Backbends and Breaking Points - A Return to Maui After The Fires

Kapotasana - the asana that set my world on fire

Everything changed in a single breath. One second, I was arching into a deep, familiar backbend—my hands wrapped around my heels, my breath steady. The next, pain clamped down like a vice. My body collapsed. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. My mind raced: This can’t be happening. Not now.

A day earlier, I arrived on Maui, buzzing with anticipation. This was my seventh annual trip for Mysore on Maui with David Swenson and Shelley Washington—my sacred reset. Every year, I showed up exhausted from my full-time yoga teaching life in New York, and left feeling bright-eyed, restored, and whole again. Maui had become more than a destination. It felt like home. The people, like family.

But this year was different. I came carrying more than my suitcase. My lower back and right hip had been quietly protesting for years and I kept tuning it out. Still, the first practice felt like a homecoming. Nancy Gilgoff’s shala, the warm greetings, the sound of breath filling the room—it was everything I had been craving. I moved gently through Primary Series, cautious but capable. I felt good so I tested the waters of Second Series.

Kapotasana—an intense asana yet never problematic for me, was where everything unraveled.

The moment my back seized, all ambition shattered. The plans of progressing Advanced B, getting closer to completing the Ashtanga Yoga syllabus had to go.

David was at my side immediately, helping me move, grounding me with his calming presence.  Eventually I made it to standing, to the car, and back to where I was staying. My body was in shock and my nervous system would not stop buzzing.

The days that followed were all about protecting, not pushing. A chiropractic bodyworker kept me mobile enough for light movement, but my body twitched and spasmed in resistance. Sleep became elusive. I was scared and I was grieving.

A few days after the injury, I visited my teacher Nancy Gilgoff at her home. She had been battling cancer for a year and was now bedridden. I told her what happened. She looked at me with such clarity and said, “You were lucky to be in David’s hands.” I knew, even as we spoke, that it might be our last conversation. I was right. Nancy passed in March 2024—a profound loss for the Ashtanga community leaving a deep space left in my heart.

Even the island felt unsettled that year. Fierce winds whipped the beaches, making my usual oceanfront reading impossible. Looking back, it was as if everything around me—the elements, my body, the world—was warning me, urging me to slow down, to listen.

And then the flames came.

On August 8th, less than a week into my trip, the fires ignited. Uncontrollable, devastating, and deadly. Lahaina burned, lives lost, and homes reduced to ash. Everyone on the island was touched by grief. I wanted to leave immediately, but the airport was chaos with people sleeping on the floors, desperately trying to get out.

I was staying on the North Shore, far from Lahaina, and technically “safe” however, other nearby wildfires threatened that sense of safety. The air was thick with smoke, and I couldn’t breathe—physically or emotionally. I had panic attacks, nightmares, and insomnia. I imagined waking up engulfed in flames. The fear felt inescapable.

Yet I stayed on Maui until I was scheduled to leave.

I continued practicing yoga and felt a calling to help. Shelley and I volunteered at the Maui Humane Society, taking in donations for the organization that was helping care for animals who had fled the fires or been badly burned. It was one of the few bright spots—a moment of connection, compassion, and hope amid devastation.

When I finally boarded the plane home, I felt relief which was an emotion I had never associated with Maui before. The trip had left me physically injured, emotionally drained, and spiritually dead. Saying goodbye to Nancy, hurting myself, and surviving the fires was an immense weight.

So in August 2024, for the first time in years, I didn’t return to Maui. I needed distance. My back and hip still smoldering with pain, and the memories of that trip replayed on a loop. My nervous system hadn’t recovered.

Now, as I write this, I’m on a plane headed back. August 2025.

The truth is that at this moment  I’m not just burnt out. I’m charred. My body is more fragile than ever. My spirit, uncertain. While a part of me still longs for the magic, I know better than to expect it. The only thing I can count on is change.

Perhaps that’s the lesson. Maybe this journey isn’t about reclaiming what was, but facing what is.

Maybe this time, it's about showing up differently—more honest, more present, more willing to honor where I actually am. Maybe this time, I let go of needing Maui to save me.

In yogic traditions fire is symbolic. It burns through our illusions, our attachments, our conditioning—our samskaras. Tapas, the fire of discipline is about transformation. It scorches the surface so something deeper can emerge.

Maybe everything that went up in flames—my body, my expectations, my beliefs because it needed to — so the ground could clear and something new could grow.