A few months ago I shared this story with my email subscribers. Since then, so many new people have joined this community that I wanted to share it here too.

This is the beginning of my relationship with movement -- long before yoga studios, barbells, fitness coaching or Strong AF Yoga.

This is where it all began.

The Sierra Nevadas

My love of movement was forged in the wild foothills of the Sierra Nevadas. The trees towered and mountains shot up into the bluest of skies.   Big rolling clouds would often gather in a summer’s afternoon and burst with rain, lightning and thunder, only to dissipate an hour later to a freshly washed land and those intense blue skies. It was wild and never still.  Growing up here, the love of movement came naturally. It meant freedom.  I spent my days in the woods building forts or looking for arrowheads in the stream beds, skiing down the snow-covered hills in the winter.

I grew up in a blue-collar family.  My father was a wild land firefighter, and my mother a mail carrier. Both my parents were avid skiers.  They worked so we could ski. Their work ethic was fierce, as was their love of being in the outdoors.

In the summer, when my dad wasn’t away on fires, we were out camping and hiking.  We would find remote places, secluded with no amenities, and set up camp.  Dad would bring his guitar and we’d sing old Beatles, and Crosby, Stills & Nash songs around the fire at night, swim in the lakes and go on nature hikes. This music became the soundtrack to movement.

Learning to Move

I wasn’t super sporty in the traditional sense, in fact I was and still am a bit uncoordinated. I did dance and the occasional school sport, but I was not considered an athlete as a kid.  I was shy — the idea of team sports was terrifying.  Letting people down because I wasn’t good was crippling. I was often considered a bit disengaged.  However, I had a rich internal world and I much preferred the quiet and solitude of skiing or playing out in the woods with my few close friends or even better, by myself.  As I grew confident in my skiing, I was quite happy to spend days on my own exploring the trees or racing past the tourists as fast as I could, unaware that we were in a race! I was quietly competitive underneath my shy exterior.

Around the time I turned 12, we left my precious Sierra Nevadas for Idaho, two hours north of Boise in a small isolated town called Cascade.  This small town was a culture shock. The town was nestled on the shores of a lake, so we bought a ski boat and every day during the warmer months we would go water-skiing, tubing or knee boarding.  I loved the feel of the water moving swiftly past me at high speeds and the exhilaration it would bring.  This activity would drown out the fact that I wasn’t fitting in well at school.  I felt alone and sad.  My heart yearned for the Sierras and I would close myself in my room for hours just listening to music.

Discovering Intensity

My parents were worried about me and encouraged me to join the track team.  I discovered I was a natural at running hurdles and loved the high jump, but it was the 400 meter leg of the medley relay that I LOVED.  I found the chase to be exhilarating.  The burn it created in my lungs was a fire that elated me. I loved that I could physically push my body to such limits in such a short time.  The absolute rush after I passed the finish line, crumbling to the ground, with my vision blurry. It was in this moment I discovered how moving with that intensity could have such a profound effect on how I felt.  Momentarily I felt so present in my body. I wasn’t going to be setting any records, but this unlocked something powerful in me.  To this day, I can recall the sensations that I felt after my first race, and it conjures the same thrill in me now as it did that day.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but this moment sparked something deep within me.  A catalyst for what movement would eventually come to mean: freedom and autonomy.

To be continued…

Read Part 2 →
(coming soon)

With you,

Ashley