I was supposed to be at a retreat this weekend—resting, realigning, returning to myself. Instead, I found myself staring up at the rafters of my yoga studio, heart pounding, breath short, watching a hawk circle high above me.
He wasn’t supposed to be there either.
It was Friday evening, just before one of the biggest classes we’ve ever hosted at 11Exhale—a live restorative yoga class with harp for the Spring Equinox. I had arrived early to set the energy, lay out props, and drop into stillness. But instead of the peace I anticipated, I was met with chaos: a wild bird of prey, trapped inside the sanctuary I’ve so carefully created.
Windows were opened. Voices lowered. People climbed ladders trying to coax him down. One even fell through the ceiling. My daughter, sister-in-law, and a few members were there, witnessing it all—caught in the tension between panic and presence. And still, the hawk remained.
We cleaned up. We placed the candles. We grounded ourselves. And somehow… we started the class on time.
The hawk didn’t leave. He simply perched high in the beams above the altar—and watched. He stayed the entire hour as Kim played her harp and I guided breath into the silence. His wings folded. His presence softened. The space shifted—from chaos to calm, from disruption to reverence. It was one of the most beautiful classes I’ve ever taught.
When the Messenger Comes
I first learned about animal messengers from my very first meditation teacher, Jen Lee. She taught me that animals often appear in moments of transformation—not as accidents, but as invitations. They arrive to reflect something back to us. To remind us of truths we’ve forgotten. To help us see what we’re not yet ready to face.
Hawks, are messengers of vision, clarity, and spiritual awakening. They fly higher than most, see farther than most. They’re known to appear when you are being called to rise—to take the long view, to trust what cannot be seen from the ground.
I didn’t feel very “spiritually awake” as I was calling animal control for the third time. Or when I cancelled Sunday’s class. Or when I cried from pure exhaustion, wondering if my community would be disappointed, if I was doing the right thing, if I was failing.
But the hawk wasn’t there to validate me.
He was there to humble me.
To remind me that I don’t control the sacred—I only create space for it.
The Lesson of Surrender
The hawk stayed through Saturday mornings class. He flew out once—then returned through a small opening above the door. It felt symbolic, almost intentional. His return shook me. I wanted a resolution, a timeline, an answer. Instead, I was handed the oldest spiritual practice I know: surrender.
I couldn’t control nature.
I couldn’t force a timeline.
I couldn’t protect everyone from the discomfort of the unknown.
And so I did the only thing I could: I surrendered.
I held space for the mystery.
I softened into the waiting.
I trusted that, just like in breathwork and savasana and life—release would come when it was time.
The Rescue
Late on Saturday, I connected with Maria from Project Wildlife after a desperate Facebook plea for help, who came to the studio with quiet confidence and deep care. She moved slowly. Intuitively. Respectfully. And when the time was right, she guided the hawk down safely—wrapping him gently, speaking softly, and taking him to be evaluated and cared for.
As the door closed behind them, I felt something shift in me.
Gratitude, yes.
But also reverence.
For the hawk.
For the mess.
For the mystery.
And for the reminder that surrender is not weakness—it’s wisdom.
What I Carry Now
I will never forget this weekend. Not just because of the chaos, but because of the clarity that followed.
I was reminded of what it means to hold space—not only when everything is flowing, but when everything is unknown. I was reminded that rest isn’t always easeful. That nature will always be the greatest teacher. That presence is not passive—it’s power.
And that sometimes, the hawk flies straight into your sanctuary—not to disrupt it, but to bless it.
To remind you of who you are.
To ask: Can you still hold space when the wild shows up uninvited?
My answer now is yes.
And my heart is full.
Thank you, Hawk.
Thank you, Jen Lee.
Thank you, life—for the lesson I didn’t ask for, but deeply needed.
