I remember my yoga training like it was yesterday.
And believe me, it wasn’t even last year.
I cried more than once on my mat.
Learned that props—even those rough Mexican-spring-break-souvenir blankets—were my friends.
Took a crash during ardha chandrasana.
Realized that I needed a therapist.
Made it through the anatomy module.
And then spent entirely too much time creating playlists, when I should have been sequencing.
But when I finished, I knew if I wanted to teach—and to be honest, I wasn’t sure—I had to start marketing myself: Create an online presence. Get a Facebook page. Find my style.
And that included a bio.
I’ve run a content marketing business for 12 years, so I knew a thing or two.
But the trouble was this: A bio was so full of self. And in yoga training, I had learned that life was about a lot more.
I needed to sound both ego-less and amazing.
Be full of emptiness…and personality.
Appear beautiful, but in a very non-effortful sort of way.
And it took about 72 drafts, but I figured it out.
I had to remember that despite my style, or my workshopping, or my asta vakrasana, yogis wanted to take a class from a human being.
A connective voice.
Someone who meets their eyes as they walk in the door.
A teacher who understands how to get vulnerable.
So with those gems in my secret Lululemon pants pocket, I discovered that a bad-ass yoga bio should include:
1) Flaws. Share one. Share two. For some it might be bad morning breath. For me, it was not recycling enough and way too much Nutella. Be fallible. It works.
2) Freak flags. I know someone with a dog named Kendall Jackson. And another pal of mine was the pinball machine champion of her high school. Me? I sometimes sing 80s television theme songs to my daughter at night.
3) A big belief. I knew it couldn’t be the Buddha. Or the chakras. But something that came from the backstairs of my heart. I am hopelessly in love with the power of a story to change a life. There, I said it. That’s one of mine.
4) Editing. Lots of it. Whatever I wrote, I cut it by a third. And then cut it again. And one more time. I’m just not that important. Damn it.
5) Minimal glamour. Even though it went against every little grain in my gluten-happy body, I knew that the more perfect I looked, the less yoga I looked. Think humility, spontaneity, contemplative.
I started there.
The rest fell fairly gracefully into place over time. .
I think even Brené Brown would agree.
Author: Andrea Enright
Editor: Travis May