A few weeks ago, my twins reminded me of how much havoc the two of them can wreak in a very short period of time.
Goldie had absolutely refused to come inside because — dirt. So I did what felt like a very reasonable parenting move at the time: I made sensory bins. Rice. Beans. Scoops. Toy dump trucks. An indoor version of digging that wouldn’t end with us all being eaten alive by bugs.
It felt brilliant. For about three minutes.
Then Mac dumped an entire bin on his head. Goldie giggled and followed suit. These were big bins. Suddenly I had ten pounds of dried rice and beans on my kitchen floor, and my whole kitchen had become the sensory bin. Pure chaos. Again.
And yet -this is the part that stuck with me – I was still me in that moment. Same mama. Same breath. Same ability to pause, laugh eventually, and clean it up. Life didn’t require a new version of me to handle it. It just required me to stay present inside the mess.
Lately, the studio has felt like that too — life happening all at once.
We’ve celebrated new babies. We’ve held space for grief and loss.
Families have grown, and families have said goodbye. Bodies have changed. Schedules have shifted. Trips to the Galapagos and Egypt. New roommates. Life hasn’t slowed down for any of us.
What has stayed steady is this space. The doors still open. The teachers still show up. The floor still holds us. Whether you’re arriving joyful, exhausted, grieving, hopeful — or all of it at once — the studio meets you exactly where you are.
I’m still finding beans under the fridge. That feels about right. Life doesn’t wait for us to finish cleaning up before the next thing spills. So we don’t wait either. We come back to the mat with rice in our hair and a lot on our hearts, and we practice anyway. You don’t have to have it all together to walk in. Just walk in. We’ll meet you there.