Journey That Wrote Me

In the autumn of 2000, I climbed the stairs to a yoga shala on Eerikinkatu for the first time. I didn’t know it was the beginning of a story that would slowly rewrite me – again and again.

This is one attempt to put that journey into words.

It also serves as the first public entry on this new site. A backdrop to what I write – and why.

Back then, yoga was everywhere. The media painted it with exotic hues and idolized flexible bodies. People lined up for beginner courses.

After my own beginner course, I didn’t look back or slow down – for nearly fifteen years. Some called it discipline, others obsession. To me, it felt like a dreamlike calling I couldn’t refuse.

I stumbled and wondered at everything new, and one thing followed another:

The first lotus pose. I felt like a Jedi.
The first early (and traditional) morning practice, for which I fuelled up (non-traditionally) with Mars bars.
The first time in India, where (to my knowledge) I managed to avoid the usual rookie tourist scams – even in Delhi.
The first class I taught (far too early), after which I never saw either participant again. (If you happen to be reading this: my apologies. I've since become a gentler teacher.)

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My first trip to Mysore – the South Indian city where I practiced and studied for years – was long.
A predawn departure to London, half a day of waiting – and nearly 12 hours later, I was back at square one, flying over Helsinki.

That trip launched nearly a decade of visits. Just over ten years later, I returned – carrying with me a teaching authorization respected within the community.

I spent several years in India altogether. The country, the community, and the practice both enchanted and challenged me. That period softened me. Forced me to trust. I wrestled with egos – mostly my own.

India also offered a glimpse that shaped everything to come.

On the second-to-last day of my second trip, I experienced a quiet certainty – a whisper-like knowing that life would one day take me to teach in Copenhagen. As a thought, it seemed impossible. As an inner certainty – undeniable.

And again, things followed one another:

When the opportunity arose a few years later, almost effortlessly, it already felt familiar. My address changed to Copenhagen.
Four years later, on May Day, I opened my own yoga studio – on what might be the most beautiful street in Frederiksberg.
The silence of that space deepened over time – in a way that became more important than the practice itself.
Regular invitations to teach soon took me across Denmark and to places like South Africa, Thailand, Poland, Sweden, and Finland. At times, I found myself confusing visibility with meaning – and often hid a great deal under the cloak of spirituality.

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My practice faced its first shake-up soon after moving to Denmark. New teachers and the Kaivalyadhama tradition of pranayama (breathwork) opened a completely new world of inner stillness.

As if the three-dimensional had gained a transparent fourth – a stillness that wasn’t empty, but full. My practice shifted permanently.

Bit by bit, my experience – and with it, my teaching – began to drift from the techniques, doing, and traditions that had once felt central.
My years in Denmark were shaped by an inner shift, quietly moving away from what I still outwardly taught. Traditions and forms began to loosen – and as the old wore thin, something quieter took shape.
A sense of what it had all been pointing toward, all along.

Even the practices I had started with seemed, in the end, to have offered all they could. And maybe that was their gift – not to remain, but to dissolve.

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In early 2020, when the coronavirus closed yoga studios, a circle quietly closed – and my teaching in its previous form came to a pause. Looking back now, it was permanent.

Almost two years earlier, I had returned to Finland after more than a decade away.
Many of the things that had defined my identity as a teacher and practitioner began to quietly dissolve – replaced by experiences and perspectives that don’t explain, but dismantle, strip away, and empty out.

Stillpoint refers to a place where time seems to pause. A moment where rush, doing, striving, inner noise, borders, and opposites disappear. What remains is silence and clarity.

Stillpoint Zone offers a glimpse into that space. Not by seeking, but by forgetting what is unnecessary. Not through more knowledge, advice, or achievements – but through moments of stillness where peace, joy, and simplicity aren’t goals, but something we remember.

At its heart, this isn’t about happiness – but what happens when we stop asking how to reach it.

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Writing has been a quiet companion throughout this journey – and now it has become the way. It allows the message to take shape in ways speech often can’t. The written word doesn’t vanish into the air. It gives the reader space to pause and return – to the words, to the blank spaces between them, in their own rhythm.

A few things, perhaps worth knowing:

Stillpoint.zone is not a yoga site, nor a platform for teaching any philosophy or method.
Yoga – and in recent years, non-dualist perspectives – have shaped its foundation,
but now it’s more about what remains once all definitions and techniques fall silent.
This site doesn’t offer answers. It offers space for questions and open-ended experiences – ones that may ultimately carry deeper than any certain answer.
I’ve also worked as a journalist, photographer, and in various communications roles, and hold a Master’s degree in social sciences.
All of that has been part of this journey – part of a life where the outer and inner have moved side by side.
I’m a Star Trek fan.

Thank you for being part of a journey that doesn’t lead to a destination – but pauses exactly when you least expect it.