A story about 3 athletes—and 1 practice that changed everything.

Roark didn’t need a coach. Not in the traditional sense.

By the time we met, his foundation was already solid—disciplined, driven, and relentlessly committed to going beyond what was expected.

His father and three brothers had all played football. But he wasn’t chasing a legacy. He was building his own.

He wanted to live by a standard so high, most wouldn’t even attempt it.

But that kind of standard comes with a cost.

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Quinn wanted to go pro. She was good enough to do it.

Smart. Technical. Fearless in the air. Everything you need as a soccer player to dominate.

She anchored the back line with presence and poise. But beneath all that control was pressure—quiet, constant, and heavy.

She wasn’t playing to grow. She was playing not to mess up. Not to fall behind. Not to give anyone a reason to doubt her.

That kind of perfectionism looks like leadership from the outside. But underneath, it starts to crack.

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Hollis was the kind of athlete every coach dreams of: consistent, coachable, curious. She asked the hard questions. She held herself accountable. And when something wasn’t working, she didn’t point fingers—she doubled down on the work.

But this softball season was different.

She was coming off of injury, and the trust in her body just wasn’t there yet. She’d warm up, walk into the box, and somewhere in the back of her mind she’d wonder, “Is this the swing that ends my season?”

The auditorium hummed with conversation—young soccer players laughing, whispering, scrolling their phones. They were there, but not really.

I uploaded my presentation to the screen, feeling their half-attention shift toward me.

I knew this look.

Skepticism.

I let the silence settle before I spoke.

“What if I told you it’s not your coach’s job to coach you? … It’s yours.”

Blank stares. A few side glances.

“What if I told you there are no team sports? That despite everything you’ve been told, you’re going through your own individual experience—alone—and the ‘team’ can’t help you.”

A shift. Their posture changes. Arms uncross.

“And what if I told you the missing piece in every athlete’s development isn’t another drill, another film session, or another leadership workshop?”

A pause.

“It’s yoga.”

Now, I have their attention.

I let the word sit in the air.

Yoga.

I can see it in their faces—the confusion, the doubt, the assumptions already forming. Some of them are intrigued, others are fighting the urge to roll their eyes.

I take a step forward.

“When I say yoga is the missing link in the athlete experience, I’m not talking about your flexibility. I’m talking about your peace.”

And there it is.

The quiet part out loud.

The thing most people are too afraid to say: That it doesn’t matter if you win every game and still feel miserable.

It doesn’t matter if you collect every trophy and your teammates can’t stand you.

Or if the game ends—and you have no idea who you are without it.

What if it’s never been about wins and losses?

What if the real game is peace and transformation?

I lean in.

“I’m talking about learning how to move through the world with more integrity, more grit, more joy—so when this season ends, when this career ends, you’re not just proud of what you did. You’re proud of who you became.”

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Roark Didn’t Need a Coach. He Needed a Mirror.

I remember one day asking Roark how many specialists he had seen before our session that day.

“Eight,” he said.

Prehab. Rehab. Massage. Cupping. Cryo. Film. Lifting. Conditioning.

For the average college football player, that might sound excessive. But for Roark, it was predictably on-brand.

He lay down to stretch his body, reaching his arms over his head, arching through his back. His body had taken a beating, and yoga was one of the few places he let things soften. Where movement was gentle and peace wasn’t a luxury but a necessity.

“What’s super tight or sore today?” I asked.

“Everything,” he said.

He took a full breath in and a full breath out.

From the outside, his discipline looked extreme. But to him, it was just what the mission required.

He moved through the world with a sense of alignment most people never find—tuned into his body, intentional with his time, uninterested in noise.

The yoga didn’t teach him that.

It simply gave it a name.

Every time he stayed late to recover. Every time he visualized before games, wrote out his goals, blocked off time for sleep—he was practicing ahimsa (non-harming), whether he knew it or not.

Same with aparigraha (non-attachment). He didn’t cling. He knew not every coach would get him. Not every teammate would match him. He didn’t hold on. He just kept moving.

And svadhyaya (self-study)? That was Roark in a sentence. Always studying—what worked, what didn’t, what showed up under pressure. He read everything I gave him. Highlighted quotes. Recalled lines word for word. Not to impress, but to understand himself completely.

What shifted in our work wasn’t his effort.

It was his breath. His presence. Like something inside him could finally exhale.

Yoga became a mirror—a signal that he wasn’t alone. That what he felt—that deep, exacting pull to live a certain way—wasn’t strange.

It was sacred.

He didn’t need a new path.

He just needed to know he was already on it.

I didn’t have the kind of clarity that Roark had when I played.

I had the discipline. I had the work ethic. But I didn’t have the structure he had built—or the language to make sense of what I was carrying.

My second season in Sweden as a professional soccer player, I was everywhere—on billboards, in the papers, starting every game. It was supposed to be the high point of my career. Instead, I felt like I was barely holding it together.

Not because I didn’t care. Not because I wasn’t prepared. But because I had no system to take care of myself.

No way to slow down the spiral when things felt off. No tools to stop the overthinking, the second-guessing, the mental pressure that never let up.

I showed up early. I trained hard. I tried to outwork the chaos in my head. But when things didn’t click, I turned inward—tightened up, pressed harder, pushed through.

And I was miserable.

There was no breathing room. No space to process mistakes, or enjoy the game, or just be proud of what I was doing.

That’s what I didn’t understand then: that confidence isn’t something you wait to feel. It’s something you build—through systems, structure, and the willingness to fail, over and over again.

If I’d had yoga—not just the movement, but the mindset—I would’ve moved through that season differently.

Not with perfection. But with more peace. More presence. More trust.

Years later, when I was introduced to the full practice—beyond stretching, beyond poses—it gave me language for the things I never had words for: clarity, alignment, discipline with compassion.

It gave me a way to come back to myself.

And that became the foundation for everything I now teach.

Roark reminded me of what it looks like when that foundation is already there.

Quinn reminded me of what it feels like when it’s not.

Quinn Didn’t Need More Control. She Needed More Ease.

I remember watching her on a corner kick.

Quinn rushed from the back line into the opposing team’s box—no hesitation, no doubt.

There was no question where the ball was going. She was always the target.

Man-marked, she climbed into the air and attacked it with her head. The ball sailed to the back of the net.

She was in her element.

But not every moment was that clear.

Should she step and pressure the ball? Drop back and wait for help? Should she make the run out of the back—or play it safe?

She was caught in her head. And it was holding her back.

In yoga, there’s a principle called sthira sukham asanam. It means each posture should have both stability and ease. Strength and lightness. Effort and peace.

Quinn had the stability. No question. Her foundation was built. But the ease? The freedom? That was harder to come by.

She was clinging so tightly to perfection that her game had lost its joy. Her leadership came with tension. Her instincts had been replaced by second-guessing. And when things didn’t go well, the blame turned outward.

In our sessions, we focused on the yamas and the niyamas—the internal practices. And for Quinn, three kept surfacing.

Satya—truthfulness. She started being more honest about how she was showing up. How she avoided risk. How her tone sometimes undercut her message. She stopped sugarcoating her own performance and started facing it.

Tapas—discipline. She meditated, even when stillness felt hard. She read. She started paying closer attention to what she said and how it landed—realizing that leadership isn’t just about speaking up, but knowing what the team needs to hear. She asked for feedback and learned to take it in without making it personal.

And santosha—contentment. Not some forced sense of peace, but a steadiness she built, day by day.

She journaled regularly. Some days it was about gratitude. Other days it was about the bigger picture—why she started, who she was doing this for, what it meant to make her family proud.

It didn’t erase the pressure. But it gave her a way to hold it without being crushed by it.

I watched her begin to open up to her teammates. I watched her stop spiraling after mistakes. I watched her smile after games—even the ones that didn’t go as planned.

She never stopped working. Never stopped wanting more. But she stopped letting perfection overshadow her growth.

The season wasn’t perfect. But it didn’t have to be.

She earned her contract.

And more importantly—she didn’t lose herself along the way.

That’s the essence of sthira sukham —stability and ease.

Quinn had always been the strong one.

Now, she had the ease to match.

Hollis Didn’t Need to Be Fixed. She Needed to Trust What She Already Knew.

Every week, Hollis sent in her video check-in.

At first, they were pretty straightforward—thoughtful, reflective, honest in the way she always was. But one day, something shifted. She hit record and said, “I’m not going to answer the prompts today—I’m just going to talk.”

And she did.

She talked about what wasn’t working. The frustration of feeling stuck. The fear of never quite getting back to who she was before the injury. The pressure of trying to lead without feeling fully herself.

That video marked the moment she stopped performing and started processing.

She started asking better questions—about her habits, her mindset, the parts of her game that couldn’t be measured. She let go of proving and leaned into learning. She wasn’t chasing confidence. She was building ownership.

That was the real shift—satya. Truthfulness. Not as a buzzword, but as a practice. Every week, she used our sessions to step more fully into who she already was. She wasn’t trying to impress. She wasn’t trying to be perfect.

She was just showing up—with clarity and curiosity.

And it was a joy to witness.

If I’m being honest, I looked forward to her check-ins every week. Not because she had it all figured out—but because she wasn’t afraid to push past her fears anymore.

She stopped playing scared. And it wasn’t about holding onto the perfect batting average anymore. It was about feeling good in her own skin and knowing that this season was something she could be proud of.

The difference was almost instantaneous.

She walked differently. Swung differently. Led differently.

Not from pressure. But from peace.

She didn’t need to be fixed.

She just needed the space—and the structure—to remember what was already there.

This Isn’t About the Pose. It’s About the Person.

Roark didn’t need motivation. He needed clarity.

Quinn didn’t need perfection. She needed ease.

Hollis didn’t need to be fixed. She needed to trust what she already knew.

And the truth is—most athletes need the same.

Not another drill. Not another film session. A framework.

Yoga—when taught with purpose—isn’t just something extra. It’s the foundation.

For recovery, yes. But also for resilience.

For focus. For feedback. For ownership. For peace.

And not just for the standouts. But for the athletes in the quiet in-between moments, trying to figure out who they are and how to keep going.

That’s what we’re building. That’s what this work is for.

I think about that auditorium.

By the time the last slide made its way onto the screen, they weren’t half-listening anymore.

They were all in. Asking where this had been.

Because I hadn’t given them another lecture.

I’d told their stories. Named their pressure. And showed them a way through.

If you practice yoga long enough, one day you might put your foot behind your head.

But if you practice deep enough, one day you might look in the mirror—and finally, without judgment, without anger, without self-doubt—see what was always there.

You.

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Want this for your athletes? I work with teams and individuals who are ready to train mind, body, and leadership all at once.If you’re curious about how this can fit into your program, reach out. Rooting for you BIG.

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