I have a little confession. As a yoga student, I too have definitely had teachers I absolutely loved…and teachers who weren’t “my style.”

Maybe their class moved differently than I was used to. Maybe the music wasn’t my thing. Maybe their personality was completely different from what I normally gravitate toward. Maybe I walked out thinking, Well…that wasn’t really my jam.

Despite this, fortunately I’ve NEVER left a yoga class without receiving something I needed or felt worse leaving than arriving.

Every August meant one thing for our entire family...the Adirondacks. I can still smell the fresh pine trees, hear the water lapping against the dock, feel the cool lake water on my skin, then warming up by the campfire with a steaming cup of Swiss Miss, the flames hypnotizing me.

And, of course, there was laughing with my sister and cousins until our stomachs hurt. We spent every waking moment adventuring and making memories together.

When I think about summer, a memory I have is sitting on my parent’s patio with my grandpa Pat, shelling peas into a bowl. Huge buckets of peas that were picked from the garden earlier that day. I likely ate as many as I dropped into the bowl. There was something about the snap of the pea pods opening, the vibrant color green, and the fresh raw taste I knew I would not experience again until the following summer.