Before we get deep into vaginas (ha! pelvic floor jokes—yes, she’s got jokes), I want to start with a proper introduction. For anyone new here, and for my friends who’ve been asking where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing since the studio closed—this is for you. Over the next few months, I’ll be sharing personal reflections on how yoga therapy helped me, what it really is, and why integration matters. This work began for me in a place of confusion, not lack. I had more access than ever to women’s health education, research, and resources. What I was missing wasn’t information. It was how to live what I knew. How to integrate insight into my daily life, innovate my own wellness instead of outsourcing it, and create life rather than just manage symptoms. This story is where that began for me. My name is Jeanetta Bodie. I’m a pelvic health yoga therapist. I’ve been studying, teaching, and coaching women’s health for almost a decade. But more importantly, I’ve been examining my own life. I’ve been integrating what’s true, and doing the painful work of letting go of beliefs (and sometimes relationships) that I kept long past their expiration date. If you want more context, you can listen to the podcast Steph helped me record last week. It felt vulnerable and exciting to step into my voice in a new way. Over the past four years, I’ve been working on creating a new kind of community and coaching model. What most people don’t know is that it didn’t start as a business idea, but as a journal entry. Years before Iron Crane Yoga had a name, I was writing these words to myself. I wasn’t trying to start anything or build a vision, not realizing at the time that this is how a brand is actually formed. I was paying attention to how I wanted to show up when I walked into a room, how I wanted to leave it, and imagining how those words from my journal might give hope to someone else. When Iron Crane Yoga opened in September 2022, it wasn’t an accident or a reinvention. It was my way of seeing if those ideas could exist in real life. The studio became one of my most creative accomplishments. And for a time, it did exactly what I hoped it would do. There was community.Growth.Celebration.Self-awareness.Rest.Friendship.Challenge.Beauty.Leadership.Peace. Iron Crane Yoga was one of the most meaningful personal and professional accomplishments of my life. And it came at a very high cost. (More on business leadership later.) After two years of ownership, I finally had enough staff to take a vacation. We packed up our Sprinter van, that we named after Rebel Wilson’s Pitch Perfect character Fat Amy (#crushedit), and took off for the month of July. We had a loose direction and a desired outcome, but the van (and my husband’s incredible navigation and weather-vane skills) gives us the freedom to hold plans loosely. Most nights ended around a campfire, or inside a bug net if we were in Colorado, where it rains daily and breeds pterodactyl-sized mosquitoes. We’d talk about what we wanted to do the next day and what we loved about today. It took about two weeks of being out of studio-management mode, supported by really hard, fatiguing mountain biking, to exhaust my body enough to quiet my mind. That’s when some very real, very uncomfortable conversations with my husband began. Conversations about our family’s vision and hopes for our marriage. I love being married and I love having a teammate who reminds me through his words and actions that we are on the same team. Still, I used to get extremely emotionally activated when he challenged a decision or life choice that felt sacred to me. While I was wrestling with the studio’s place in our life, my instinct was always to do more or be better, believing that if I were enough, things would work and I wouldn’t be “failing.” It took many tear-filled conversations, and a willingness to stay present with a familiar tension, before I could finally hear the sadness he was holding for me. We talked about how hard I was working for an outcome I didn’t always have control over. We looked honestly at the extremely tight profit margins yoga studios operate under, and the cost of that effort. My health. My time. My energy. The revenue. The profit. I was finally able to see that the business model was broken, not me. I remember sitting on a mountain above Purgatory Bike Park, crying, and knowing it was safe to say out loud to the one person in the world who truly has my best interest at heart, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” The truth was terrifying. And it started a twelve-month journey to develop and execute an exit strategy. I explored everything. Could I sell it?Would it work without me?Was it valuable enough—or would I be handing someone else the same impossible situation?Could I turn it into a community-run nonprofit?Could I take one last swing and build a team to share the load? Ironically, the work kept growing. And the profit kept shrinking. At the same time, in January 2025, I started a second business with about as much clarity as a blind person climbing Everest. I had been working with Steph for four months, and it felt like two opposite planets colliding, forcefully and magnetically. She saw the world differently than I did. She had skills I didn’t. And I knew that whatever was coming next, I needed her. I grabbed on and refused to let go. (You can read our story or listen to it on our podcast.) I realized a reinvented version of Iron Crane Yoga wasn’t going to happen. The next monster I had to face was closing my business—ending the life of something deeply precious. Closing a business is as hard as opening one. Managing logistics while protecting my heart, and witnessing the grief of our members, nearly broke me. I think it actually did. I told the landlord in February that I wouldn’t be renewing the lease in September. I sent a prayer into the universe asking if I could be done by June, before our annual van trip in July. I had already been turned down when I offered to buy out my lease with money I didn’t have. On June 10, the day after my birthday, an email came through. Someone wanted the space as early as the end of June. As a penny-pinching sole entrepreneur, it felt like Willy Wonka handing me a golden ticket. For the next three weeks, I pushed hard. I tucked my emotions into a protective turtle shell and focused on logistics. Behind the scenes, I was trying to close Iron Crane with as much integrity as possible while also pushing to create something new inside Soma worthy of being loved. I was still performing out of fear and “enoughness.” I burned every candle in my body. I tried to be a good business partner, knowing I was the one benefiting most. I tried to protect the community from disappointment. I tried to look like I had my s**t together and not bother my husband. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, I wrecked my bike and broke a few ribs. I tried to make everyone happy at the cost of myself. A recurring theme in my life. On the last Friday in June, I came into the studio for my own quiet closing ritual. I forgave. I blessed. I expressed gratitude. Then I called a friend who owns a farm in Minnesota and understands hard work without a guaranteed harvest. I cried. I told her I just needed someone to witness the grief. I taught my last class like it was the greatest gift I could give. Then I set my mat in the back of the room and watched my mom teach the community’s last class, tears streaming shamelessly down my face. After 6 months of hibernation, I’m realizing the point of all this wasn’t the studio. It wasn’t the programs, the schedule, or the sign on the building. It was never about how long something lasted or how much it grew. The point was learning how to listen when life asks you to change shape. Learning how to let something meaningful end without turning it into a failure. Learning how to trust that what was created doesn’t disappear just because the doors close. It gets carried forward in people. In conversations. In bodies that learned how to feel again. In leadership that didn’t exist before. Iron Crane Yoga scattered seeds. Of faith. Of insight. Of courage. Of leadership. Those seeds don’t belong to me anymore. They live wherever someone learned to unify their head, their heart, and their body, and bring more truth into the spaces they enter. Closing the physical doors reminded me of something just as important. That I am one person. That one step at a time matters. That I don’t have to hold everything to keep something alive. What remains is the work I’ve always been practicing. Creating authentic invitations. Helping people meet what is sacred by coming back into their bodies and their lives with honesty. Letting what wants to grow, grow. And letting what needs to end, end cleanly. This is not the end of the story. It’s the integration of it. Until next time, Be loved.Be blessed.Be well. — Jeanetta Bodie This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit somamoonwellness.substack.com/subscribe