I moved to Los Angeles in 2001 with my boyfriend at the time, who was also a yoga teacher. We’d only been dating about six months and of course moving 3000 miles across the country together sounds romantic and fun at that point, albeit a little nuts. I don’t regret it, he’s still a friend, but because of a piece of cheese and some other issues it fell apart six months after we moved here. He went back to New York and in order for me to pay my rent, make the car payment and feed myself and my dog, I took over all his classes. Which, combined with my own, totaled twenty-seven classes a week.

I taught from West Hollywood to Redondo and was on the freeway all day long, stopping back at my place in Miracle Mile for some seated meditation, then racing my dog up to Runyon Canyon for a quick hike. Up at the crack of dawn for my own Ashtanga practice, and getting home from teaching between 9 and 11pm every night. I did that the first three years I was out here. It was a crazy pace, but I look back on that time with some nostalgia. It was lonely in a funny way, because I was surrounded by people in my classes all day long, having this very social, communicative experience before and after class, and going home to my dog. I was on a self-imposed dating hiatus, and was just starting to find my true friends out here. There were times I’d fight rush hour traffic to go teach at the place in Redondo that was paying me $30, and by the time I drove there and back it was a wash, but I loved that class. It was just an especially sweet and dedicated group of people, a little community unto itself. I felt the same way about my WeHo group, and Westwood. There were moments I wondered if all these people from all these places would drive an hour to see me, but those were fleeting thoughts during traffic jams.

Eventually, I was offered a chance to teach at the new location of a donation-based studio I adored, full-time. No more freeway, no more need for 27 classes a week, more time with my dog, and the possibility of some down time by the beach. But in order to do it, I’d have to wipe out my checking account, because it basically meant leasing the space from the studio, first and last month’s rent, administrative fees, and some other odds and ends. I’d managed to save a few thousand dollars by working my butt off and not spending more than I absolutely needed to get by. No one knew for sure this new studio would work, and of course, the only way you make money in the donation system is if your class is pretty full. I called a few trusted friends. Most said I’d be crazy to do it, but in my gut, there was a YES. So I wrote a check and left myself with $19 in my account. No savings, no back-up plan, no way to pay rent at the end of the month if it all went badly, nothing. Another studio called right at that moment and offered me 10 classes a week if I walked away from the donation place because it was in the same neighborhood. Because, y’know, having $19 to my name wasn’t enough of a test. I passed on that offer. I had enough dog food to last a month, and I kid you not, I ate peanut butter for three days. I quit every single place I’d been teaching, and gave everyone schedules for the new studio. For many of the people who’d been taking class with me the last three years, it meant an hour’s drive in traffic each way. So now my question would be answered. The first night I taught, 45 people showed up. Fifteen of them were my crew from Redondo. West Hollywood showed up. Miracle Mile. Century City. I don’t mind telling you I went in the back and let myself cry some tears of relief. And incredible gratitude.

Almost anytime in my life I’ve been scared sh&tless to do something, it’s a sign to me it needs to be done. I’m not talking about being reckless, mind you. I just don’t want to be owned by fear. I don’t want fear to be a reason I don’t move in the direction of that yes. That yes is all you’ve got. Without it, I think we’re all lost here. When I was thirteen I had a huge crush on my English teacher, Michael Trano. (Yes, that’s his real name, and Mr. Trano, if you’re out there, I think of you often and am so grateful for all your enthusiasm about my writing and all your insight about life. And also, I used to write “Ally Trano” all over all my notebooks.) Every year, we had to give a speech, and compete for the “Doris Post Speech Award.” The first year I went through this particular hell, it was in Mr. Trano’s class. I was the kid who shook when called on to read. Hands shaking, voice shaking. I can’t tell you why, I just didn’t enjoy that kind of attention. I guess fear of speaking in public is fairly common. When the day of the speech came, I could not do it. I got up in front of Mr. Trano and all my classmates, and I shook so hard I couldn’t read my notecards and eventually I simply couldn’t speak. I ended up in tears, ashamed and unable to pull it together. He let me give him that speech one-on-one after school.

Every year after that, through middle and high school I dreaded that f&cking Doris Post speech contest. Straight-A student, plenty of friends, done in by this simple task. I always picked boring topics, and I always shook, but managed to barely get through it, until the last year, which was my Junior year. I was in an advanced placement English class, and most of the other students were Senior boys. I loved my teacher, Jayne Connell (Ms. Connell, if you’re out there, I thank you, too. For all the support and all the love and all those laughs, and for the amazing works of literature you put in front of me). I gave a speech about why it’s funny when a bunch of guys hang out and one of them farts, but a group of girls do not high-five each other for the same feat. I WON the freaking Doris Post speech contest, the last year I was in High School, before I took off for college the following year. I had to give that speech to the entire school, scared out of my mind. Every teacher I’d ever had. Every friend. I’ll tell you the truth. I still have a huge fear of speaking in public. Not when I’m teaching yoga, I can talk all day long if people are busy in down dog, and it doesn’t matter how many people there are. But if those same people sit down and stare at me in folding chairs, we’re in different territory again.

A little over a year ago I was asked to give a TEDx talk. I felt that same horrendous fear come up, same thirteen year old kid. But I did that too, simply because I was scared to do it. Screw your fear. A couple of months ago I went on a date with someone I went out with once last year. One of the best dates of my life as far as true connection. I couldn’t fathom why he didn’t call me after, but a year later I got an email from him asking to go out again. Out we went, same amazing flow. So at the end of the night, I said, “I really think you’re awesome and would love to get to know you better. Annual dating isn’t really my thing.” We laughed, talked about further plans, and zilch. But it’s okay. I was scared to be honest like that, but I don’t regret it. Fear is a lousy reason to squish your yes. Facing your fear won’t always lead to a happy ending. But kicking your fear in the nuts and living with your heart wide open feels pretty awesome. Give it a shot if you haven’t, and let me know how it goes 😉

Ally Hamilton