sometimes i forget, and yet i'll always remember...
Sometimes I forget the way I walked into my first spin class, the way grief weighed heavy on my chest, as I tried to find my way after loss. And yet, I always remember how the pedals began to turn, how with every push, the heaviness started to lift. I found solace in the rhythm, in the music, in the way my body moved.
Sometimes I forget that just 14 months earlier, my world had come crashing down. It was September 2014, and I was grieving, struggling to hold onto anything that could keep me afloat. I had lost so much, but somehow, I still managed to plan a wedding, graduate from college, move to a new town, and begin my career. I forget the depth of that pain sometimes, the weight of antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds pulling me through each day. And yet, I will always remember the love that held me—my husband’s steady support, the unconditional joy of our dogs, and the ground beneath my feet that reminded me life was still worth living.
Sometimes I forget the spark that came with an idea, a possibility of creating something new.
That first class wasn’t just about movement—it was about survival. The studio was called Alignment 8, and while I didn’t know it then, it was about to become my sanctuary. After that first class, I started teaching spin, stepping into a role that felt like a lifeline. For five months, I taught, moving with the music, feeling alive again in a way I hadn’t in so long. But when the owner announced they were selling the studio, a wild idea took hold of me. Sometimes I forget the uncertainty of that moment, the audacity of what I was considering. And yet, I will always remember the clarity of that yes.
I bought the studio from someone who was letting it go—a space slipping into silence—and I rose to an occasion I didn’t know I could. I didn’t come from money, but I offered what I had—the life insurance payout from my mother’s passing. A bitter blessing, and yet it was enough. The studio became mine in March 2015.
Sometimes I forget how daunting it was to become the owner of a business.
I hadn’t opened it from scratch, but I breathed life into it again. I took what was fading and made it bloom. I gave it purpose, and Alignment 8 became a place of belonging, a home for community, healing, and joy. It wasn’t just about fitness—it was about reclaiming aliveness, for myself and for others. I forget how much love and labor it took, the 4 a.m. wake-ups, the long nights, the weight of decisions. And yet, I will always remember the smiles after each class, the transformation I witnessed in others, and the strength I found in myself.
For five years, the studio thrived. Sometimes I forget the sheer magic of those years, the way the community gathered, laughed, and grew together. It wasn’t just a studio—it was a heartbeat, a collective effort built on love, resilience, and shared experiences. I forget the exhaustion, the countless challenges, but I will always remember the way it felt to know we had created something truly special.
Then, the pandemic came.
In 2020, everything changed. The world came to a halt, and I tried to hold on. I loaned out equipment, taught online classes, tried twice to reopen. But the reality of the world we were living in was too much. I sometimes forget the heartbreak of closing those doors, of having to let go of something I had poured my heart into for years. But I will always remember the love that carried me through, the community that showed up wherever we could—parks, churches, outdoor spaces—to keep the spirit of Alignment 8 alive.
These last few months, I’ve felt it again—the letting go. I’ve known it’s time to release this chapter fully, to make peace with what was and what will never be again. Sometimes I forget how much this studio meant to me, how deeply it was woven into my healing, my identity, my dreams. And yet, I will always remember that Alignment 8 was never just a business—it was a testament to resilience, to community, to the power of showing up even when the road is hard.
Sometimes I forget that letting go doesn’t mean failure—it’s a transition, a transformation.
I forget the pain of that decision, but I will always remember that the love we created there will never fade. Even though the studio is gone and the certainty it will not come again, the lessons, the joy, and the growth live on in me—and in everyone who was part of it.
Alignment 8 may no longer exist in its physical form, but it’s still alive in the stories we shared, the strength we built together, and the way it shaped me into who I am today.
And even though I’m saying goodbye to that mold, make, and model, the love, miracles, and magick remains… and I carry that forward with me as I step, leap, feel into whatever comes next.
Today, as this month comes to a close, I want to also close this decade of complete destiny finding me. I never went looking for this journey, yet it made sure and certain to be found. I am excited for whatever else awaits… and am thankful for your love, support, and connection in all that was within those 10 years. May we continue to keep our eyes and hearts wide open to all that is possible through love, alignment, and trusting the guidance that is deep and Divinely within us all…
please feel free to leave some love in the comments especially if Alignment 8 was apart of your journey. I am using this piece of work to finally make space for the grief that has been felt for awhile in the letting go of this business and identity. We never really were able to grieve what was lost, please know I am here with my heart wide open to all the ways this space showed up for you and you for it and all the feels that come with knowing it will be no more. and as always, I love you, I love you, I love you.
"Sometimes I forget that letting go doesn’t mean failure—it’s a transition, a transformation."
Love you. ❤️