There is something extraordinary about returning to a familiar tradition and discovering that it has been quietly waiting for you to see it differently.
One of the great privileges of teaching yoga is that I continue to be a student myself. Over the years, my work has gradually shifted from simply teaching classes to designing learning experiences. I direct 200- and 300-hour Yoga Teacher Trainings, mentor teachers, develop continuing education, lead workshops, and specialize in therapeutic private yoga for women recovering from breast cancer. Along the way, I have become increasingly fascinated not only by what we teach, but by how people learn.
Recently, my own teacher invited me to explore two ancient mantras associated with Tara and Maitreya. At first glance, it sounded like a simple research assignment. Instead, it became an invitation to revisit a conversation that had been quietly unfolding throughout my years of study.
Like many yoga teachers in the West, my education has been broad and deeply meaningful. I have studied philosophy, anatomy, pranayama, meditation, sequencing, subtle body practices, and the classical texts that continue to shape my understanding of yoga. Yet this assignment reminded me of something profoundly important.
Ancient traditions provide the philosophical foundations. Modern systems provide organized ways of studying and transmitting those traditions.
Much of contemporary yoga has been shaped by extraordinary modern teachers who developed thoughtful educational systems that continue to influence practitioners around the world. Those systems have given many of us a way into yoga’s vast philosophical landscape. Yet they are only one part of a conversation that has been unfolding across India for thousands of years.
Returning to the historical roots of these teachings is not about replacing one system with another. It is about widening the conversation. It is about becoming curious enough to ask where these practices came from, why they were preserved, and what generations of practitioners believed they were cultivating.
Throughout much of history, opportunities for women to hold formal religious, educational, and political authority were often limited in many societies. Yet within the contemplative traditions of India, some of the most enduring expressions of wisdom, compassion, creativity, and transformation were imagined through feminine archetypes.
Whether understood as goddesses, bodhisattvas, symbolic embodiments of human potential, or living qualities within ourselves, these figures invite us into a different understanding of leadership. One rooted not in domination or certainty, but in presence. Not in having all the answers, but in deep listening. Not in force, but in discernment. Not in perfection, but in compassion.
As someone who has spent years mentoring yoga teachers, I find myself returning to these qualities again and again. Technical competency matters. Understanding anatomy matters. Skillful sequencing matters. But over time, I have come to believe that one of the greatest responsibilities of teacher training is helping each teacher discover an authentic voice—one that is informed by tradition, refined through practice, and expressed through lived experience rather than imitation.
Perhaps that is one of the enduring gifts of these feminine archetypes. They remind us that wisdom is not something we acquire once and possess forever. It is something we continue to cultivate through humility, curiosity, relationship, and practice.
This series begins with Tara—not because I hope to convince anyone to chant a particular mantra, but because I hope to better understand why generations of practitioners preserved this particular doorway to compassion.
Together, we’ll explore these practices through four lenses:
- History: Where did this mantra emerge, and what was happening in India at the time?
- Tradition: What did practitioners understand they were cultivating through its repetition?
- Science: What do we know today about breath, attention, sound, and the nervous system—and what remains beyond our ability to measure?
- Practice: Finally, what might this mantra invite us to discover through our own direct experience?
Rather than asking you to believe what I believe, I’d rather invite you to ask what you believe.
Because perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts a teacher can offer—not certainty, but a thoughtful invitation to remain in conversation with a living tradition.
