The Book I’m Writing

and the Ghosts That Try to Stop Me

I’m writing a book. That sentence alone feels like a confession. Not because I’m ashamed of it, but because every time I say it, a chorus of doubts rises up to meet me.

Who do you think you are? You’re not a real writer. You don’t have anything new to say. No one will read it.

These voices aren’t new. They’ve been whispering for years, sometimes so quietly I mistake them for truth. But lately, I’ve started to recognize them for what they are: ghosts. Not the kind that haunt houses, but the kind that haunt ambition. The kind that show up when you dare to create something that didn’t exist before.

We call it imposter syndrome now. A tidy name for a messy feeling. It’s the fear that you’re a fraud, that your success is accidental, that any moment now someone will tap you on the shoulder and say, “Sorry, you don’t belong here.”

And here’s the twist: I never thought I had it. I thought imposter syndrome was for people who had already made it—who had something to lose. But I’m realizing it shows up long before the first draft is finished. It shows up when you open a blank page. When you tell someone you’re writing a book. When you dare to believe your story matters.

When I started this book almost 18 years ago, I thought it was going to be about yoga. Just yoga. The poses, the philosophy, the practice. But somewhere along the way, it started shifting. It started asking me harder questions. Not just what I do, but why. Why do I keep showing up on the mat? Why do I teach? Why do I care?

And that’s when things got personal.

As most of you know, I just taught two yoga retreats in Costa Rica. Every retreat is different, and I learn as much teaching them as my students do participating in them. This time was no different—but the lesson hit harder than usual. I realized that what I teach or say, and what someone hears, are often two very different things. Communication isn’t always a two-way street. There has to be just as much effort on the receiver’s part as on mine. And if I want someone to truly understand my intention, I have to find new ways to convey the message.

That was a “hit me over the head” moment. Because it’s not just about teaching yoga—it’s about writing this book. It’s about telling my story. It’s about being honest.

And honesty—real, unfiltered honesty—is the most vulnerable thing in the world. It’s not just about telling the truth. It’s about living it. About standing in it, even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when it exposes parts of you that you’d rather keep hidden.

Why is honesty so vulnerable? Because it strips away the armor. It invites people to see you—not the curated version, not the polished persona, but the raw, imperfect, evolving human underneath. And once you’re seen, you can’t hide. That’s terrifying. But it’s also liberating.

So I’m choosing to write through it. Not around it. Not in spite of it. Through it.

Because the truth is, the fear doesn’t mean I’m not a writer, not a good enough yoga teacher, or even a good enough yogi. It means I care. It means I’m stretching. It means I’m doing something that matters to me.

And maybe, just maybe, someone else will read it and feel a little less alone.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about ghosts. They seem to be chasing me—not in the horror movie sense, but in the quiet, persistent way that old fears and inherited stories tend to linger. They show up in my writing, in my teaching, in the moments when I’m most unsure of myself. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe being chased by ghosts just means I’m finally ready to face them.

So I’ll leave you with this:

🕯️ What ghosts are chasing you? 🕯️ What stories have you buried that are still shaping you? 🕯️ What truth have you been afraid to tell—even to yourself?

You don’t have to write a book to answer these questions. You just have to be willing to ask them. Sit with them. Breathe through them. And maybe, if you’re ready, share them.

Because the ghosts may visit—but they don’t get to move in. And your truth, your voice, your story—it’s not just valid. It’s vital.