There were many things I resisted when I first went to law school, although it ultimately put me on a fascinating and rewarding, if not altogether conventional, career path that supports women’s rights, development, and learning programs. Looking back, I even see the groundwork it laid in my decision to become a yoga teacher: I first heard, during a moot court practice (known for 1Ls’ manifestation of insecurity with either fully bared rhetorical fangs or complete meltdowns), that my “argument” was so calmly delivered that, to my surprise, I sounded like a yoga teacher. My first experience in a community activism project in sub-Saharan Africa made me recognize I had a few more of my mother’s “teacher genes” than I realized, and that I in fact had a passion for adult learning and empowerment methodologies. And when—still not quite knowing what to with myself after I graduated, but that I had no interest in working for a law firm—I found myself struggling to communicate and connect with a group of Berber artisans in the rural, High Atlas mountains of Morocco, I started practicing yoga with them, watching these incredibly strong women pull off amazing feats, and even greet me by telling me that they were “exercising” at home now and their bellies were getting smaller. There is no easy translation of “downward dog” into Tamazight, but I made do, and in the end learned more than I realized.

Of course I learned more than I realized in law school as well (and probably have forgotten twice as much!). One of my biggest points of resistance, particularly during my first year, was the “CRAC” model of legal writing: Conclusion, Rule, Analysis, Conclusion. Boring, choppy stuff. No drama. Yawn. You see, I love writing in circles, building up, diverting, keeping the reader guessing about what grand conclusion I am leading up to, while I continue to weave my tapestry of thoughts. That said, every now and then I come across an old college paper—usually something I thought was brilliant at the time—that 15+ years later and with a Harvard Law degree under my belt, I cannot begin to understand. (Never mind that I wrote it!) I still get feedback on my professional writing that I have a bizarre capacity for writing sentences that should, instead, be paragraphs, but which are nevertheless grammatically correct. And I think back to law school, and realize there was something to the idea of simplicity: if you make it too hard for people to read your work (or listen to you), then they won’t! Even those who are most motivated to hear what you have to share will become frustrated, perhaps even blame themselves, and pass over it superficially if not altogether give up.

When I began my formal yoga teacher training, despite years of experience in practice (and a body awareness bolstered by just as many years of formal dance training), I was a little distressed to discover that my experience in practice and facility with words in other contexts did not automatically merge into any capacity for clarity in my languaging as a teacher. Indeed, there were and continue to be days that I don’t feel like I am able to speak to my students any more clearly than I did when I was trying to teach in Tamazight (and, embarrassingly, I far too frequently forget the names of simple body parts even in English)! As I began to teach, I observed (usually with the best of humor) how wrong things can go if I don’t keep things simple and clear. Importantly, I have learned that what resonates for me as a student is also least likely to cause trouble when I teach: as we move through various sequences, I tell the class where I am taking them with each posture, and then tell them how to get there. So here I am using CRAC when I teach!

No matter how much we resist, life gives us the lessons we need, sometimes unexpected foundations for paths not yet contemplated… I am not a great lawyer, but I am constantly discovering the many ways in which law school taught me how to teach.