Growing up, beauty always seemed out of reach. I was a gymnast and later a ballet dancer, and though I could touch my toes and move with grace, I never felt beautiful. One unlucky day, an injury forced me to stop dancing, but the feeling remained — unworthy, awkward, wrong. My family’s words stayed with me and didn’t help. They reminded me, intentionally or not, that I wasn’t good enough, that I wasn’t what beauty was supposed to be.
When I started doing yoga, I didn’t have high expectations. I was flexible, sure, but flexibility doesn’t mean confidence. On the mat, I felt vulnerable — awkward, unbalanced, unsure of myself. I remember watching people move effortlessly through poses or simply being brave enough to embrace their imperfections without hesitation. I wondered if I even belonged.
But something made me stay. Maybe it was the silence or the fact that yoga wasn’t about performing. For the first time, I wasn’t being judged or evaluated. It wasn’t about how I looked; it was about how I felt.
In those early days, I began to notice things I’d overlooked: the strength it took to hold a pose, even when my legs were shaking. The way my breath became an anchor, steadying me when my mind wandered. The way the light filtered through the studio windows, painting patterns on the floor. Yoga helped me see beauty in places I’d never thought to look—not just in the world around me, but in myself.
It didn’t happen right away. I still catch glimpses of that old insecurity, the voice that tells me I’m not good enough. But now there’s another voice, softer and stronger. It reminds me that beauty isn’t something I have to achieve. It’s already there — in the imperfect lines of my body, in the way it moves and stretches, in a strength I didn’t know I had.
Yoga has become a practice for me — a practice of finding beauty, not just on the mat, but everywhere. In the rusted beams of an old building. In the cracks of a city sidewalk. In the way my hands grip the floor in a handstand, still imperfect but determined. Beauty isn’t where we’re taught to find it; it’s in unexpected places, in quiet details, in moments we almost miss.
I won’t say I love myself completely. That would be a lie. But I’m closer to it now than I’ve ever been. Sometimes I even catch myself looking in the mirror and smiling — not because I’m flawless, but because I’m finally learning to see myself, to see the beauty in my imperfections, and to trust that I’m good enough.
Yoga has taught me that beauty is a practice. It’s not about the perfect pose or the perfect body. It’s about being present, being real, and finding grace in the process. And every time I show up — for my practice, for myself, for the beauty I’ve learned to see.
