With the Right People
I've always told people in my classes, retreats, and writing workshops that I'll never ask them to do something I'm not willing to do myself. But I'm not sure that was entirely true. There was this assumption that retreat participants would naturally get to know one another better, while I kept myself somewhat hidden behind the facilitator role. This weekend, I quietly did the work alongside the others.
Over the past year, I've been making a conscious choice about how I show up at retreats. As someone who leans introverted, my old pattern was to lead the group activities and then disappear to recharge alone. I've slowly stopped doing this as often. I still honor my need for rest and restoration, but I've also learned that some of the most profound moments happen in the unscheduled spaces—the conversations over coffee, the quiet walks, the impromptu sharing circles. This shift in how I engage has completely transformed what these gatherings can become.
This past weekend, I facilitated a retreat in Northern California. I've been calling them "yoga retreats" for years, but I'm realizing they're evolving into something much more expansive. I'm intentionally moving away from the yoga-only label because I want these gatherings to feel inclusive for everyone—those who are yoga-curious, yoga-resistant, or yoga-devoted. Even those who will only practice yoga during the time we are together.
I'm also moving away from yoga verbiage because in observation, it is not limited to yoga classes, these retreats are really about self-care and connection—two things I can hide from even while facilitating them. Connecting others has become a super power of mine, but I've also needed to learn how to connect in person myself.
This weekend was heart opening and full of trust – my own and in observations. There were tears and laughter and then more laughter. There was real, honest sharing between friends and complete strangers who, within 72 hours, were thick as thieves. Watching people open up, ask the questions they'd been carrying, and really listen to each other reminded me why this work matters so much for all of us including me.
Something else struck me this weekend: so many of the participants came from big families, with stories of siblings and childhood chaos and the kind of easy intimacy that comes from growing up surrounded by people. As an only child, I've always been drawn to these sibling-type connections but also aware of how I can retreat when they feel too intense or unfamiliar. I realized I've sometimes used my introversion as a shield, lingering at the edges instead of staying present for the messy, beautiful work of building the very connections I watch others find.
What I keep discovering is this: with the right people, everything changes. The questions get deeper. The listening gets softer. The sharing gets braver. The laughter comes easier. And somehow, we all feel a little less alone in our beautiful, messy humanness.
So this is me, continuing to learn, continuing to show up, continuing to be grateful for this work we do together. My work continues to center on listening more deeply, then asking the questions that inspire kinship. This is me keeping promises to myself and to you—to not hide after the showing up and let myself linger a little more.
Oh and for the most part, I think most humans are the right people for this work. Even a slightly, moody only child with her nose in a book or writing.
