What I Learned Recording My First Podcast

The messy art of learning out loud

Last week, I recorded my first-ever podcast.

It was for Going Pro Yoga, hosted by Michael—the beloved anatomy teacher on my 200-hour yoga training last year. When I reached out asking if I could be a guest, I didn't think too much about it. I just felt this internal tug—like maybe it was time to try something new. To throw myself into the fire a bit, even though I didn't feel ready.

The invitation was simple: come share your story.

But that statement—"share your story"—can be surprisingly complex when you're not used to speaking out loud. Not like that. Not recorded. Not with the awareness that people I deeply respect might actually listen.

I've always felt more comfortable writing than speaking. When I write, I get to spend time shaping what I'm trying to say. I have more control over the outcome. The perfectionist in me likes that.

But speaking off the cuff, live into a microphone, trying to be relatable and inspiring while also vulnerable and truthful—that's another skill entirely. I wasn't sure how much detail to give, how to structure what I was saying, or how to bridge the gap between my experience and someone else's listening. Was I just supposed to talk about myself and hope it comes off as relatable?

Still, I did my best. I showed up.

I tried to speak from the heart about what brought me to yoga, some of the choices I've made, and where I'm at now—offering whatever clarity I could.

But even as I was speaking, the self-judgments started rolling in.

I noticed myself repeating phrases. Using filler words like "you know" and "sort of." I sounded hesitant. Wandering. Compared to Michael—who was crisp and clear and confident—I started feeling small. Like I hadn't quite landed what I meant to say.

I was hyperaware that I didn't look relaxed, fidgeting in the chair, spinning side to side—that I was trying perhaps too hard to be open, vulnerable, and meaningful.

After the recording, I caught myself googling how to be a better storyteller. Watching charisma videos on YouTube. Telling myself it was all for "growth"—but knowing underneath, it stemmed from a feeling of "I'm not enough."

But what stayed with me most isn't the stumbling or self-consciousness. It's how easily I forgot the people who shaped me.

Like Erin, my neighbor when I started teaching yoga in Thailand—one of the most important people in my yoga journey. We spent countless hours talking through the chakras, dreaming up class themes, building sequences from the inside out. He didn’t just believe in me—he helped me believe in myself. His presence refined how I shared wisdom, deepened my understanding of energy exchange, and transformed how I related to others and the world.

And somehow, in all my trying to tell my story clearly, his name never came up. Not once.

It wasn't intentional, but it reveals something. I was performing my truth instead of just living it, and I lost track of who actually made it possible.

Erin, if you’re reading this—thank you. For showing up with open-hearted presence, whenever I needed it. For teaching me. For dreaming with me. You came into my life at exactly the right time, and you changed my course.

And maybe that's the heart of it. All of this—the stumbling, the comparing, the forgetting what matters most—it all comes from the same place. This raw, tender feeling of trying so hard to get it right that I lost track of the real point: that my journey, stumbles and all, might inspire someone else to bravely navigate their own.

Part of me is proud. I did something new. Something hard. I stepped out of my comfort zone and said yes to being seen.

And another part of me is frustrated that I didn't do it "better." That I didn't sound more like the teachers and authors I admire, the ones who tell stories with such groundedness and flow that I feel like they're speaking directly to my soul.

But here I am, catching myself comparing my first podcast episode to someone else’s life’s work. Trying to fast-track wisdom.

Still, I do want to grow. Not from shame—but from devotion—to the people I'm here to serve. I want to learn how to speak clearly so my stories can land where they're needed. I want to be able to say what I mean, and mean what I say. With color. With shape. With heart—because the clearer I become, the more I can help others find clarity too.

I want to get better at telling stories that begin with me but ripple out into the "we." That reflect something human, universal, real.

So maybe this is the beginning.

The awkward first rep—the one I’ll look back on someday and smile at. Not because it was perfect (far from it), but because it was brave.

Because I showed up.

Because I'm still learning how to speak—not just fluently, but honestly.

And if you've ever shared something vulnerable, only to feel like you didn't say it quite right, or forgot to thank someone who changed your life—I'm right there with you.

We're practicing.

We're learning.

And we're not alone.

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Thanks for reading! If this post resonated with you and you'd like to hear the full conversation, you can listen to my episode on the Going Pro Yoga podcast here!

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