My name is Erica, and I am a yoga pusher. I will stop at almost nothing to pursuade friends, co-workers, family members, coffee shop baristas, people I pass on the street—anyone who will listen to me—to do yoga. If they already do yoga, I'd like to convince them to do more, or at the very least engage in a conversation with them about the subtleties of breath and alignment.

It is usually not a problem for me when I'm mulling about San Francisco, doing San Francisco-like things (buying organic produce, honking for peace, etc.). I'm blessed to live in an area where the yoga pushers might even outnumber the conscientious (or not-so-conscientious) yoga objectors.

Believe it or not, it's unusual for people to look at me like I'm a complete nut.

This was not the case when I visited my childhood home in Tennessee last week. Even though I tried to hold back, I was reminded that there is another world outside of my happy little yoga bubble. The one yoga class I drive 35 miles to attend was in a beautiful space, had only four students. My 12-year-old niece did not approve of my vegetarian cooking (granted, I'm not the best cook in the world). The few non-family member encounters I had during my trip, I got the feeling my yoga discussions might not go over so well since I had to repeat "yoga" two or three times before they understood what I do for a living. Alas, whether I like it or not, some people will not be converted to my yogic point of view.

And that's OK . . . I guess. After all, yoga teaches acceptance, or at least tolerance. But it's still hard for me to find a balance between speaking my truth and forcing it on everyone, especially those people who aren't interested. That's why I wanted to become a yoga teacher in the first place. Now, those who are interested in learning can come to me and ask.