THIS IS MY YOGA

There’s something peculiar about the energy of today.

So many beautiful elements surround me, yet there’s this lingering feeling of anger, frustration, and disappointment that feels out of my control.

I think about being hit and run over back in 2010 more often than I want to.

There isn’t much I can do—sleep, sit, walk, run—without being reminded of what happened.

When I sit back and observe the way Black people and bodies are treated, I get sick to my stomach and then I remember that I am a part one of those bodies.

There’s rarely genuine care or concern—just a sense that we’re often used as ego boosts for others.

2010: THE DAY EVERYTHING SHIFTED

I remember being encouraged to sue the man who ran me over. I didn’t want to—I just wanted to get back to running.

Eventually, I found an attorney, confused by how drawn-out the process became, only to discover that the man who hit me was claiming I tripped and fell.

That lie broke me. I remember being heartbroken and enraged all at once.

When I was offered $12K in litigation, I was insulted. Before the accident, I was positioning myself for a full or partial scholarship to Georgia State for distance running.

My attorney told me to take the offer, reminding me that another “Black boy” in a similar case had been screwed over.

I refused. I asked for $500K—partly to cover medical care I knew I’d need and partly to cover college and repay those who helped me when I couldn’t work.

That’s when I began recognizing how money drives the world—and how even in healthcare, genuine concern often takes a backseat to profit.

To this day, I still don’t know exactly what’s wrong with my body. I was told I had a grade three ankle sprain, torn tendons and ligaments in my knee, and that by 30, I’d likely need hip, knee, and ankle replacements.

WHEN YOGA FOUND ME

My first introduction to yoga was through P90X—and I avoided it.

Ninety minutes felt brutal.

Later, when I started working at Lifetime Fitness after my first relationship ended, yoga found me again. I’ll never forget that class that made me cry—Melissa closing with a message about self-acceptance.

The next day, she handed me a handwritten copy of that message. I still have it.

When I moved back to South Florida and started personal training, yoga found me again.

At first, I wanted physical relief. What I found was emotional release.

I started seeing how my accident—and even being in an abusive relationship—were shaping the patterns I needed to unlearn.

Yoga became my mirror.

HEALING, ANGER, AND GOD

I’ve always wanted to see the best in people and in every situation, even when wronged.

But through yoga, healing, and connecting deeper to what I call Source—yes, I do see myself as a god—I’ve also grown angry.

Not in ways that seek harm, but in ways that seek freedom—for myself and others—from the unnecessary bullshit life throws at all of us.

No one gets a fair deck of cards, but I’ve been fortunate to have space and support to sift through what I’ve experienced.

A lot of Black men don’t.

Too many of us trade authenticity for acceptance, or their souls for access—things freely given to others who brag about mediocrity.

HATHA, VINYASA, AND THE LESSONS IN BETWEEN

Today, I joined a Hatha class—the foundation for almost every asana practice.

It’s slow, deliberate, alignment-based. Beautiful in its simplicity.

My roots, though, are in vinyasa—derived from Ashtanga—structured, rhythmic, flowing.

It gives me the space to explore what works for my body.

Before class began, someone staying at the same property introduced themselves.

Maybe he meant well, but I wasn’t in the mood to connect.

I was in pain and needed grounding.

I could sense his girlfriend’s hesitation—and immediately thought, this is exactly why I don’t.

Much of my life has been spent overextending myself, trying to make others comfortable—as if I’d done something wrong.

Healing has shown me that was never my job.

It’s not that all non-Black people are harmful—but I do need to see a certain level of consciousness before I feel safe engaging.

That same grace, though, I extend to my own community—because who else will?

CHOOSING WISELY

I’ve learned I don’t have to explain my trauma before every yoga class.

I used to—hoping for understanding—only to still feel empty after.

Words hold weight.

I see yoga teachers online mocking students for finding joy in their practice, and I can’t help but think—this is why we must be careful who we learn from.

Many hide insecurity behind humor or critique, and it bleeds into their teaching.

In Western yoga—especially vinyasa—pretentiousness is rampant.

If you want traditional structure, there are paths for that: Hatha, Ashtanga, Bikram, Kemetic.

But for many of us raised in Western culture, vinyasa becomes our gateway.

For me, it was the music.

The playlists connected me back to my body, gave me space to explore my pain, and opened my mind to philosophy and dharma.

When you’re truly good at what you do or grounded in your intention, you can honor tradition while embracing what’s modern.

SAVASANA, MY FORT LAUDERDALE, AND MY TRUTH

We’re all working toward death—or in yoga, toward Savasana.

No one has all the answers.

The best we can do is show up, do our best, and give others the space to figure it out—because like tight muscles, forcing only causes more harm.

I’ve always had a sharp tongue, born from protection.

But even that, I’m learning to redirect. There’s power in using words to heal instead of defend.

Still—let’s be clear—I’m from Fort Lauderdale, and I’m proud of it.

The saying “fuck around and find out” still applies, at least until it doesn’t.

Just like vinyasa—it’ll serve me until it no longer does.

And that, to me, is yoga.

MY REFLECTION

Healing doesn’t always look graceful.

It often looks like anger, honesty, and the courage to say, “this still hurts, but I’m still here.”

Every day I step on my mat, I’m reminded that my body—no matter how it feels—is still capable of finding presence.

And that, to me, is the true practice.