From hen house to yoga cabin
Over the past year, a lot has shifted behind the scenes in my work. Most noticeably, I’ve moved out of the studio I was renting and into a cabin I built in the garden.
Over the years, I’ve practiced and taught yoga in community centres, village halls, gyms and fitness studios. I’ve been dazzled by fluorescent lights, shivered through savasanas, and been completely overwhelmed by the smell of incense. As time has gone on, I’ve become more sensitive to my surroundings — or maybe I’m just less tolerant of the things that rattle my nerves. These days, I seek out spaces that soothe and settle my senses.
When I realised the little studio I rented wasn’t working out, I was at a loss for what to do. Then one morning in early spring, standing in the kitchen with a cup of tea, I looked out at the garden. The trees were waking up, tiny buds just beginning to open — and that’s when I saw it: the dumping ground at the bottom of the garden where we used to keep the chickens. I suddenly thought, I could build my own space — and make it just how I want it.
Like most of my “good” ideas, I got wildly excited and decided it had to happen immediately. I convinced myself (and the other half) that it was a brilliant idea, and that the investment would pay off in the long run.
We spent the rest of the spring and summer digging and building. One job led to another, as they always do, and then the end-of-lease deadline drama began. I was working to a beginning-of-September deadline… while my other half had confidently planned for the end of September. That tiny misunderstanding created a level of pressure we were absolutely not prepared for. And still, I refused to get any help — completely determined that we were going to finish the whole thing ourselves.
I loved the physical work — the hauling, digging, lifting and moving — putting all of my training into real-life practice. It left me feeling strong and capable. And when my back ached, I knew exactly what to do to make it feel better. I was amazed at how well my body responded to the loads, and I wondered whether it was simply my training or also my mindset. I treated every bend, crouch, reach, lift and carry as a movement session rather than a chore. It’s the same perspective shift I encourage in my clients, and it reminded me to follow my own advice, even when it felt easier to prioritise getting the job done over keeping good form.
All that effort — the literal blood, sweat and tears — made the finished space feel even more meaningful. Now, sitting in the cabin with the autumn light filtering through the windows, wondering where the heck the summer went, I feel a deep sense of satisfaction and gratitude. There’s still more to do in the garden; we ran out of good weather, light, energy and money. But come spring, we’ll begin again.
The cabin turned out just as I’d hoped.
My cabin reminds me that environment matters. A space that feels calm, supportive, and easy on the senses makes it so much easier to connect with your body and be present. You don’t need to build a cabin to create this kind of space — even a corner of a room can become your own movement sanctuary. I’ll share more ideas soon for creating a practical, supportive movement space at home.
