Yoga.
One or two times a week.
Four months in, every muscle in my body is changing on a granular level.
Not dramatic.
Not flashy.
But steady.
Quiet.
Rebuilding me piece by piece.
I’ve kept unhealthy habits—pepperoni pizza at 8:30 p.m. with my wife and five and three-year-olds.
Yet, yoga nudges me to breathe deeper, to move with more strength, and to stretch just a little further.
It’s subtle. Gains come slow. But they come. Each day, there’s a reminder—whether it’s the looseness in my hips or the strength in my arms. Every few minutes, I’m reminded to take a long, slow breath. Yoga asks for consistency, and in return, it gives me more range, more clarity, and a sense of quiet strength.
It’s simple. It’s hard. But it works. And that’s what I want to keep learning—how to build myself through movement, breath, and patience. One pose at a time. One breath at a time.
Because even after pizza, I can feel that pull. Yoga keeps calling me back.
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