Plant Medicine Flow Yoga

By | Workshops


Friday, October 19
@ SHPY-Dormont

Saturday, October 20


Join LA Finfinger for an evening of fiery vinyasa and relaxing meditative poses complemented by hands-on assists with essential oils and hand-crafted plant medicine salves. Participants will go home with a small-batch salve blended for their own use. You will leave feeling nourished and dreamy.

Note: To ensure the intimacy of the class and equal attention, class size will be limited to 15 participants at Peters and 20 students at Dormont.

Click here for more information and to register!

Gateway Lodge Retreat 2018

By | Retreats

NOVEMBER 9-11, 2018
w/ LA Finfinger, Holly Koenig, Jennifer Lee, Darcy Lyle & Stacey Vespaziani (including guest teachers Ali Popivchak & Casey West)

Join South Hills Power Yoga & Bloomfield Yoga for a weekend yoga retreat at the rejuvenating Gateway Lodge Resort & Spa. Located only 100 miles outside of Pittsburgh, this hidden getaway provides the perfect combination of natural beauty and luxury comfort. Whether you choose to stay in a suite with an in-room Jacuzzi or a cozy cabin, you’ll find the respite you’ve been seeking.

In between yoga classes, you can explore the breathtaking trails of Cook Forest, read a book by the fire in the Great Room, or enjoy an AVEDA spa treatment at the in-house Woods Spa.

Click here for more information!

Yoga and Plant Medicine Flow – Baltimore Yoga Workshop At SEYA

By | Workshops

Thursday September 27th 6-8pm. Join LA Finfinger and Seya Wellness in the HÁBITAT for our monthly yoga and plant medicine gathering! LA will lead a down-to-earth, fiery vinyasa yoga practice coupled with hands-on assists using essential oil blends and hand-crafted plant medicine salves.

The qualities of the oils and plant salves will be talked about throughout class as well as ways to incorporate them into your daily life. We will break through old habits to allow our inner radiance to shine. Participants will leave with a salve or oil blended for their own use at home. Come and connect with other people looking to live their best life.

You will leave feeling nourished, energized, and inspired.

Please note that this class is limited to 25 students so online reservations are recommended! Price $25 online or in studio and $30 at the door.

Click here for tickets and more information.

What the Water Gives Us – Baltimore Yoga Workshop at SEYA

By | Community Events, Workshops


Join LA Finfinger and SEYA Wellness for a summer yoga workshop focusing on the second chakra. This will be a water-focused flow combining both fiery vinyasa and nourishing restorative poses and will be held at HÁBITAT (our second floor event space). A special healing oil has been created and will be used for all assists during practice and participants will leave with a vial of it and all of the information on how to use it for self-massage following the event! We will provide refreshing coconut waters after practice. Participants will also walk away with free access to a meditation recorded ocean-side that they can access anytime from their mobile device. The price for this first event is $25 and we look forward to gathering with you soon!


Thu, July 19, 2018
7:00 PM – 9:00 PM EDT


HÁBITAT at SEYA Wellness
3301 Eastern Avenue
Baltimore, MD 21224

Click here for tickets and more info!

The Troll You Know

By | Writing

The other day I was talking to a friend. LIE! Okay fine, I was talking to my therapist because these days I have to pay someone that I do not ever need to interact with in a social setting to help me process life because 2017 has been a whole lot of things for a lot of us and most of those things have not been excellent! I was frustrated that I had made such little headway on my writing. I had the time, the ideas, and the discipline in other areas of my life but I was not where I had intended to be with my writing and if I had to answer one more well-intentioned but shame-inducing “How’s that book coming along?!” I was going to run into the nearest coffee shop and beg to be a barista again because at least then I could honestly claim to be a productive member of society.

We broke it all down. Was I afraid of success?
Hell no, I was not afraid to succeed in my writing. Bring on the book deal, the readers, the freedom to share my words, and how about a nice paycheck in there too!

Would I be happy if I wrote a book and no one read it?
I wouldn’t be happy but I would survive.

Was I afraid of online trolls? (By the way, she seemed certain that this was likely it.)
No, actually. I have written a great deal of things that are polarizing. The first thing I ever wrote and shared publicly after college was a snarky piece when I was brand new to teaching yoga that got a lot of negative attention and unfortunately with it, so did I.

She looked at me, giving me space to work it out aloud.

“It’s not the trolls I don’t know. It’s something like that though… It’s like the people I know…they’re not quite frenemies of mine, but they’re not intimate friends of mine either, it’s like they’re trolls but more personal. Ahh, it’s the trolls I do know! I’m afraid of the trolls I know!”

As the kids say, I was shook. (In my mind,one of the best things about aging is getting to say things like that. Hell, that shit isn’t a Mom or Dad joke, that’s just an old joke.) Anyway, I immediately knew that I truly was afraid of the trolls I know AND that I am one of those trolls. Or at least, I used to be. Let me explain.

For years, I was the go-to person if you wanted to share a screenshot of some annoying or embarrassing thing that someone in your social circle shared. Friends would fire off quick texts embedded with screengrabs followed by a string of emojis like 🙄😐

That person you claimed to be friends with who just shared another photo of her açaí bowl with ten hashtags? Text it to me. I’d answer back with a quickness. Who’s she kidding? Get over yourself, girl!

That yoga event that was overpriced and seemed exclusive and for cool kids only? You’d send it over to me and I’d reply even quicker That’s not yoga! Is that class any different than the one they teach every week? Why is it $35 more?!

I knew I had to look at why I was on the receiving end of so much of this. I wished it was because I was a safe person who people felt they could share their honest selves with. People would slide into my DMs with IG captures of events and snarks about other yogi’s posts. Let me be honest, I didn’t take the high road. I often snarked right back with them and it felt good for about 5 minutes. It felt like we were sharing something real. After the immediacy passed, I felt worse. I knew that I wasn’t someone that people could trust, just like I knew that the person who shared in on the snarking with me wasn’t someone who I could trust. It’s draining and petty and it definitely was saying more about us then about the people we were snarking on.

I was a troll! I was the troll you know. And I know that I’m not alone in this. We’re a nation of trolls. It permeates throughout our culture. It starts to seem normal to act like this. It doesn’t have to be the new normal.

I never actually held any malice towards the people I was secretly trolling. In most instances, I was annoyed or frustrated over a lack of communication about some other aspect of our relationship. Or I was jealous about opportunities that person had earned or frustrated with my own perceived shortcomings.

Once I realized that I was afraid of the trolls I know and that it was holding me back and once I recognized that I had been guilty of trolling people that I know, I had to figure it out. That meant that 2017 was a year of severing ties and tightening my social circle. It wasn’t easy. Or fun. The thing that I had to remind myself over and over again was that the people who shared in snarking with me weren’t the problem. They weren’t jerks. I wasn’t a jerk. The combination of us was the problem! The way that we communicated about others was the problem. If there was no genuine connection besides the trolling, than even though they seemed fun and I cared for them – we were a bad mix. End of story. We couldn’t continue to catalyze and encourage the other’s bad behavior.

To really live in a free zone to create and love, we cannot be afraid of the trolls that we know because there are far too many trolls that we don’t know. Once we get over the fear of the trolls we don’t know then it is time to do what I think is the even harder work of creating genuine relationships that don’t rely on putting other people down in order to thrive.

With sarcasm as my first dialect, this has not been an easy transition. It has been painful to let relationships that I thought were substantive melt when I realized that neither of us were getting anything long-lasting or positive in the deal. It has been lonely to realize that I often was feeding into drama without substance.

2017 has been a trying year. It remains a year that will test the strength of our convictions. I don’t want to waste one more second of snark on the small stuff because there are bigger battles to be fought here. I take strength from my friends who have done amazing things in this year despite its dumpster fire reputation. And when I catch myself about to snark to someone, I draft the text and let it sit. Later when I return to it, the message never feels so urgent. The need to take someone down in order to feel better has passed.

I welcome 2018 to be a year where I embrace reaching out to friends again sans snark. And listen, I get it, if I have been the troll you know who catalyzes your inner troll to get mean and you need to sever ties with me so that you can feel free to create and silence your inner troll, it’ll be painful, but it’ll be worth it for both of us. We may not be talking but I will be cheering you on. In time, the only emojis tied to your name in my mind will be ❤️☺️✌

Beers and Buddha Squats – I just don’t see the connection by LouAnn McBride

By | Writing

I have magical friends. Here’s just a sampling of what they have done in 2017 – sold everything and moved into an RV with their husband and 2 small children, had a fifth baby, wrote a play about not having a baby, moved to Asbury Park and re-started the career they had in their twenties, moved their family to a garlic farm to live and work.

See? Magical.

LouAnn McBride is one of those magical friends. She is a yoga teacher, creative Mama, garlic farmer, and a beautiful, loving soul. Please find her writing posted below as the first guest Creative I’ve ever been able to highlight here!

When Lou Lou was first teaching, I gave her feedback that said something to the effect of “You’re so moon and the stars! I love it but I want you to connect with everyday people. Make the guy who just got out of his shift and onto his yoga mat hear what you’re saying”.

Years and years later, she’s still “moon and the stars”. The only thing I’d change is that I wouldn’t tell her not to be. Please find her gorgeous, honest truth below.


I have experienced dark bouts of depression throughout my life and struggle with cluttering as an adult. I often feel as if I bear the depression and anxiety not only from my own journey on earth, but also that of my ancestors. It is times like these I distance myself from those around me, as I find it difficult to accurately articulate my feelings.

The darkness of depression is sometimes paralyzing for me. Other times however, this same sadness mysteriously ignites my creativity and I am grateful for it. When I feel this way, I could swear that I am being guided by an unseeable force. It is this force which has inspired my art, as well as a number of my classes and meditations. Many classes have been crafted upon needs that I had at a certain time. By teaching the class, I am also teaching myself. As I commonly express, it is mindfulness practices that have been a saving grace for me. Psychotherapy has also been extremely helpful as well, and I support the use of psychiatric medication. There is a place for it, and it helped me throughout my early 20s.

Counter to medication that may help our brain, frequent excessive alcohol use causes great harm. This is a scientific fact. It is because of this that I do not understand the newest trend to hit the American yoga scene. Is this not contradictory to what yoga stands for? When I approach a yoga studio and see a poster on the door for “Beers and Buddha Squats,” I just don’t see the connection. What message does this send to someone approaching a studio for the first time that may be suffering from alcohol addiction? Why are we, as teachers encouraging unhealthy behaviors within our classes? Yoga studios are supposed to be a safe haven in this wild world. Yoga practices open up the body and produce their own physical sensations and rewards. Why would we cloud yoga’s natural intoxicating experiences with alcohol? Alcoholism is a big problem and yoga should be part of the solution for those afflicted, not a souce of validation for harmful behavior. I rarely drink these days, it doesn’t serve my highest good and it took me years to come to this realization.

I wish to clarify, I am not here to bash drinking alcohol if it doesn’t present itself as a problem to you. Nor can I tell you how to teach or live your life. I am simply expressing that I have witnessed first-hand what addiction (a mental illness) has done to the people I love most. Something needed to be said.

It is indeed a strange time to be alive, yet I find beauty in the strangeness enveloping us. We are all discovering our own truths and speaking out. This breaks barriers and creates real connection. My first yoga teaching mentor and friend LA Finfinger courageously speaks out about the stigma on mental illness and has given me strength and a safe place to share a piece of my story.

I hope you find my sharing helpful.

Click here for more information about LouAnn McBride

Note To Self: Don’t Seem Crazy

By | Writing

The receptionist opens the glass partition and greets me. “I see you already have your water” she points to the Evian bottle I have brought into the office. I thank her for asking and we begin the typical small talk that I’d rather avoid but is necessary. “I just love the fall, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah, it’s wonderful. My favorite time of year, for sure.”

“How was your trip in? Did you come just for this?”

I always feel stupid when she asks that question. No Barbara, I just love driving almost 250 miles west every three months for the hell of it. Maybe I can put more miles on our Ford Focus which still has wind-up windows! Maybe Roy Rogers will be open on the turnpike and I can get a few greasy chicken legs for the drive. Of course, I have come in just for this.

• • •

I have been lucky that I have been mostly stable after finding this doctor 17 years ago after bouts with immobilizing Depression, Anxiety, and mood disorders swallowed my life from 18-21. I mention that I have come in for my 20th high school reunion as well, which happened to fall on the same weekend as my pre-planned visit. It seems that I have met the quota of small talk and the conversation winds down as I take my seat in the waiting room.

Every piece of the mental health puzzle feels like a strategic move. When my husband and I relocated east for his job three years ago, the biggest question for me was will I be able to continue seeing the same doctor? It’s not because ObamaCare has made it easier (although as I type this thankfully pre-existing conditions are still covered because of it). The future of “TrumpCare” (man I hate typing that) remains to be seen. I pay $150 out of pocket for each visit because the doctor who saved my life happens to be out of network. But really, $600 plus travel expenses is a small price to pay for getting my life back.

So there is the balance of making and keeping my appointments. On this particular visit, I am not worried. I feel put together. I look as pulled together as I can. My hair is colored an acceptable blonde shade. I’m dressed modestly and my tattoos are mostly covered. But about a year ago when Joico started making all of those fashion hair colors so accessible, I walked in with fire engine red hair and worried that I might look too much like that kid that shot the movie theatre up in Colorado a few years ago. Does that raise red flags? Will my doctor write those things down? I have no idea if he wrote that in my file but I think it’s a possibility.

I taught yoga for the last eight years full-time. It was my front hustle. It was amazing to me that I was good at it. Before the age of thirty I didn’t realize that I had an athletic bone or non-medicated nerve in my body. It turned out that my ever-present anxiety helped me to connect with my students. It certainly fueled my ability to continually show up prepared to teach and I was able to speak to the frenetic pace of life that was the reason so many people seek out their yoga mats because that “sometimes-present-for-them-anxiety” was my baseline. There is always a buzz of anxiety just below the skin for me and I have learned to live right above that line.

Teaching yoga brought new challenges in staying the course for my own mental health. Have you ever told a roomful of long-haired, boho yoga goddesses who you swear are the models from the Free People app that not only do you not eschew caffeine, meat, and gluten, but that you also mostly practice power yoga AND take the “oh-so-not-cool” western meds that you are prescribed by the patriarchy? Yeah, me neither.

Yoga is kind of a dangerous thing for someone with obsessive, hypo-manic tendencies to get swept up in. I have been gifted beautiful little bottles of “aura cleaner”. I have been “cleansed” with an eagle’s feather by a shaman before entering a sweat lodge. I’ve had my chakras “cleansed and aligned”. (Evidently, a lot of cleansing is necessary.) That shit gets in your head. One second you are certain which thoughts you have that are absurd and the next second you’re talking to a highly successful life coach about the validity of making yourself well with sacred seed sounds and about how wearing the color red will help you to feel more grounded. Logic goes right out the window.

The crushing Depressions that follow the hypo-manic episodes are worth it. I always thought that and I still do. They are rare these days but every few years, even with carefully managed care, they still happen. How else can you feel when every cell of your body is on fire with the glow of energy and you are certain that every thought you are thinking is not only brilliant but also transcendent and you haven’t ingested one drop of anything illicit? Actually not even food, come to think of it, because you just haven’t had a moment to even become hungry… well come on, people pay to get this high. People live their entire life not knowing what that feels like and I just get to dwell there because the chemicals in my brain aren’t configured the same as yours.

• • •

I lean back in a textured sofa that hits me in the middle of my back and sit up a little taller. My psychiatrist, an older man who has become a little hard of hearing over the years, and who has been seeing me since I was 21 has opened my file and is going down the typical list of questions which he asks me every three months.

“Any headaches, blurred vision?”
“Sexual dysfunction?”
“Thoughts of harming yourself or others?”
“Constipation, diarrhea, upset stomach?”

I answer him “No, no, no, of course not, no, nope”. We chat some more and I leave with three months’ worth of prescriptions, an appointment in December, and a growing dread for my 20th high school reunion. In my need to fill the quiet while he writes the scripts, I made small talk about getting older and ask about reunions. My psychiatrist goes to his “every five years” and “has a wonderful time!” “Someone always brings a 1957 Chevy and parks it outside the gymnasium.” Apparently, he’s become friends with a classmate of his who was an “attractive lady who used to model for Kaufmann’s department store.” Jesus Christ, I can’t get out of here fast enough.

• • •

It’s a rare day in Baltimore in September. There’s almost no humidity, a breeze in the air, and the sun is shining. I’m going out for a walk and decide to stop and look at fall things I don’t need and drop my new prescriptions off. I’m standing at the counter when a pharmacy tech comes over and I hand her my prescriptions. She looks at the screen and she looks me up and down twice, so quickly that I could have missed it, but I don’t. “I need to talk to the pharmacist. I’ll be right back.”

I nod and try to keep my composure. I’ve let my guard down. I walked over in a tank top and leggings. I pull at the straps of my tank and realize that my chest piece and sleeves are showing. I haven’t taken the usual precautions to throw a jacket over my outfit. She thinks I look slutty and manic and crazy.

She whispers to the pharmacist and I try to play it so cool. He looks over at me and continues to watch while she whispers. My heart is beating fast and I have to remind myself that I’m not actually doing anything illicit. There is no joy and certainly no power in handing over prescriptions for a benzodiazepine and a mood stabilizer. I try not to fidget while the pharmacist strides over.

He doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t smile. He has spiky hair and wears a silver crucifix around his neck. Without looking up, he asks “When is the last time that you saw your doctor?”

“Last Thursday. The date is on the prescription. Is there a problem?”

“You know this is an out of state prescription.”

My head spins. Of course, I know that. This has never been a problem. He has my prescription card. Doesn’t my husband’s job give me validity? In my head, I know I’m leaning on my privilege but I don’t know what else to do. Mental illness is embarrassing. It’s still stigmatized. He thinks I’m crazy. He doesn’t want to give medicine to my tattooed, dirtbag ass. What the hell am I going to do?

“Yes, my psychiatrist is in Pennsylvania and we have lived in Maryland for 3 years. I have never had a problem. Is there a problem now?”

“No, it’s just that we can lose our licenses. We can be audited…” He sighs.

“You can be audited for filling a legit prescription for a patient? I don’t understand. My lifelong psychiatrist lives in another state. What would you have me do?”

The pharmacy is next to a Pizza Hut Express. I can smell the cheese and bread continuing to cook underneath the heat lamps. A line of my neighbors has formed behind me. I don’t recognize anyone but I’m also not making eye contact with any of them, either.

I’m using every yoga technique I know. Full ujjayi breathing in and out through my nose, feel the discomfort and sit with it, don’t run away. This medicine helps keep me stable. This medicine combined with my yoga practice and my writing is part of my wellness plan. The boho goddesses would call me dependent. They’d think I was weak for relying on the patriarchy. Maybe I am.

“No, it’s like, fine I guess. I can make a note that you’re a special case and I can fill it for you.”

“Special case? How am I a special case? But what about next month and the month after that? What was the red flag? If I would’ve come in here in a suit would you have asked me all of this? Why would I feel comfortable coming in here anymore? I feel shamed by you in my neighborhood store, in front of all of the techs, and the people behind me in line. I’m sure you can imagine that bringing prescriptions in for medication for mental illness is already uncomfortable. This visit has validated every one of my worst fears. Couldn’t you have just called my doctor if there was a question?”

“Ma’am, I didn’t want it to get that far, I guess.”

“That far?! That’s what he’s there for! I’d welcome you to call him!”

You know that stereotype about the manic-pixie dream girls? Like most characters Drew Barrymore played in the late nineties? Like most characters Angelina Jolie played in the late nineties? I’ve never been those girls. I don’t convince people to do things because I’m so whimsical and fun crazy. I’m not the sexy and fun kind of crazy. I’m the “it’s in my genes, obsess all night about the dead bodies in a plane crash a mile from my house when I was a kid, paralyzed with fear so I’ll just hang out in last night’s pajamas all day kind of crazy.” If I was the sexy kind of crazy then I would just swagger and flirt my way through this whole ordeal.

“I don’t think you understand. Now that we’ve cleared this up, I’m willing to fill these.”

“You’re willing to fill these? Do you police prescriptions or provide care? I just don’t understand what the red flag was. Was it because they’re out of state or because of what I look like, or what?”

“No, of course not. Not technically. It’s just… It’s just, we have to be careful about how often and who we fill these prescription for, you know? Our licenses…”

He won’t give me his last name. I’m left with his first name and last initial. In my hot embarrassment, I look around for the typical school day photos of the pharmacists mounted on the walls of the pharmacy and I don’t see any. While glancing up from the screen with all of my private information on it, he tells me that he doesn’t have to give me any identifying information. He hands me a business card with a number that reaches the phone behind him and tells me to call tomorrow to talk to his supervisor. I take my prescriptions back and walk back out into the sun. You know, truthfully, the high school reunion wasn’t that bad. I don’t know that I’d ever go to another but I’d advise anyone to at least go to one and make an appearance. It’s cathartic and silly and a little like visiting yourself 20 years ago.

It’s not even about me. It’s not about this shaming experience that was ultimately embarrassing and resolvable. It’s about the culture around all of the conversations that we’re still not having surrounding mental health care. I’m lucky, I have a support system in place, and I’ve become strong enough to know that I can leave a situation like that, find a different pharmacist, and then follow up to advocate on my behalf. Many people receiving treatment for a mental health issue do not have the luxury of living in that space. It’s up to those of us who can speak clearly and loudly of our own experiences to share our stories and to let people in positions of power know that their power does not come unchecked. We begin to advocate for those without a voice when we stand for ourselves.

And listen, I don’t want to be the woman who’s always writing about mental illness. I’ve got stories about teaching yoga at noon on a Tuesday to a man in a yellow thong, I watched a pretty well-known yoga teacher have a meltdown when a coffee shop was out of almond milk, and you wouldn’t believe the passive aggressive bullshit that people believe they can get away with when they end an email with “Namaste” but those stories are put on hold when I turn into the ”may I speak to your supervisor” woman, I want a full-gluten, cow-cheese covered pizza, and I’m out of anxiety medicine.