The Circus Within Me

How circus performers taught me to listen deeper, move with intention, and bring soul into every technique I use

I never imagined I’d find myself in the world of the circus.

Not as an artist, not as a performer—but as a healer, a listener, a curious soul who somehow found her place among people who do the extraordinary every day. I didn’t seek it out. I didn’t even know to dream of it. But it found me—and I said yes.

And that yes changed my life.

When I think back to the years I spent working with circus artists, what comes to mind first isn’t just the awe of their physicality—though they are some of the most gifted, dedicated athletes and performers I’ve ever known. What stays with me most is the human connection. The way a commitment to excellence, when rooted in creativity and care, becomes its own kind of language.

These artists don’t just move their bodies—they move people. They move emotions. They connect hearts. They bring joy, wonder, and aliveness into people’s lives every single day. And in the process, they welcomed me—fully, and without hesitation—into their world.

That kind of welcome... it changed me.
It opened something in my heart I’ll never close.

Being surrounded by people who live and breathe their art gently pulled me in. I found myself learning to move alongside the contortionists—mirroring their breath, their stillness, their bravery. There’s something deeply emotional in the way they move: precise, patient, and quietly defiant of what the body is “supposed” to do. They taught me that strength isn’t always big and loud. Sometimes it’s a slow unfolding—learning to trust your own limits enough to soften them.

I spent time with a fire knife artist whose movement felt like a prayer. He didn’t speak much about technique. He just showed me what it means to move with the rhythm of the world around you—to let energy pass through you instead of trying to control it. To become one with the music, the object, the air. It was less about performance, and more about harmony.

And then there was the singer.

She had a voice that didn’t just carry sound—it carried feeling. Her songs came from somewhere deeper than technique, deeper than training. Her voice had a weight to it, a texture—like truth. We practiced breath work together, her sitting with me in support of finding my voice. Her presence was steady, grounded. She taught me the value of using my breath and my voice as a source of power—not to perform or project, but to connect. To let something move through me and shift the space within.

These moments didn’t come from a lesson plan or a curriculum. They came from presence. Friendship. Curiosity. And they left a mark on me that still shapes how I move, breathe, and connect today.

I used to think excellence meant pushing, producing, always performing. But what I saw here was something else entirely. I saw excellence through the lens of presence. Through play. Through inspiration. Through the way an artist quietly shows up, day after day—not just for the show, but for the art. For the expression. For the soul.

It’s not just about skill.
It’s about care.

And through them, something in me shifted forever.
Because of these artists, I love more deeply.
I understand compassion more fully.
I trust my own humanity more than I ever have.

You don’t have to be in the performing arts to feel this.
The lesson lives beyond the stage.

What the circus gave me wasn’t a certification or a title—it was something far more lasting. A reminder that some of our deepest learning comes not from formal training, but from lived experience. From listening. From letting curiosity lead us into unfamiliar spaces and staying open to what they might teach us. These moments may not be listed as continuing education units, but they profoundly shaped how I connect, how I care, and how I meet others where they are.

They didn’t just enhance my work—they became part of it.

At Yamamoto Wellness, every technique I use is informed by this fuller lens—where skill is guided by soul, and healing is built on connection. The people I’ve worked with, the lessons I’ve carried, and the presence I’ve practiced are all woven into the care I offer today.

Because healing isn’t just something we do.
It’s something we live.