Finding Truth in Montana

When I first joined The Path to Joy (YTT) two years ago, I could never have imagined it would lead me here. Back in January, as I sat cross-legged on my living room floor crafting a vision board for the year ahead, I wrote one simple intention: Go to Montana. It was a whisper of a dream, with no clear reason why—just a pull, soft but certain.

Three months later, my mentor, Susan Smith, reached out with an invitation that felt like fate disguised as coincidence. She asked if I’d be interested in accompanying her on a retreat to learn the art of hosting one. When I asked where it would be, she said, “Helena, Montana.” My breath caught. Then, when I asked about the dates, she told me it would be the week of my twenty-sixth birthday. I remember smiling, that quiet knowing settling in my chest. I was meant to go.

The retreat was held at a place called Feathered Pipe Ranch, a sanctuary nestled among mountains and sky, celebrating its fiftieth year in loving service—another thread of divine alignment. We had the entire space to ourselves: a vast emerald lawn unfurling down to a still lake, a sunlit dining hall serving fresh, nourishing meals, a sauna and bathhouse, and a mountain top Stupa rising in silence, inviting stillness. Every corner hummed with something sacred and alive.

Before we left, Susan had told me what she loved most about retreats: the way students seem to unfold when they’re fully immersed in the rhythm of yoga—the way breath, movement, and silence weave together into transformation. I was eager to witness it. What I didn’t expect was that the same thing would happen within me. Though I had come to learn logistics and structure, I was reminded that teaching is never separate from living; the deepest lessons we share are the ones we embody first.

Each morning began in social silence, the world still hushed as we journaled our reflections. The air would warm with movement—sixty to ninety minutes of yoga, breath, and awakening. After a light breakfast, we’d slowly reenter conversation and dive into our coursework: philosophy, anatomy, introspection, and more practice. The days flowed like a mantra—study, breathe, reflect, rest, repeat.

Some might call it intense. I’d call it immersion—a complete surrender to the yogic way of being. By the third day, something subtle yet unmistakable began to shift. My body felt lighter, my thoughts clearer, and my heart—softened, open, listening. It was as though the stillness of the mountains had reached inside me, gently reminding me of what it means to return home to yourself.

It was on the third day—the day of my birthday—that everything began to shift.

I woke before dawn, the world still wrapped in shadow. I had promised myself that I’d begin the day with a cold plunge in the lake, a kind of baptism beneath the Montana sky. As I sat on the dock, the chill of the morning biting at my skin, I looked up at a sky scattered with stars—more than I’d ever seen back home on the East Coast. The silence was vast, almost unsettling, the kind that makes you acutely aware of your own heartbeat. For a moment, I hesitated. The water was dark and still. My mind began to race—I’d seen one too many horror movies to do this.

And then, as if to answer my doubt, a streak of light cut through the sky—a shooting star.

That was all I needed. I closed my eyes, made a wish, and leapt. The shock of the cold tore through me, then softened into a kind of clarity. The rest of the day unfolded like a dream. My class that morning flowed through me, not from me—as though something greater was moving through my words, guiding my breath, speaking to each student in their own silent way. A calm confidence settled into my being, and I felt, perhaps for the first time, the beginning of my own transformation.

Later that afternoon, after a gentle walk through the pines, I returned to find my roommate in distress. A family emergency had struck, and the air was suddenly heavy with panic. Without thinking, I ran to find Susan, breathless, asking her to come right away. When I returned, instinct took over. As the other students filed into the main hall, I ushered them outside to where the dining hall was—my body moving faster than thought, driven by an urgent need to protect.

I call this state “saving mode”—that primal reaction we enter when fear takes the wheel. The public calls it “fight or flight,” or more casually, “being triggered.” But for me, it’s something deeper: a compulsion to shield, to run, to make the chaos stop.

When Susan found me, I was already back to teaching, trying to hold the room together. She gently asked me to bring everyone back to the main hall and guided me through the next steps. Her calm was grounding. I followed, grateful to be steadied by her presence.

After class, everyone went for a reflection walk, and I went with Susan. The sun was beginning to set, the light turning gold through the trees. Susan asked softly, “Why did you take the students out of the hall?”

I told her I wanted to protect my roommate’s privacy—to keep everyone from finding out what was happening. She paused, letting the words settle, then gave me a look that said everything without needing to speak. I knew then what she saw: that my reaction hadn’t come from the present moment at all, but from an old, familiar wound. We call these samskara’s, a clouded perception that creates habitual patterns in our lives.

You see, I learned early in life that emotions were something to manage quietly. That vulnerability made people uncomfortable and it needed to be ‘dealt’ with alone. That it was better to hide pain than to show it. So when I saw someone else’s imminent pain, I did what I’d always done—I ran from it. Not away from her, but from what her pain stirred inside me.

In yoga, we call this Dvesa—aversion. The instinct to turn, run, or hide from what is uncomfortable.

When that realization landed, I felt the weight of embarrassment and shame wash over me. Thinking quietly to myself “ I know better.” And in true yogic fashion, Susan said gently, “You know what you have to do now, right?”

I sighed, kicking at a few pebbles on the path. “Yeah,” I said quietly.

Satya. Truth. One of the niyamas—yoga’s moral code. I had to own my truth and speak it aloud.

When we returned, I gathered the group and shared everything—the fear, the instinct, the wound that had surfaced. My voice trembled as I spoke, but I didn’t hold back. To my surprise, hands began to rise around the room. One by one, others shared their stories—moments when they, too, had hidden from their own emotions, when fear had led them to protect rather than feel. The air grew thick with honesty, and something in the room softened. Connection bloomed where shame had been.

A wave of warmth rushed through me—peace, gratitude, acceptance. In their eyes, I saw not judgment, but understanding.

There were so many beautiful moments on that retreat—moments of compassion, surrender, laughter, and light. But the greatest lesson I carried home was this: the teachings we offer as instructors are not born from perfection, but from the tender, ongoing work of our own healing. Our truth is the bridge.

Now, when I look back on that birthday morning, I remember the shooting star and the wish I whispered before I jumped into the lake:

I wish to release the fear that binds me and the past that holds me back. I’m ready to live my purpose in total surrender.

Susan’s words echo in my mind: “Be careful what you wish for. Your voice carries more power than you think.” I chuckle to myself thinking about it now. 

“In the beginning, there was the Word.
And the Word was God.”