I found yoga the unglamorous way: a running injury, a physio's suggestion, and a beginners' class I nearly walked out of twice. Somewhere between the third wobble and the final rest, something landed — I'd spent years living entirely in my head, and here was an hour that gave me my body back.
That class became a daily practice, the practice became trainings — five hundred hours across the UK and India, then trauma-informed breathwork — and eight years ago it became this studio: one warm room in the North Laine, five minutes from the sea.
What classes feel like
Slow doesn't mean easy, and strong doesn't mean straining. I teach bodies, not shapes — the pose bends to fit you, never the other way round. Expect clear guidance, endless variations, the occasional burst of laughter, and full permission to rest whenever your body asks for it.
The studio itself is a wooden-floored room on Gardner Street with morning light, too many plants and no mirrors. Come as you are; leave a little more yourself.