges, plans and expectations instead of devoting ourselves to the miracle that is our own aliveness?

Lauren also writes that, “Words and language are important factors for this NM and week ahead, with Mercury Retrograde in Cancer there is something calling you back into your past, but this time you have the capacity to rewrite this history.”

This moment in time gives us an opportunity to choose devotion over comfort in the pursuit of returning home to ourselves. To acknowledge the old and make a commitment to the new in service to our lives, believing that we are supported by forces bigger than we know.

It doesn’t have to be complicated – nor should it be, in order for it to really take hold. For me, the one thing I know will allow me to feel more at home in myself right now is sleep – something with which I have struggled for many months. And as the new moon fell nearly exactly two months prior to my 39th birthday, I have devoted myself to two months of prioritizing sleep, which, for me, is not comfortable. I’d much rather stay up too late watching Voicemails for Isabelle or reading my new favorite rom com thanks to my friend Allie, Dolly All The Time, and think, “It’s okay – I deserve this deliciousness.” And yet, when I wake up the next morning, the last thing I feel is comforted.

Ashley also writes that, “Trust grows every time we keep our word to ourselves.” This sentence landed deep in my heart. If I can keep my word to myself about my sleep, the trust my being will develop with itself will ripple out into every aspect of my life, including Felix’s leg drama. I feel this in my bones. So, even though the sun sets well past 9:30 these days, it’s early bedtimes, morning sunlight, acupuncture to help calm my liver and ward off 2-3 a.m. wake ups (Katie at Shèn in Bozeman is a miracle worker!), and carefully chosen supplements for me. Somehow, I know this devotion will ultimately create the kind of comfort that lasts.

What will it be for you and your home? And can you choose devotion and the rewriting of the story instead of defaulting to the comfort of the old?

Here’s a midsummer soundtrack to support your heart. Sending you all the love today and always.

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Second of all, Nance’s babies hatched! This mama killdeer and her partner have worked tirelessly over the past 6+ weeks tending their nest in the rocks in my driveway, and seeing their little babies run around my yard is one of the sweetest miracles I’ve ever witnessed. Apparently killdeer return to the same spot to nest annually, so hopefully Nance will be back next year.

Finally, as many of you know, I spent part of June on a road trip to northwestern Montana and Bend, Oregon, all in the name of being on the road with my dogs and riding bikes. You can read all the details here. Alli and Nick, Felix’s rescuers, assured me that Felix is a happy go lucky car dog, and they weren’t wrong. Considering he’s rather nonchalant about pretty much everything except dogs walking by our backyard – a story for another time, but you should hear that bark/scream – I can’t say I was surprised. He even had enough mischief leftover in the final hours of our drive to eat an entire Ocean roll (IYKYK) from Bend’s famed Sparrow Bakery while I briefly left the car unattended to grab a quick dinner in Spokane. Turns out, Felix the Baja street dog is an opportunist. Of course, I don’t blame him.

One of the highlights of the trip for me was the Ladies Allride mountain biking clinic I attended in Bend. I started mountain biking in 2020 when Covid required me to close the doors of my spin studio. My friend Kristen got me out on the trails for the first time, and eventually her first bike became mine – the one that, to this day, I still use! I attended a mountain biking clinic that summer at Copper City and loved it, but over time, I stopped biking as much. Zephyr re-opened, and mountain biking isn’t always an activity on which you can bring the dogs, so I usually opted to explore trails on foot.

But six years later, my heart has asked me to dust off my mountain bike. The sport combines two of my favorite things – mountains and bikes – and it’s also one that frequently places me directly on my growth edge. As a spin instructor by trade, I’ve grown accustomed to bikes that don’t move, and going downhill on bikes with wheels that turn makes me nervous. But as any good spin instructor will tell you, examining what makes you nervous will expand your world. So off to Bend I went.

On day one of the clinic, the assembled group of 35 or so women broke out into smaller groups based on skill level. Each group had a lead instructor, and ours was Steff, a strong, kind, funny woman whose mountain biking prowess I will only ever be able to emulate in my wildest dreams. I felt intimidated initially as I worked through the emotions of being back on my bike for the first time in a minute, but I quickly realized how kind she was and much I could learn from her and buckled up. Over the next two days, we practiced techniques for “rideable drops”, “mandatory air”, braking, and switchbacks in the mornings, and put our skills to work on Bend’s absolutely gorgeous trails in the afternoons.

Through it all, we focused on our “ready position” – the position you want to be in on the bike when you’re traveling downhill so that you’re ready for anything that might come your way.

I’ve noticed mountain biking instructors often provide rhyming phrases that remind you how to ride your bike in the toughest moments, which is incredibly helpful when you find yourself approaching a trail feature that makes you so nervous your brain momentarily short circuits.

The phrase that stuck out among the rest from Steff was “When in doubt, widen it out.” Steff taught our group that our elbows should be out at a 90 degree angle in ready position because doing so provides stability and balance to our upper bodies as we navigate trails.

My elbows like to stay glued to my sides on a bike. I blame this on nearly two decades of taking and teaching indoor cycling classes. But I quickly fell in love with this phrase. It encouraged me to take up as much space as possible in order to be ready for any trail feature that lay ahead. And turns out, in ready position, I worry a lot less than I do if I’m clinging to the handlebars for dear life, contemplating what might be around the next bend. Instead, I’m… ready.

One of the other things I love about mountain biking is that it mirrors life in so many ways. In difficult moments on the trail, my instinct is to tense up. I stop breathing. My elbows tuck in. I make myself smaller.

I’ve realized I do the same thing off the bike. When something scares me, I shrink. I question myself. I forget that I’m actually capable, and that’s why Steff’s words landed. “When in doubt, widen it out.” The phrase resonates beyond the trail, too.

Ready position, on the bike and in life, isn’t about being fearless. It’s about creating enough space in your body so that you can respond instead of react. Instead of shrinking in the hard moment, we can explore what might be waiting for us there. We can lean into our edges knowing that doing so prepares us for the obstacle – and the freedom won by moving through and beyond it – so that we’re ready to greet what lies ahead with an open heart (and arms).

Happy Fourth of July! Here’s a playlist celebrating America, summertime, and the fact that Taylor Swift is getting MARRIED today! Enjoy.

Thank you so much for your support, always. I am so grateful.

It’s been a minute since I’ve shared a Field Notes with you, and I’m excited to do so today, as summer is officially here and I feel so lucky to be spending it in a way that feels completely me: dogs, outside time, music, bikes, yoga, and good eats.

I recently spent a week roadtripping through Montana and Oregon with my dogs, moving from one bike adventure to the next. Long, sun-drenched days, new trails, good music, and that expansive feeling of summer that makes everything feel more alive.

This edition of Field Notes is a collection of those moments: the places, sounds, and small details I wanted to hold onto and share with you for you to take on your own adventures this summer and beyond.

So, without further ado, I present to you: Field Notes, Volume 5: Adventure Edition.

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Felix is an 11.4-pound chihuahua/golden retriever/poodle mix whom I met the day after I returned home from Mexico. Many people think that I adopted him while I was in Mexico, and while this is technically true – I paid his adoption fee one night after dinner while I was there – Felix comes from a different part of Mexico (Baja), and the first conversation I had about adopting him occurred several weeks before I left for my trip. Although of course, it’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility that I would adopt a dog while on a trip to a warmer climate. I tried to figure out how to bring puppies home with me from Belize two years ago but ended up having to settle for helping them get their initial round of vaccinations and flea and tick collars.

Many people also ask me why I decided now was the time to get a third dog, and the truth is, I didn’t decide. I am convinced that the Universe knew we were meant to be together and made it happen.

In mid-April, I received a text from my friend Annie that said, “You need to talk to Alli about Felix.” While this text may have been confusing to some (who are Alli and Felix?!), I knew exactly who she meant. Last September, Annie and her husband Austin adopted a Mexican street dog named Teddy from a couple named Alli and Nick who operate a rescue called Expedition Ola, through which they rescue, rehabilitate, and find the best homes for homeless dogs from the Baja peninsula. I’d been following them on Instagram since Teddy entered our lives, and have fallen in love with each dog Alli and Nick rescued. Their adoptions always tug at my heartstrings. Fostering dogs has never been my strong suit (example A: Charley), and I usually cry every time they say goodbye to a dog they so lovingly helped heal. But every time, the dogs, no matter how timid they are upon meeting their forever families, end up thriving. And then Alli and Nick have space to rescue another one.

When Felix came along, he was a tiny, adorable dog with an injured leg they spotted and knew they wanted to help, but he ran away from them. Distraught, they returned to the same place later in the day and tried again, this time securing his rescue and in so doing, realizing that he was absolutely covered in ticks and fleas. This dramatic beginning to his story combined with Felix’s undeniable cuteness and sweetness enthralled Expedition Ola followers. We all became attached and invested immediately.

Then, there was the matter of his leg. It was broken, but the break was old, and Alli and Nick received lots of advice that amputation was the best route. I myself at one point almost commented that I had a three-legged dog and that she was thriving, but I decided not to – I knew they didn’t need more advice from the peanut gallery.

Miraculously, Alli and Nick found a surgeon who told them he could insert a rod into Felix’s leg that would allow him to walk on it normally. We were all elated. And after his surgery, things were looking up for Mr. Felix. In the meantime, you could tell he was absolutely in love with Alli, Nick and their dog Bodie. And they, with him. The Internet implored them to keep him. None of us could imagine Felix being separated from his pack.

Around this time was when Annie texted me. She told me that Alli and Nick were looking for a very specific fit for Felix. They wanted someone with multiple dogs who was open to a third, someone who would hike or walk with Felix every day and someone whose lifestyle would allow them to be with Felix most of the time. She said, “Just talk to Alli.”

I’m still not sure what I was thinking, but I know what I was feeling. It was as though I were being carried by a current beneath the surface, pulled by something I couldn’t see or resist. Bigger forces were at play, and somehow I recognized them – not with my mind, but in my heart.

Annie connected Alli and me via text and we started chatting. I sent her my Substack about Charley and told her about Andy. Some rescues won’t adopt dogs to people whose animals have been hit by cars, and I understood if Andy’s story meant I wasn’t the right fit for Felix.

Instead, Alli called me. She told me she loved the way I wrote and talked about my dogs – that she could tell I was someone who loved animals the way she and Nick did. Twenty minutes later, we got off the phone and I got to work on my official application adoption. I knew it was a long shot – so many people wanted Felix – but something within me knew I needed to keep going through the steps.

Over the coming weeks, Alli and I stayed in touch. She would send me updates, and I would send her videos and photos of the girls and our daily hikes. One day she texted me and said that they’d let everyone who’d applied for Felix know that they were not his forever family – except for me. As excited as I was, I questioned whether I was the right person for him, and whether the girls were ready to accept another dog into their pack. I also wondered, along with the rest of the Internet, whether Alli and Nick might actually keep Felix. Everyone always wonders this when they rescue a dog because they love them so much, but with Felix, it seemed like it really could be a possibility. Despite it all, a subtle but persistent knowing within me could not release the possibility of adding this little dog to our family.

At the beginning of my final week in Mexico, Alli texted me to tell me that she’d come to terms with the truth that I was Felix’s forever mom. I still couldn’t process it. Out of the hundreds of people who applied for Felix, she and Nick were choosing me?! I Venmo’d her the adoption fee and we agreed that I would come pick him up in California – where they’d be, preparing for a big trip to South America – when I returned from Mexico.

I sat with the feeling of becoming Felix’s mom over the next couple of days. And as I felt through all the emotions that naturally arise during a yoga teacher training, I realized that during my clearest and most tranquil moments, the idea of becoming his mom filled me with light. I also couldn’t help but feel that Andy’s paws were all over this one. In my heart of hearts, I’d always known that I’d want to honor Andy’s legacy by adopting another street dog someday. I just didn’t know how or when. But I firmly believe that the dogs who are meant to find their way into your life and heart DO, and it seemed Felix was finding his way – perhaps with the help of my beloved Andy boy.

A couple of days later, Alli told me they wanted to drive Felix to Montana. It’s as though the Universe could sense the last little bit of resistance in my heart and decided to quash it by delivering this precious creature to my doorstep. I said, “Okay, when are you thinking about coming?!” She informed me they’d be in Montana by the time I got home from Mexico. I was stunned. It all felt like it was happening so fast. Too fast.

But sometimes, when you signal to the Universe that you’re ready to make a decision it’s been waiting for you to, timelines collapse. The last time something this monumental happened at this speed, I sold my business in a span of three months when everyone had told me to expect the process to take four to six times that long. I wasn’t quite ready then either, but I knew it was right. It seemed the same was happening again.

I landed back in Bozeman on Saturday and met Felix less than 12 hours later. Andy seemed to keep sending my signs. The girls, often less than welcoming to new dogs, met Felix with a bit of curiosity but mostly disinterest – an auspicious sign, in my book. Lua’s calm response was especially telling. IYKYK!

Over the next couple of days, Alli, Nick and I got to know each other, and the girls and I got to know Felix. Holding that sweet boy for the first time felt somehow familiar. Like we’d met before. And in the weeks since Alli and Nick dropped him off at my house for the last time, that feeling of familiarity has become such a part of our days that I forget to notice it most of the time, but then when I do, I realize how miraculous it is. From nearly day one, Felix understood our routines, our rhythms, how to use the dog door, when to stay close on the trail and when to explore, when to push Lua’s buttons and when to let her be. It’s as though he returned to our family rather than joined it. He knew us right away.

Real talk: Lua and Charley completely ignored him for the first couple of weeks we had him. Actually, Charley initially played with him, and then it was as if Lua told her, “He can’t sit with us.” And Charley started ignoring him too. My heart ached for this little fella who was pure sunshine and love and, to his credit, was immediately enamored of the girls regardless of their indifference. Sure enough, they’ve realized, relatively quickly, that he’s not here to take anyone’s spot, but if anything, to provide them with more entertainment and a greater number of treat opportunities. And I think they recognize something familiar within him, too. My heart swells when they play or choose to snuggle next to each other in the backseat, on the couch, or on my lap. Our pack. Our family.

Alli and Nick named Felix, Felix because the minute he became comfortable with them, he embodied joy, feliz. A good friend’s mom also recently told me that Felix means “lucky” in Latin. And according to a baby naming website, “Felix literally means ‘happy’ in Latin. Not happy-ish. Not content. Not vaguely cheerful. Happy. As in fortune-favored, radiantly lucky, joyfully unstoppable. It was a name first handed out in ancient Rome, often as a cognomen (the Roman equivalent of a nickname-meets-brand-label), and it quickly became shorthand for someone you’d want in your corner—cheerful, prosperous, probably didn’t trip over his toga.”

While Felix definitely trips over his paws in moments when he’s zooming around in turbo mode, in the month since he joined our family, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is a radiantly lucky and joyfully unstoppable little soul. I can’t believe I get to have him in my corner. And, in his joining our family, I am the one who feels fortune-favored. The universe, Alli and Nick, and Andy brought this sweet Baja pup all the way from Mexico to my front door, reigniting a part of my heart I hadn’t realized was laying dormant.

Sometimes I wonder whether Felix is Andy, returned in another form. Street smart, ear-flipping, loves a good snuggle, unbelievably fast on the trails and loves nothing more than to be on them, relishes a good chew on the hair-tie around my wrist, prefers going back to bed after breakfast, and again, has an almost uncanny understanding of our daily rhythms.

My friend Molly (of killdeer fame) says our pets follow us around in each lifetime, and if that’s true, I have no doubt Andy would find his way back to me. But my heart also hesitates there. My love for Andy has, in many ways, continued to deepen since he died, and I find myself relying on that connection in a way that makes me cautious about reshaping his spirit into something new. And I’m still very much getting to know Felix. I want this small but mighty, magical being to be able to reveal who he is on his own terms, without the weight of any other story placed on him too soon, or ever.

But what I know beyond a shadow of a doubt is that we, the five of us – Andy, Lua, Charley, Felix and me – are soul family. I trust that Felix is exactly where he is meant to be in this lifetime. I am so deeply grateful that it’s with us.

Please enjoy a Felix-themed playlist that I hope feels like sunshine on a summer’s day and which is somewhat influenced by the Off Campus soundtrack. I’m not sorry – both make me incredibly happy!!

P.S. Felix has quite the Instagram fan club. If you’d like to follow along with his new life in Montana, you can do so here!

P.P.S. Yesterday would have been Andy’s 11th birthday. In honor of him, spend a little extra time with your pups or a loved one today and/or go climb a mountain, big or small. Stop at the top to let the breeze ruffle your ears, as he did hundreds if not thousands of times.

According to Molly, “They are often associated with themes of protection, transformation, and communication in various Native American traditions. Its behaviors, such as the ‘broken-wing act’ to distract predators from its nest, symbolize cleverness and self-sacrifice. These traits have led to the killdeer being regarded as a spirit or totem animal embodying protectiveness, family-oriented behavior, and adaptability.”

The “broken-wing act”, as Molly explains, is: “If you get too close to their nest, they pretend to have a broken wing and try to make you follow them away from the nest.”

Over the past few weeks, this behavior has been on full display if I get too close to mama, who Molly and I decided to call Nance. Her wings spread wide as she chirps at me. I’ve tried to give her a wide berth, and also, she fascinates me. I’ve never had a front row seat to a bird incubating/protecting her eggs. I am completely smitten with her.

She sits, day in and day out, over her eggs. In the sun, in the rain, at night and in the morning, in the heat of the day without shade. She is fully engaged in stillness and in purpose; to her, they are one and the same.

As someone who equates movement with productivity, I’m taking notes.

What’s more, I asked Molly (and ChatGPT) if I should provide shade for her, and both advised no. Killdeer are used to the harsh environments in which they lay their eggs. At my friend Jess’s suggestion, I stopped by Wild Birds Unlimited to ask whether I should put out a feeder for her. The incredible employees there said absolutely not; killdeer only eat bugs and they are incredibly self-sufficient, hardy creatures.

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I realized that Nance’s stillness and fortitude amidst the elements make me feel as though she needs help or fixing – but really, it’s my own discomfort that arises as I observe her (Isn’t she hot? Is she bored? Can I sit here for her while she gets food??) that I’m trying to quell. She, however, perseveres. (The Wild Birds Unlimited folks did say I could put out water for her, but not too close to her nest in case it attracts other birds, so this I have done.)

On more enlightened days, I try to emulate her during my morning meditations, which is a practice I resurrected during my Mexico yoga teacher training last month.

Each morning, our group sat in silence for 20-30 minutes (one day for more than an hour). The waves rolled in and out as the breeze floated through the shala doors. I wish I could say I was able to drop right into peaceful silence each morning, but truthfully, the opposite often occurred. My left foot fell asleep most days. My mind wandered to all kinds of wild places. My back ached. I yearned for movement. But in certain moments, I was able to observe the part of me having the thoughts that distracted me and be in awe of that awareness. To let my mind relax as I matched one breath to each of my mala beads. To revel and rest in the sound of the waves… I knew that soon enough, I’d be missing them at home in the mountains. And despite my discomfort many mornings, slowly but surely, I noticed the effects of meditation seeping into my movement practice and the rest of my day. More calm, less anxiety, deeper connection to my heartbeat, dare I say, a bit more joy?

Each morning at home now, I sit on my PEMF mat with my infrared light mask on (I can’t help myself with this bit of multi-tasking – I’ll sneak in pieces of my skincare routine wherever I can!), Lua at my feet on her dog bed. And instead of the ocean waves, I channel Nance, especially in moments when I really want to abandon my meditation to relieve the discomfort in my body, or for whatever item on my to-do list feels most demanding of my attention.

Nance is alive, focused and purposeful in her stillness as she tends to new life, no matter her external circumstances. And the circumstances this June have been those of a classic Montana early summer: beautiful, but also predictably unpredictable. Heat, cold, wind, rain, snow… you name it, Nance is out there in it.

An especially tender circumstance appears to be that Nance has lost her mate. He patrolled the driveway day in and day out for a couple of weeks but has been nowhere to be found the past few days. My neighbor Ina (who is observing the situation as closely as I am) and I are heartbroken for her, and yet, she is not deterred. She leaves her nest at dusk and in the early morning for food but otherwise, stays put.

WRITER’S NOTE: HE CAME BACK!! Shortly after I hit “schedule” on this post, I heard Nance chirping in the driveway and went out to investigate/make sure no one was bothering her. But there was Mr. Nance, returned!

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I can’t help but notice that she chose my driveway within days of my return from Mexico. Every morning, she seems to offer the same reminder: stillness and even loss are not the absence of life. Sometimes they’re where life begins.

Recently, I taught a candlelit class at Zephyr and revisited Mary Oliver’s “The Summer Day.” The final two lines of the poem are quoted endlessly online, often as a call to action: to go, do, achieve, become. But when I reread the poem, I realized that productivity, bucket lists, and summer travel plans were not what Oliver meant.

Instead, I think the answer lies in attention.

In the way a grasshopper chews.
In the way a killdeer tends her nest.
In the willingness to sit long enough to notice.

As you head into the weekend, perhaps consider: Do the plans you have for your one wild and precious life leave room to pay attention to the world you inhabit?

Summer Day
Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean —
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down —
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

And finally, a playlist for slower, light-filled June days. Enjoy.

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And you know what I’ve realized? I can’t write about it all at once (thank goodness my incredible friend Joy corroborated this theory earlier this week, otherwise this post may never have seen the light of day). Similar to the process of life integration I’ve been moving through since returning home, I think those two weeks will continue to weave themselves into my writing in ways I’ll discover over the coming weeks and months (maybe forever?).

But the physical element of Mexico I miss the most and wanted to share with you today is the constant, reassuring presence of the waves. The way the light danced on them at sunrise and sunset. The feeling of jumping into them directly after morning classes, running from the shala in my yoga clothes and right into the water, often with tears of grief/gratitude/joy/release/you-name-it-I-felt-it in my eyes. Somehow, these waves felt gentler than any I’ve ever encountered. And the sound of them – during practice and especially in savasana, at night walking back to my room, in the morning as I ate peanut butter toast and drank cinnamon tea (greatest combo on the planet!) – provided a reassuring soundtrack as I moved through constant cycles of emotion.

During one of the classes we took, Jimmy, one of our teachers, spoke to the persistence of the waves. They rise up, crash to shore, recede, and return – not for any other reason than that it’s inherent in their nature to do so. He reminded us that arriving on our yoga mats requires a similar kind of devotion, and that the world needs more people willing to show up, day in and day out, not to do what they think they’re supposed to do, but to have the courage to discover who they already are, and live from that place of knowing (dharma is a topic for another day, but don’t worry, I’ve bookmarked it!).

In the final class we took, Jonah, the leader of our training, reminded us that when the bottom of a life wave is tossing us around, depositing sand everywhere and rendering us completely unsure of which way is up or down, we can’t mistake that moment for permanence. The nature of life is movement. The wave rises again. The tide changes. We evolve.

In the same class, one of the first songs he played was “7 Years” by Lukas Graham. I immediately started to cry. The opening melody of that song takes me straight back to 2016, the year I moved back to Montana. The first 30 seconds of it comprised the only sounds that could calm my boss Krista’s six-month-old son when he was upset. Krista and I took a trip to Glacier National Park together the fall after I started working for her, her son in tow. We must have listened to the opening measures of 7 Years at least fifty times.

At the beginning of this yoga class, as I reflected on the previous two weeks and – thanks to good ol’ Lukas Graham and memories of a fall trip to Glacier – the past ten years, a gentle yet sturdy knowing clicked into place in my heart. A feeling for which I didn’t know I’d been waiting.

If you’d told 28-year-old Caro that in ten years she’d be attending her 300-hour yoga teacher training after selling the spin studio she’d built with her whole heart, she wouldn’t have believed you.

But as the opening strains of 7 Years moved through the shala that morning, 38-year-old Caro knew something with absolute certainty: despite all their seeming twists and turns, the past ten years made complete sense from where she was sitting. Or down-dogging, as the case may be.

The wave of relief overwhelmed me in the most tender and caring way.

For months (and through this substack), I’ve been describing this season of life as a transition and a space between what was and what will be. But that morning on my mat, I realized that what’s next will never arrive; I needed to trust and devote myself fully to what’s now. After a lifetime of second-guessing myself, I finally understood that I don’t need to know the plan. I’m living the plan, one miraculous moment at a time. The ability to trust myself, and the timing of my life, resurfaced from somewhere deep within me and took a long-awaited breath.

The ocean waves were especially big after that final class. Of course, I ran right into them alongside many others from my training group. We lingered beyond the break, floating together in the water, grateful for the sun, the ocean, the yoga, and one another.

As I eventually made my way back to shore, a wave completely pummeled me. With Jonah’s words about the bottom of a wave and my own revelation still fresh in my heart, I relaxed my body as the wave drove me straight into the sandy ocean floor before bringing me back to the surface – and the sunlight – moments later.

I laughed to myself. It’s true what they say: yoga off the mat is life.

Sometimes it looks like trusting the wave, even when you don’t know which way is up. Or trusting that experiencing disorientation is not the same thing as being lost. Knowing, always, that surrender is not the same thing as giving up. And believing that by fully experiencing each wave as it comes, you are exactly where you’re meant to be.

The final song Jonah played that morning, as we sat entwined in a heart hug with the person beside us (one of the best hugs of my life thanks to my new and dear friend Ashley), was Kyle (Northern Line) by Fred again.. Earlier that morning, before class, I’d shared the same song on my Instagram story. It’s as though the Universe really wanted to make sure I knew it was holding me and used my love language, music, to do so.

I found you.

I found you beautiful.

I found you exploding.

I found you.

By then, tears were again streaming down my face as I, for the first time in my entire life, met myself exactly where I was, and trusted her completely.

A note about the bigger, less forgiving waves.

While I will never say painful things happen for a reason, I can look back on some of the most excruciating moments of my life, especially losing Andy, and see how they created space for things that were waiting to find me (as my brilliant friend Kayla would say).

Andy’s death returned me to yoga as a way to process the bottomless grief of losing him. As uncomfortable as it is to acknowledge, I don’t know whether I would be on this path, one that feels so deeply aligned in this season of my life, if grief hadn’t first brought me to my knees, and then to my mat.

Even writing that feels complicated. But when we have the courage to let life in instead of trying to control it, explain it, or turn back the hands of time, we begin to see that peace isn’t waiting for us somewhere in the future. It can exist within each moment, if we’re willing to receive what that moment has come to offer.

Lucky for me, three of my teachers have been to this specific training in Mexico, and one of them told me recently that I’d encounter big, beautiful, white butterflies everywhere – they flutter around the entire property.

In one of the first classes this same teacher, Jean, taught our 200-hour training cohort earlier this year, she told us an allegory about a little boy and a butterfly. He saw the butterfly struggling to free itself from its cocoon, and in wanting to alleviate its struggle, he opened the cocoon to liberate the butterfly, who subsequently died. He was devastated, of course, and asked his mother what had happened. She gently shared with him that one can’t help a butterfly shed its cocoon – it’s a transformation that each winged miracle has to undertake on its own.

The story made me cry in class while simultaneously reminding me of a term I’d recently learned from Gillian, a new friend: bug soup.

Martha Beck, a Harvard-trained sociologist, world-renowned life coach and New York Times-bestselling author, coined the term “bug soup” in a psychological framework she calls “the Change Cycle”. She uses the caterpillar/butterfly’s life cycle as a metaphor for significant life changes, and breaks major transitions down into four stages/seasons/squares. In the first square, a “catalytic event” (a shock, an opportunity, or, simply, growth) precipitates a “new iteration of change” that makes it impossible for us to be what and who we once were. This first stage, “death and rebirth”, is the place in which, Martha says, “you’ve lost who you were.”

When a caterpillar is born, its only job is to eat and grow until it becomes exactly the size it needs to be to become a butterfly (“full-fed”), at which point it builds a chrysalis out of its own saliva and fully melts down into its own liquid: BUG SOUP. In order for the caterpillar to transform, it has to totally and irretrievably dissolve its previous form. Only at that point can the imaginal (or imago) cells, which hold the blueprint and DNA of the butterfly, begin to transform the soup into something completely different.

I won’t write too much about the other stages today other than to note that Martha teaches us that the longer a butterfly struggles to break free from its cocoon once its time to emerge arrives, the stronger and more resilient it becomes for the rest of its life. And also, while caterpillars can only become bug soup one time in their lives, humans get to transform many, many times.

I was thinking about all of this as I prepared to teach my final class before leaving for Mexico, and in doing so, learned that initially, the caterpillar’s immune system attacks the imago cells because it views them as a threat. But the imago cells persist and multiply faster than the immune system can attack them.

As someone who feels like I’m in one of the buggiest person soup phases I’ve ever encountered but also wants to be able to control and foresee what’s next – which, in turn, prevents me from fully dissolving and landing in a place of acceptance with my present – this information landed in my heart with a palpable “thump”.

And made me reconsider… what if there is a blueprint waiting for me? One from which I cannot build if I stay committed to holding on to my past forms? What if resistance to the formlessness of this moment, even though I paint it as productivity, is preventing my next form from taking shape?

When people ask me what I’m up to these days, I briefly speak of yoga and then am quick to say, “But I’m still figuring out what I’m doing next.” But the truth about the yoga is that it’s my chrysalis. I feel completely safe dissolving on my mat and when surrounded by people courageous enough to do the same, which is one of the reasons I’m lugging my own mat from Montana to Mexico. (Yep, I’m the girl in the airport with a yoga mat strapped to her backpack. Never thought I’d see the day, but here we are.) I have a feeling it will hold me in every other stage, as well, but we’ll see. I actually don’t need to know.

I can’t wait to see the white butterflies in Mexico. This beautiful, real-life, magical creature that reminds us that transformation may be just around the corner, if only we are brave enough to release our grip on the need to know whether we will ever take flight.

P.S. I will be fully immersed in my 300-hour training for the next two weeks, but will be back in your inbox mid-May. Thank you, as always, for being here. I cherish writing these notes and am so deeply grateful you read them.

Today’s new moon is, supposedly, the most powerful new moon of the year. Every planet is stationed direct and many of them find themselves in Aries, a cardinal sign of initiation, new beginnings, and a little (or a lot) of devil-may-care energy. New moons themselves are potent moments for new beginnings. So, coupling the energy of Aries with the power of a new moon seems to naturally invite (dare I say, demand) the start of something new.

That energy might motivate many today. But for those who may feel overwhelmed by the sudden knowledge that NOW is the time to begin again, embark on a new project, explore a new relationship or direction, please know, you’re not alone.

Am I about to quote David Whyte two weeks in a row? Yes, indeed. I make no apology. He writes about beginnings:

“Beginning well or beginning poorly, what is important is simply to begin, but the ability to make a good beginning is almost close to a learned art form: beginning well involves a clearing away of the confusing, the irrelevant and the complicated to find the beautiful, often hidden lineaments of the essential and the necessary…And it is always hard to believe that the courageous step is so close to us: that it is closer than we ever could imagine.”

I’ve read this passage many times over the years, and while it lands differently for me each time I revisit it, it always gently refocuses me when I’m in the midst of creating something new.

I often think that a new beginning requires many external precursors that range from but are not limited to tarot cards, journaling, a new outfit, moon water (you read that correctly), a new book, signing up for a class, asking all my friends what they think about it (“polling”, as Glennon Doyle would say) and taking my dogs for a walk before I make any big moves.

But perhaps today’s new moon can be a reflection of the truth that a beginning doesn’t necessitate adding anything to the to-do list, the vision board, or the shopping cart. Rather, a beginning invites us to discontinue the notion that we require anything external to understand our own purpose – especially if what we seek is permission. That instead, our efforts might be better spent clearing away anything that causes us to distrust our intuition. That in darkness, we can remember our own inextinguishable flame. The Aries that lives within and connects us all.

As if pulling from my favorite animal spirit card deck, I picked up Consolations, closed my eyes, and let the book open to a page, releasing control in hopes that the Universe would deliver. I opened my eyes to peek at the page.

“COURAGE

is a word that tempts us to think outwardly, to run bravely against opposing fire, to do something under besieging circumstance, and perhaps, above all, to be seen to do it in public, to show courage; to be celebrated in story, rewarded with medals, given the accolade, but a look at its linguistic origins leads us in a more interior direction and toward its original template, the old Norman French, Coeur, or heart. Courage is the measure of our heartfelt participation with life, with another, with a community, a work, a future.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Not only because I knew what I’d be talking about in yoga class that week, but because my whole being needed the reminder.

So far, my life in 2026 has asked me to strengthen my courage. To feel every emotion, learning again and again that often, it’s not feelings of joy, happiness or peace that actually take my breath away. To tell people, “I’m getting there.” (My endlessly wise yoga teacher and owner of Namaha, Jess, asked me gently in response to that comment one day: “Getting where?” A loving reminder that there is no estimated arrival time to Healed City because it’s a destination that does not exist.)

At the same time, I’m grateful that I continue to head in the “interior direction” of the safe harbor of my heart. Whyte writes, “To be courageous, is not necessarily to go anywhere or do anything except to make conscious those things we already feel deeply and then to live through the unending vulnerabilities of those consequences.”

Every courageous moment is rooted in things deep-felt that I continue to make conscious. And the depth of that truth within my own being has held me steady through every “unending vulnerability”. That, and the support of my dearest friends, family, and of course, dogs, who’ve helped me learn that by allowing my external world to reflect my internal knowing, I am met with so much love that my “heartfelt participation with life” increases infinitely.

During the class I taught with these words in mind, I thought about how indignant we become when our hearts deliver messages we don’t want to hear. We try to reason with them, ignore them, do anything other than face the thing our soul knows to be true because our minds can’t rationalize the fear, inconvenience and pain that they believe will result if we listen. But our hearts understand us better than our minds know us. And perhaps the shock we experience when our soul’s wisdom breaks through is a result of the minuscule (if any) amount of time we spend simply being with our hearts in the first place.

We know we live in a world rife with opportunities for distraction. Our minds would have us believe (through no fault of their own, really – let’s consider the lawsuits Meta lost recently related to the addictive nature of social media) that these distractions will soften or eradicate the pain, but really, they only serve to heighten it when the guard rails of our souls, if we’re lucky, bring us back into alignment.

Whyte writes that, “To be courageous is to seat our feelings deeply in the body and in the world.” We think that spending time in stillness, staring at our dogs’ ears in the morning light and feeling the love that arises when we do, turning our faces toward the sun to experience its warmth, and breathing into the space that surrounds our hearts (among myriad other ways of being) is indulgent, but what if the time we spend becoming more familiar with our bodies and souls – experiencing life as it’s happening – is one of the most courageous endeavors we can undertake? Not only for our current selves, but for our future ones too?

I had a make-up therapy session scheduled the same day I taught this class (thank you Universe), and Lexi (my therapist) asked me about the moments when I know I’ve dropped into my heartspace. I named the usual suspects – meditating, dog walks, hot/cold sessions at the hot springs, stillness in the early hours of the morning, a good spin or yoga class, a loving conversation with a friend, etc. She asked me how often I consciously note, “I am connecting with my heart in this moment” during any of these activities. I acknowledged that I often didn’t. She suggested that I try to bring more awareness to that connection while it’s happening so that I’ll know it more intimately going forward and better understand the feeling I seek when in connection with others. So, for now, those are my coeur-ageous marching orders. Feel free to make them yours, too.

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A note on grief.

This weekend (April 11) marks three years without my Andy. He continues to teach me so much in his absence. Today, I’m sitting with the truth that grief is an emotion humans dread experiencing, which is one of the reasons why connecting with our hearts can feel so daunting, especially once we know pain. The only emotion that stands in equal measure to the strength of the love that emerges from the sacred space of the soul is grief. And yet, I wouldn’t trade the love I have for Andy for anything. I think you understand.

This week I’m also thinking about my Gemini moon – how much talking about the things I’m feeling allows me to not only connect with others, but heal in the process. How sometimes I feel self-conscious about how much I need this, especially when it comes to my sweet dog. But I will never not miss him. And I will never stop bringing him into daily conversation. It’s what makes missing him bearable.

My beloved friend and soul sister Molly shared this wisdom on her Instagram story the other day, and it, in tandem with the Artemis II crew naming a bright spot on the moon after Carroll, the late wife of Commander Reid Wiseman, reminded me that it’s okay to keep grieving in the open. It might give someone else permission to do so, too.

As I said to him every night before bed (and as I tell my girls every night now, too): I love you to the moon and back, Andy boy. Forever and ever and ever and ever.

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So if you’re feeling like you’re in a season of transition too, consider that it might just mean you’re connected to the natural rhythms of life itself and that you don’t necessarily need to change a thing. Just be here, now.

This week’s Field Notes volume gathers the songs, meals, movement rituals, and small moments that are grounding me as I move through this season of life. Consider it a gentle offering for whatever seasons in which you find yourself right now.

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My heart knocked, steady but nervous, against my ribcage. Would these results look like the last seven months… or would they finally reflect what I was beginning to feel: that I was healing?

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Let’s go back to August 2025.

For three months straight, I’d been waking up with a sore throat on the left side. Nothing severe. The kind you write off as allergies or a lingering bug that’ll go away if you just drink enough water. It would fade during the day, then return the next morning.

Simultaneously, I was having a summer of highs and lows, literally, on the trail. I was supposed to be training for the Rut, a mountain trail race in Big Sky, Montana, that people in Bozeman either love to do, or love to hate because everyone who’s doing it talks about it – a lot. Some days, I felt strong. Climbing a couple thousand feet, moving with ease. Other days, I’d stop mid-run and cry. My heart would race even at an easy pace. Putting one foot in front of the other felt impossible. It scared me.

I didn’t connect the dots at first. But eventually the sore throat came with brain fog, ringing in my ears, and a kind of fatigue that made it hard to focus on anything for long.

I met with my nurse practitioner, who recommended an ultrasound, which felt serious. If you’ve ever gotten an ultrasound, you know the technician can’t tell you anything about what she sees, so I spent a few days waiting for/worrying about results.

When my NP let me know I had sub-acute thyroiditis (an inflamed thyroid), my first reaction was relief (honestly, my mind had been trending toward cancer catastrophizing), and then, guilt. How could I have let this happen?

My NP also recommended bloodwork to make sure I didn’t have an autoimmune disease (Grave’s or Hashimoto’s). Everything came back clear. Her prescription? Rest, noting that the condition should resolve itself over the course of the next 12-18 months.

Not satisfied with that advice (12-18 months?!), I also did a full blood panel with Essential Health, a functional medicine practice in Bozeman, which revealed that my testosterone levels were basically zero (a side effect of thyroiditis, it turns out) and that certain markers indicated I was either a heavy drinker (nope), big smoker (I would never), or very stressed (...).

My mind tried to think its way out of this. How could I be stressed? I had sold my business (a significant source of both stress and joy) a year before – shouldn’t I be recovered by now?

But my body was telling me a different story.

In the months that followed, I did rest. I recused myself from the Rut and pulled back from cardio-heavy training. But I also started to get curious about the root of what was happening.

My friend Taylor lent me the book Electric Body, Electric Health by Eileen Day McCusick, and a passage about the throat stopped me in my tracks:

“When we habitually bite our tongues, hold back our emotions, stifle our natural expressions, and resist our own truths, energy builds up on the left side of the throat chakra…It takes a lot of energy to hold our emotions back – much more than the amount of energy required to let things out. When we suppress expression from the throat chakra, we deny passage of that emotion through this energy center, which means the thyroid isn’t getting the juice it needs to run properly…I think it’s one of the most destructive things that we can do for our health. Why? Because what doesn’t come out stays in.”

It almost pained me to read much further.

Clearly expressing myself in difficult moments has never come easily to me. Whether it’s a hard conversation with an employee or a tender one with someone I love, I tend to soften, sidestep, or stay quiet in an effort to keep the other person comfortable (spoiler alert: this rarely has the effect you want it to).

Turns out, trying to regulate everyone else’s nervous system for the past couple of decades had done a number on mine. I felt the line,“It takes a lot of energy to hold our emotions back,” in my bones. No wonder I was exhausted.

It felt like a catch-22. The very thing I needed to do to heal, express myself, also activated me. But I knew I had to start somewhere, so I started small. Saying no when I meant no. Declining invitations when my body was tired and opting to stay home to cook anti-inflammatory meals instead. Opting out of workouts that drained me. Singing in the car, because something in me knew it mattered.

As I strengthened my ability to speak and also my awareness of the signals my body is always sending me, I became braver in conversations, some of which I know I wouldn’t have been able to have prior to my thyroiditis diagnosis. Through them, I’m realizing that maybe it wasn’t always the other person I was trying to protect through my silence, but also myself. I’m learning that having the courage to speak your truth doesn’t always mean your heart won’t break when you do.

I kept getting bloodwork done, watching my body swing from hyperthyroidism to hypothyroidism like a pendulum, slowly finding its way back to center.

I stayed the course and signed up for yoga teacher training, trusting it would help me continue using my voice and deepen my relationship with a practice that has carried me through many seasons of healing.

Last week, I decided it was time to get my bloodwork done again. So here we are, back in the car in my driveway.

I nervously tapped on the link to see my results and closed my eyes. When I opened them, no yellow “abnormal” label jumped out on the screen to me like it had so many times prior. Just my TSH and T4 levels, both within normal ranges for the first time in almost a year. My entire being flooded with relief. I had an Elle Woods moment of pure elation in the car. We (my body and I) had done it, and changed so much in my life in the process.

I took a yoga class the other night in which the teacher, a new friend of mine, said, “Don’t waste your suffering.”

I think we as humans tend to take one of two paths when we’re presented with pain, physical or otherwise. We either avoid it, explain it away, or try to outrun it as quickly as possible. Or, when there’s no way around it, we surrender. We get to know it. We become curious. We grieve what life felt like before it arrived. We learn how to live alongside it. We let it change us.

We don’t waste it.

I often say I’m grateful my thyroiditis presented as a sore throat. I’m not sure I would have listened otherwise.

Because what I needed wasn’t just rest. It was expression.

It was saying the thing. Singing in the car. Telling the truth when it would have been easier to keep the peace. Becoming a yoga teacher.

My body wasn’t betraying me. She was asking me to use my voice. And going forward, I hope I have the courage to listen before she has to ask so loudly.

I feel closer to her now.

And I can’t wait to be back out on the trails with her this summer.

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Ways I supported my thyroid during hyperthyroidism (& now, beyond!)

Always check with your provider, but this is what helped me and are practices I will carry forward with me, hopefully always:

• Selenium (200 mcg/day)
  A simple supplement that can support thyroid function. I take it every day.

• Reduce stress wherever you can
  Not in a “perfect life” way. In a “be honest about what’s draining you” way.

• Rest. More than you think you need.
  I pulled back from intense cardio and stuck to gentle movement. It’s felt good to amp it up a bit more recently, but I no longer view rest as a “have to” but rather as a “thank goodness, I get to!”. Really truly.

• Eat in a way that supports healing
  Less gluten, sugar, and processed foods. More whole foods, vegetables, and enough protein.

• Regulate your nervous system
  Meditation, breathwork, hot/cold exposure, gentle yoga. Think: anything that helps your body feel safe again.

• Use your voice (yes, really)
  Singing, humming, chanting. It might sound woo, but moving energy through the throat mattered more than I expected.

• Give it time
  If it’s not autoimmune, it often resolves. But in my experience, how you care for yourself along the way can shift the timeline of healing in your favor (i.e. it may not take as long as you think).

P.S. I was on a podcast!

I recently joined my dear friend for a conversation about following your happiness, what it costs to let go, and the kind of courage it takes to listen to yourself when it matters most. You can read the full piece, watch the episode, and get the recipe for the divine lemon bars she made me on her substack, Dish + Tell.

Before I land in the city, I fall down the usual rabbit holes – TikTok, the ’gram, texts to friends – while also returning to my own well-worn list of places I trust. Everyone has their own rhythm in New York. This week’s field notes volume chronicles mine. Save it for when you find yourself there wanting to feel good in your body, eat well, and weave a little culture through it all.

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And if cats are more your thing, fear not – the end of this post features three very senior cats (between 13 and 17 years old!) who need homes. Could one be yours?!

“Do you think you could take her to your vet in Bozeman to see if they can save her leg?” a staff member at the Anaconda animal shelter asked me about the reddish brown dog with the resigned eyes but knowing gaze whom they’d just rescued from the Blackfeet reservation in northwestern Montana. ”Our vet is only offering her an amputation but we want the best for her,” she added. Ginger, as they were calling her, had arrived at the shelter with a badly broken back left leg and two nursing puppies in tow. I answered, “Of course,” and thought to myself, “We’re going to find her the BEST home while we’re at it. She deserves nothing less.” (To put everyone’s mind at ease right away, her puppies were adopted very quickly after their arrival at the shelter.)

As my friend Steph drove us home from the shelter that afternoon, I posted pictures of Ginger to my Instagram story. She generated immediate interest. Within 48 hours, we had a wonderful prospective adopter locked in, my vet had examined her x-rays, and the prognosis was good: as long as the break wasn’t too old, they could repair her leg.

In the meantime, I was trying very hard not to fall in love with this dog. There was something about the yellow gold of her eyes that called to mind the Mary Oliver line I love, “A dog can never tell you what she knows from the smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know almost nothing.” This gal had stories, and I was aching to learn them all.

I took her to the vet the morning of her surgery and cried as I handed her leash to my very capable friend and all-star vet tech, Kelsie. I planned to return the following day (they always keep dogs overnight for major surgery) to hand her off to her adopters. A few hours later, Kelsie and the veterinarian operating on Ginger called me from the operating table. “This break is so old, Caro. The surgery will be completely reconstructive and there’s no guarantee she’ll regain full use of the leg. If it were our dog, we’d amputate. Her hips are healthy and she’ll lead a very happy life with three legs.” I felt anxiety creep into my chest. Would Ginger be okay? What would her adopters think? But I had to make the call and I trusted the vet implicitly, so I said, “Okay, let’s amputate.”

The next day, we all met at the vet clinic and to our surprise and delight, Ginger came out from the back, walking and tail wagging. She looked a little worse for wear otherwise. Shaved back haunch, a long row of stitches, patchy fur from stress and malnourishment, and very enlarged, droopy nipples from nursing. Despite everything, I knew she was an extraordinary dog. My heart seized as I said goodbye and I told her adopters to be in touch if they needed anything.

But less than 48 hours later, she was back with me, returned by a very loving couple who realized her needs and their own lives didn’t quite align. She couldn’t walk up their stairs, had terrible separation anxiety, and was still bleeding from having given birth to her puppies. When I picked her up from them, she was crying and anxious, looking forlorn in her Elizabethan collar. I couldn’t blame her. What an emotional whirlwind for all of us, especially Ginger. I didn’t know what else to do so I rolled down the windows in my car to see if the breeze might feel good on her face. Immediately, she stuck her head out the window, closed her eyes, and sighed, her sweet ears gently flapping in the breeze.

The next few weeks required us to make major adjustments in our household. First of all, Ginger was not her name. I was married at the time, and my (now ex-)husband thought that Charley might be a good name. Not too feminine (she did not exude Lua’s princess energy), resilient, confident, cool girl vibes. No name could have served her better and I often thank him mentally when I call for her on a trail.

Her separation anxiety was no small thing. Constant cries whenever I wasn’t in her line of sight. Not knowing what else to do, one night I put her in her crate and took Andy and Lua on a drive around the block, just to give them some relief from the agitated third (but still temporary) canine member of our household. We tuned in from my phone – I had a camera placed directly in front of her crate – and she cried and cried until we returned 20 minutes later.

Andy didn’t like canine houseguests, especially loud ones, and Lua looked at me with questioning eyes. “How long is she going to stay here with us?” she seemed to ask with every worried glance.

Beautiful moments coexisted with the tension of Charley’s uncertain future in our home. During her first walk on Peets Hill, only a few days after her surgery, I diligently kept her on her leash, but she tugged at it with every step. My lovely friend Abby accompanied us on this walk. A free and adventurous spirit herself, I think Abby recognized a bit of herself in Charley. “Just let her off her leash and see what happens. There are so many people and dogs up here. I bet she’ll stay near.” My intuition responded with relief to this suggestion so, against all logical reasoning, I unclipped her collar from her leash. And for the first time, I saw Charley’s true self emerge. She started running around joyfully on three legs, so happy to be free.

And it’s true, Charley didn’t know what to do with stairs at first. My house didn’t have a staircase, so I brought her to Zephyr to teach her how to climb the one there. Loving encouragement from Jackie (another dear friend and, at the time, full-time Zephyr employee and instructor extraordinaire), Lua and me, plus Charley’s open-mindedness and curiosity, meant she figured out those stairs in about 15 minutes. My heart swelled watching her world open up.

Meanwhile, the shelter kept sending me applications from Charley’s potential adopters. One woman was thrilled at the thought of adopting a three-legged dog because she assumed Charley probably wouldn’t need much exercise (insert “red buzzer absolutely not” sound here). Another was so excited by Charley that she bought her dog toys and food before she had even met her. Charley and I went over for a house visit and I felt immediately that something just wasn’t right. The woman was absolutely lovely, but Charley stuck out like a vibrant sore thumb in her beautiful but very quiet home. We went into the backyard, and within moments, Charley slid through a six inch space between the posts of the wrought iron fence and galloped down the street. I sprinted after her worried, but also relieved. “Well, I guess this just isn’t going to work!” I proclaimed happily. The woman sadly agreed. I put Charley back in the car, windows down, and we drove home.

The shelter also said I could bring Charley back anytime, but of course, I didn’t. Over time, as dogs do, Andy and Lua adapted and even grew to enjoy Charley’s company, and Charley became one of our pack (my ex-husband knew better than to try to argue with me when I said I wanted to keep her, bless him). Her inherently mischievous and somewhat stubborn nature emerged, but the comfort she felt also amplified her playfulness, and her separation anxiety disappeared. I take it as a great point of pride now that she’s not really a morning dog and prefers to stay tucked in on the couch at home when I leave for a morning workout, even though her big sister, Lua, clamors to come along.

People often see Charley and ask me about her story. My favorite question recently was from someone on a trail in town who asked, “How’d your dog’s leg fall off?” While brevity has never been my strong suit, especially when it comes to dogs, I try to be quick in the telling of the tale. Often people say, “Well, she sure does great for only having three legs.” Meanwhile, Charley is more often than not running absolute circles around any dog who dares challenge her to a race. My girl.

People also say, “Oh, Charley must inspire you so much.” And truth be told, I rarely think about the leg she doesn’t have. I guarantee you she doesn’t, either. More than anything, Charley reminds me that often our thoughts about ourselves drown out the inherent nature of our bodies to continue to move, adapt, grow, chase, live, be happy.

We as humans also appreciate a plan, predictability, safety, reliability. Charley’s entry into our lives was anything but predictable. Chaos reigned. Seriously. Around the time I met Charley, I bought a new car, the backseat of which she promptly – accidentally – destroyed with a bout of diarrhea after she’d, unbeknownst to me, eaten an entire bag of cat treats I’d left in the garage to take to a shelter. Not long after we decided to keep her, my ex-husband took her on a deer scouting mission in Wyoming. Charley caught sight of a herd, leapt out of his open truck window, and raced away into the field to investigate. Ten minutes later, she reappeared, panting, tongue hanging out and happier than ever.

But four and a half years later, I realize that her arrival in my life, even if it was chaotic, was anything but random. If anything, it was a very Charley way to enter the scene. While friends were amazed (although not surprised) that I was now a dog mom times three, a year and a half after we adopted Charley, Andy died. I don’t know what Lua and I would have done without Charley’s cheerful ears and earnest presence reminding us that we were still here, even though Andy in his dog form was not.

Charley’s quiet but knowing gaze – the first thing I ever noticed about her – speaks volumes. Dogs are empaths, and I continue to discover through Charley just how true this is. Any time I look at her when I’m overwhelmed by a moment of anxiety, she’s always already looking at me intently as if to say, “I know. I’m here. You’re stronger than you think.”

When I’ve really struggled, she does, too. I recently looked back at old journal entries and found several in which Charley was acting strangely or became physically ill exactly when my own nervous system was suffering. Her wild spirit and my own reflect and support one another’s.

Hers holds mine accountable for being free.

I’ll leave you with one of my favorite Mary Oliver poems – one that Charley embodies.

If You Are Holding This Book

You may not agree, you may not care, but
if you are holding this book you should know
that of all the sights I love in this world—
and there are plenty—very near the top of
the list is this one: dogs without leashes.

(The book referenced in the title is, of course, Dog Songs)

P.S.

There are SEVERAL senior cats at Heart of the Valley right now! We’re talking aged 13+. I spent some time with them last week and they are all loves, every single one. If you are looking for a low key kitty who needs a soft place to land, head to the shelter this weekend.

Please consider: Clementine, who came in with her very friendly sister Saffron who’s already been adopted. Clementine is so shy that I couldn’t quite get a good picture of her, but I know this gal just needs a chance.

Eleanor, who is the loviest love you will ever meet. She just wanted to be held and pet and snuggled. I’m obsessed with her!

Pretty Boy: This 17 year old fella is completely blind. But he’s a smart sweetheart who needs a quiet, safe place to live out his golden years.

Whew. My people. It’s been a week. Mercury stationed retrograde in Pisces last Thursday, and we experienced a full blood moon total lunar eclipse in Virgo early Tuesday morning. Additionally, in Montana, we seem to have skipped winter (although as I write this, it is snowing!), and my goodness, winter’s absence is catching up with me.

We often talk about the necessity of the seasonality of life – the light cannot always stay, but neither can the dark. My own post about the winter solstice references a David Whyte poem in which he writes about “an ancient intuitive understanding of winter as a time to leave things alone”.

Montanans didn’t quite get the chance to leave things alone this winter, to hibernate, to be, to curl up on our couches with tea mugs and sleepy dogs and watch the snow fall. And while I know winter’s not over yet (it snows 12 months a year in Montana, so they say), I feel a bit unmoored because of it.

But regardless of the weather, this season of life has brought me new comforts and reminded me of old ones. Small things that steady the day. Rituals, meals, music, movement practices I find myself returning to again and again.

So I’m sharing them below. In case the season has you feeling a little unmoored, too.

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I fell in love with group wellness classes because of their connection to music. And since Substack and Spotify seem to be getting along today, I’m letting songs echo the subject matter throughout. Consider this a Caro spin or yoga class, Substack style.

On the heels of my 200-hour yoga teacher training, I’ve begun teaching two yoga classes a week: one at the studio where I completed my training, Namaha, and the other at Zephyr (in addition to the one weekly spin class I started teaching there again earlier this month). If you’d told me nine years ago that I’d one day be leading yoga classes in the loft of the spin studio I founded, I would have looked at you incredulously. But, here we are.

When I took my first rhythm-based spin class in 2010, I became quickly and hopelessly addicted. What I loved most about these classes was that they grounded me and reminded me what it felt like to feel good, even in the midst of the stresses of daily NYC livin’. And so I kept taking them, as many and as often as I could.

What I didn’t understand at the time was that what I was chasing wasn’t fitness. It was aliveness. What I realize now is that these classes reminded me that being a human who can breathe, sweat, move, converse with others, help animals, create community, is an extraordinary gift. Bodies are the vessels through which we get to experience this world.

And when the connection to our living vessels is strong, something meaningful occurs. What happens in a good spin or yoga or any sort of meaningful movement practice doesn’t stay there. The bodies that experience it go out into the world and become more alive. I’ve watched it happen hundreds if not thousands of times, and my own body and heart rely on this magic.

This is why I love teaching so much. Don’t get me wrong; the feeling of a good beat drop in a room full of incredible people is also something I love more than most things. But it’s what happens after the cool down that makes you realize the impact 45-60 minutes of movement can have on a life.

Mark Groves recently wrote an article in which he said, “There’s a thought that negative emotion is toxic to our own beings… but that is only true when we marinate in the emotions. Emotion is meant to evoke motion. We are meant to transmute it into change.” I’ve said to my classes many times before that the word “motion” exists within the word “emotion”, but I appreciated his perspective on what happens when we marinate in emotions rather than move with them.

The container of a group wellness class allows us to integrate the emotions that stack up in our nervous systems over the course of a day, both good and hard and everything in between. Moving, sweating, breathing through these feelings creates more space internally and externally. Our capacity to hold space for ourselves and others grows. And we empower ourselves to create change exactly where we are – even if on some days that means simply committing to staying with and through the hard thing, whether that be adding more resistance on the bike or staying in a balancing series pose on the mat a little longer.

Conversely, consuming sadness – doomscrolling, reading or watching the news incessantly, observing all the heartbreak that exists within the world – and feeling paralyzed by it can actually create a trauma response in the body. We feel so helpless in the face of it all that that emotion gets stuck within, and so do we.

How does this relate to Lua? I’m so glad you asked.

I always say that if I can’t find Lua, it’s because I haven’t looked behind my heels. She is homed in on me at all times and attends most of the classes I either take or teach, albeit from the safety of my car in the parking lot, nestled into the puffy coat I leave on the front seat for her at all times (and if it’s cold out, her seat warmer is always on on the way to any workout). She would always rather come with me than be left at the house. On the other hand, I often have to bribe Charley with treats to get in the car, a habit for which I take full responsibility.

When I return to my car after class, my instinct is often to check my phone. But when Lua greets me, I sit instead. I scratch the softest spot behind her ears. I let my post-class glow settle in. She pulls me back into my body simply because she’s there, being Lua. Cue the song “fear less” by one of my very favorite musical artists Fred again..:“I fear less with you on the passenger side”. He may have written it about a human, but in my world, it’s about Lua.

Lua does not question whether she is doing enough to make the world a better place. She does not wonder if her joy is productive. She is not afraid to express herself (IYKYK!). She runs when she feels like running (usually after a squirrel, always to no avail). She shines because shining is her nature. Aries sun. Leo rising. Forever my girl (she and I recently discovered that this is her favorite song).

Lua energy is what I try to cultivate in a room full of people moving their bodies. A reminder that being fully embodied is not indulgent. It grounds. It regulates. It’s how meaningful action and connection actually begin. Self-embodiment does not make us less useful to the world. It makes us more authentic, purposeful and alive within it.

Welcome to Field Notes from the Aerie, twice-monthly notes for paid subscribers that include behind-the-scenes thoughts, playlists, readings, and practices. As always, thank you for being here.

I taught my first two official yoga classes this week at Namaha in Bozeman, where I recently completed my 200 hour teacher training.

Toward the end of training, after I stood at the front of the room shaking my way through a practice sun salutation B, a fellow trainee asked me:

“Why does this scare you so much? You built a business based on teaching.”

She asked out loud what I had been wrestling internally with for weeks.

I’ve taught thousands of spin classes. But yoga feels like an entirely new world. I feel vulnerable and exposed.

The shaking wasn’t really about forgetting how to teach. It was about being seen trying, stepping outside an identity I’ve worn for years and risking not being immediately proficient (how many times have I mentioned I’m a Virgo?).

And still, beneath the nerves, I know I’m meant to be here, beginning again.

Here are ten things I’ve rediscovered about beginnings as I put one foot in front of the other on this new teaching path. Much more to come, but bookmark this for the next time you step into something new.

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