aumiri | yoga Self-Realization Through Yoga

miriam seo

Join me on the mat — and meet yourself there.

Hari Om, I am Miri!I started yoga, as many of us, on an on and off, on and off basis – until it turned on for good. I remember my first class thinking: What is this?… Six years of teaching later, I still ask myself the same question. As a seeker rather than a believer, my aim is to create a room for us to seek together and explore the What-is-this‘s and Who-am-I‘s of life.I teach from experience, not perfection. With over 800 hours of training in Hatha, Vinyasa, Ashtanga, and Prenatal Yoga from teachers in Rishikesh, my approach has become more intuitive over time. I believe in authentic movement, emotional depth, and the wisdom your body already holds.
My focus lies especially in pre- and postnatal yoga, teacher support circles, and yogic philosophy. But more than that— my aim is for you to recognize the teacher within you.

• my offerings

From My Heart To Your Inbox

(sm)all things

I send occasional letters with upcoming classes, workshops, reflections, and little things to inspire your practice — gentle reminders to come back to yourself.
You can unsubscribe anytime, but I hope you’ll stay.

• Instagram
• Email
• WhatsApp
• Spotify

Hope to See You Again, Sometime

Hope to See You Again Anytime, Anywhere

thank you

Thank you for taking the time to visit my page. I truly love what I do — but it wouldn’t mean anything without the people I get to share it with. Your presence makes it all possible. Thank you, from my heart.

• return to home

who we are

a reflection

These are simply thoughts from my experience they don’t have to be true for you.

... that we're all the same.
and for some we're angel and for others we're hell.
that our fights are the same and that we can interchange the roles so easily throughout life.
that death comes in small portions.
that life comes in small portions too.
that loneliness kills.
that we need each other.
that we're deprived of love.
that we don't always understand nor recognize love.
that love has an expiry date.
and that it really doesn't.
that pain separates us.
but that really, it connects us... more than anything.
that pain is glue.
me and you.

We often begin by knowing ourselves only in relation to others (you might have heard the saying "I know me only in terms of you.") Our earliest sense of identity is shaped by how others see us — their reactions, expectations, and perceptions. We learn who we are through the mirror of their gaze. This mirrored self isn’t wrong; it’s just... unaware.Eventually, we start to notice how much of who we are depends on who we're around. We shift, adapt, perform. For some of us — especially those who’ve learned to please or survive — this realization can be startling. We see how easily we lose ourselves in others. What we thought was “me” was often just a reflection.This realization can lead to a kind of crisis. If I am always changing — if who I am shifts depending on the context — then is there really a solid “me” at all? The illusion of a fixed identity starts to dissolve. It can feel like standing in the void. Like loss. But in truth, it’s the beginning of something deeper — a shedding, not a disappearance. It is what gives us momentum.Because from here, we begin to watch ourselves more carefully. Not necessarily with judgment, but with curiosity. Is this thought mine? Is this desire true? Is this action an expression of who I am — or a reaction to someone else? We long for integrity — for a kind of internal alignment. But that can only emerge when we begin to orient inward, rather than constantly referencing the world outside.Slowly, we return to solitude — not as isolation, but as nourishment. We notice what feels good when no one’s watching. What brings joy, what feels natural, what makes us feel real. We start choosing not based on what’s “right,” but based on what’s true. For us. A nervous system that was once wired to scan for approval starts to rest. We begin to trust our own signals. Signals that are very dynamic, that change, that know to transform.Eventually, we stop trying to sculpt a fixed self and begin to see ourselves as fluid — as a container that holds changing content. The self is no longer a rigid identity to defend, but a spaciousness that can hold all of our experience: our contradictions, our growth, our pain, our joy. What matters isn’t whether we fit a definition. What matters is that we are present — that we can feel, respond, love, and choose.I am the container within which everything changes.
We remain fully involved with its content, fully present, fully there. But it doesn't define our container anymore.On an endnote, I would like to add that, like on every path, there are "loopholes" here, too (I don't like this word, but I can't seem to find another one). We might try to get it “right” — to perfect our authenticity, to become the most healed version of ourselves. But integrity isn’t performance. It’s responsiveness. It’s staying in conversation with what’s alive in us now.We may also think that once we’ve “found ourselves,” we’ve arrived. But healing isn’t linear. It spirals. We return to old lessons with new wisdom, revisit old pain with more compassion. Every "loop" is a deepening.And over time, we learn to be with others again — not to define ourselves through them, but to share presence with them. We are no longer dependent on others to feel real, but we are not separate either. We are not islands. We are vessels of being, meeting other vessels.This is not a roadmap. It’s not a ladder.
Sometimes I move through all of this in a week. Sometimes I forget everything I’ve written here. But then I remember. And the remembering feels like home.

What about you?What has your journey of self felt like lately?
If you feel called, I’d love to hear your story.Much Love,Miri

• send me a letter

• visit my website

bare feet

to feel is sweet | a walking meditation

I lost my shoes in Korea.
One pair — my sandals — vanished at the beach.
The other — old sneakers — walked me through 15km-days until they soaked through in a Seoul flood. I had to throw them away.I knew then: this wasn’t about shoes. It was about life.That trip became a mirror. It showed me how I’d been walking with things that had once served me — patterns, people, stories — but no longer did. They had carried me part of the way. But to keep walking, I needed to let them go.So I bought new shoes.Only to realize... I didn’t need any at all.
I have feet.
I have feet that carry me.
I don’t need to buy them. I just need to tend to them.
To trust them.
To feel them under me, step by step.

When was the last time you walked barefoot… not on marble floors or manicured lawns, but on living earth?

Lately, I’ve been walking barefoot in the forest. Simply to be. Just earth meeting skin. And I’ve remembered: presence lives in the soles.Shoes are a form of convenience, of brilliance. They protect us, support us, help us move faster and farther. But they also buffer us from the world. They keep it at arm’s length.
When we remove the shoe, we remove the insulation. The world, then, is no longer distant — it is intimate again. Every stone, every twig, every patch of moss becomes a point of contact, a conversation.
The moment you step wrong, your body corrects itself. Intelligence wakes up in your feet:
So we slow down, because we have to. We notice, because it hurts not to.This kind of walking isn’t about solving problems or thinking things through. I don’t head into the forest seeking answers. But somehow, the physical slowing down echoes elsewhere. Later in the day, or in the week, or in the choices I make... The body teaches something. And the mind eventually listens.Then comes silence, an inner quiet. In this silence, you begin to hear things that have always been there, but that you’ve been deaf to. The rustling of trees. The rhythm of your breath. The pulse of the forest... The presence of life.
And you begin to experience the forest as a living organism.
So, just like when we walk into someone else's home, we pause before each trail, and ask for permission: "May I enter?" And soon, we begin to hear answers.
With reverence, we step in.If you can make a little time, try to sit beside a tree and listen. You’ll feel it: One tree feels ancient, another playful, mischievous, another fierce. One is a soft grandmother, another a wild child. The forest speaks in a language we all remember. This is not fantasy. This is perception.
Meet it.
Not with shoes, not with noise, but with your bare feet, your bare heart... slowing down, in a world that never does.
This is a radical act.I don't mean to dismiss shoes. Shoes are born as children of the human genius. If the rain is coming, or if you must run — by all means, wear shoes. Move swiftly. When life gets stormy, when speed matters, use support.
We need protection. We need tools, people, and systems to help us go further, faster. There's nothing wrong with that. It’s just another phase of us human beings doing.
But let us not forget: we are not here only to run.When we remove the insulation and walk bare — slow, aware, alone — we begin to feel again. And in feeling, we start to see. How sweet it is to feel. The world opens. Our creativity returns. Our sensitivity sharpens. We shift from doing into being. And from that place, life feels full again.If we never take our shoes off... we will miss the texture of life.

گَرْدِشِ رہگزر
gardish-e-rahguzar
The Turning (or Revolving) of the Path

I’ll leave you with an invitation — a few questions to feel into, in your own time…What are your shoes right now?
Where are they helping you go faster, feel safer?
And when — and where — do you take them off?
Where do you let your feet breathe?
When do you feel the earth, the present, and your Self again?If you feel called, I’d love to hear your story.Much Love,Miri

• let's walk

• vISIT My Homepage

pentecost

to (for)give and (for)get | a holiday reflection

Pfingstrosen | Roses without thorns

In the book of Acts, it is said that the disciples of Jesus were gathered together in a house in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost. Still unsure and uncertain after the death and resurrection of their teacher, they did not yet know what to do, or where to go from here. And then something unexpected happened: a sound like a mighty wind filled the house. Tongues of fire appeared and rested on each of them, and they were filled with the Holy Spirit.Suddenly, they began to speak — in languages they had never learned. Out in the streets, people from many different lands and mother tongues could understand them. The miracle was not just that they spoke, but that they were understood.This day is often called the "birthday of the Church." But perhaps it is also something more: a symbol of that mysterious and holy moment when understanding becomes possible across all that divides us. A symbol that true connection happens when hearts are opened for understanding, compassion, and forgiveness.I speak many languages, and I still continue to learn more. The more I do, the more I realize: true understanding has nothing to do with spoken language. In a world of misunderstood souls, what we most deeply long for is to be understood — and to understand with the heart.That’s why Pentecost, for me, is a celebration of the inner willingness to see the other — to see the human being behind the actions. Even when those actions have hurt or confused us. Perhaps now is the right moment to pause and reflect:

One man was injured.
The other—strolled on, with the elegance of one untroubled by consequence.He did not recollect the moment. He bore no scar.
He forgot.
Not out of cruelty, mind you—but out of comfort.Yet there is a peculiar savagery in indifference, more polished, perhaps, but no less sharp.
To forget one’s transgression before it has been forgiven is a form of trespass not upon the body, but upon the soul.The wounded man carried it. Not flamboyantly. He wore his pain like a hidden jewel— something precious, but unbearably heavy.
Time passed, as it always does when we are trying to forget something by remembering it.And then, one day— without audience or applause— he let go.
He forgave.Not because he was begged. Not because he was noble.
But because fatigue has its own kind of wisdom.
He realised that the wound did not need a confession to close— only the decision to stop bleeding.Forgiveness, he learned,
was not a tribute offered to the guilty.
It was a liberation granted to oneself.So he forgave—utterly, deliberately,
with the grace of a man laying down a burden that was never quite his to begin with.
And in doing so, he found himself restored.But the one who had forgotten— he too gave something away.
Memory.
And with it, the silver thread that binds a man to his better self.
He received nothing. Not even the weight that might have sculpted his soul into something more refined.We speak of forgiveness as if it is an act of generosity.
And sometimes it is.
But more often— it is a quiet victory of the injured over the injury.Forgetting, though—that counterfeit mercy—is not a release, but an abdication.
And what we relinquish in forgetting is not the pain,
but the opportunity to become something finer than we were.

Is there someone whose actions I still carry with me — because I could never really understand them?
Is there a place in my heart that longs for peace, for soft release, for reconciliation?
Can I open myslef to the thought that forgiveness is not approval — but freedom?

Perhaps what happened at Pentecost was something not supernatural, but deeply human: the moment we see in another person and within ourselves something familiar, something sacred. Something worth understanding.I wish you a beautiful Pentecost —whether you celebrate it or not.Much Love,
Miriam

• Back Home