Hello everyone! I’m Tomoko, and here’s my attempt at a short bio... I really tried!

I was born in Brazil, raised in Japan, and now call Vancouver, Canada, home. From a young age, I was always moving—Judo, Kendo, soccer, dance, basketball, and synchronized swimming. I even competed on a Junior Olympic synchronized swimming team. I loved being active, leading others, and helping friends. But in Japan’s collectivist culture, standing out wasn’t always welcome. I was curious, always asking “why,” and that made me different. In kindergarten and elementary school, my uniqueness often made me an outsider, leading to bullying. My mother was my only supporter—she never dismissed my thoughts just because I was a child. She respected my opinions, always asking what I thought instead of telling me what to do. Looking back, I realize how rare and beautiful that was.

It wasn’t just my curiosity that set me apart—I also looked different. I had curly, brownish hair, freckles (rare for Asians), and a noticeably rounder butt (lol). Kids often called me a pig because of my body shape or a weirdo and a monster because of my freckles and hair. But no matter what, my mother was always by my side. When I switched schools at nine, things improved. I made friends and finally had a peaceful time—until I turned eleven.

At eleven, wanting to be more like my academically gifted older brother, I decided to leave my mother and transfer to a strict dormitory school. I had no idea I was stepping into the hardest chapter of my life. The school had relentless rules: no phone, TV, games, snacks, long hair, or talking to students of the opposite gender. Our clothing was strictly limited to the school uniform. After 6 PM, we weren’t allowed outside, and sports were completely banned. We were isolated from everything. We did nothing—just study and pray. I went from constantly moving and laughing with my mother to absolute silence. The only physical activity allowed was a mandatory 5 AM walk. If I didn’t wake up, a teacher would come to my bed and stand there until I got up.

The pressure, loneliness, and sudden lifestyle shift became unbearable, and I turned my pain inward. I started controlling the only thing I could—my body. At first, I restricted food to cope. Then, I became obsessed. Losing weight gave me a false sense of accomplishment, and soon, my entire identity revolved around being thinner. People started noticing, telling me to eat, but the attention only fueled my desire to keep going. At one point, I was too weak to attend school. My mother pleaded with the school to let me return home, but they refused, saying, “We shouldn’t spoil her.” I desperately wanted to leave. I couldn’t survive there anymore. My mother, unwilling to take no for an answer, forcefully brought me home. But my battle had only just begun.

Even at home, the fear of food was deeply ingrained. I continued starving myself. To lose more weight, I joined my new junior high’s volleyball team, practicing five hours a day on an empty stomach. After eating, I’d secretly purge. My mother was working around the clock, often coming home late at night only to find me unconscious on the floor. She never told me at the time, but later, when I was in a better place, she admitted she cried every night on her way home, terrified she would find me dead. She took me to a clinic every morning for IV treatments for three months, sacrificing her own meals and rest just to keep me alive.

But it wasn’t enough. My weight dropped to 38 kg (84 lbs) at 158 cm (5'2"). The doctor told me he could no longer treat me—I needed to be hospitalized immediately, or I might not make it to the next day. I refused, but my body was shutting down. My period had stopped. My organs were failing. At the hospital, they gave me a test: if I could take one sip of Coca-Cola, I wouldn’t need to be admitted. I tried, but my body rejected it. I was hospitalized, hooked up to tubes, unable to walk.

Every single day, my mother visited me, always smiling, always reassuring me that everything would be okay. She never showed fear, never let me see her pain. She held me, laughed with me, and made me feel safe. Looking back, I can’t imagine how torturous it must have been for her to see her daughter like that.

I still resisted eating, but my desire to be with my mother was stronger. I started drinking nutritional supplements, which allowed me to go home. For months, I was in and out of the hospital, but each time, my mother’s presence pulled me back. Finally, when I regained enough strength to walk, I told her I wanted to move somewhere new, where no one knew me.

Without hesitation, my mother closed her beloved business to be with me, and we moved to Yamagata. Things seemed to be improving, but I was still purging. I could eat, but afterward, an overwhelming guilt and fear consumed me. The worst part was throwing up my mother’s meals. She worked tirelessly as a single parent, yet she always found time to cook for me. I loved her cooking. Knowing how much effort she put into each meal, only to waste it, filled me with unbearable guilt. I tried punishing myself in other ways—self-harm, suicide attempts—anything to silence the pain. But it didn’t stop. I hated myself. I wanted to disappear.

I somehow managed to graduate high school, though I was bullied again for being a “Tokyo snob” since I didn’t understand the local dialect. Many days, I ate lunch in the washroom. But I pushed through.

After high school, I became a professional dancer. Surprisingly, I was still able to dance, but the industry only worsened my body image struggles. In Japan, extreme thinness is glorified, and in the dance world, your body shape is everything. At eighteen, a male dancer casually commented, “Your arms are a bit bulky.” That single remark shattered me. I relapsed. Living alone, I had no reason to hide my disorder. Late at night, I’d binge on food I never allowed myself to eat, then purge everything.

To survive in Tokyo, I worked multiple jobs on top of dancing:

• 6 AM – 3 PM: Café job

• 5 PM – 9 PM: Dance practice

• 10 PM – 1 AM: Hotel job

• 1 AM – 5 AM: Midnight dance practice (yes, this is real in Japan)

I barely slept, crashing at internet cafés near work. The stress pushed me deeper into my eating disorder. Working in a hotel restaurant, I was bullied for being close to the male staff. Female coworkers splashed water on me almost every day. Also, I was so hungry that I ate customers’ leftovers while cleaning VIP rooms—food I could never afford in my dreams. I thought I was chasing my dream, but in reality, I was destroying myself.

One day in 2015, I suddenly couldn’t take it anymore. Walking through the neon chaos of Shibuya, I was consumed by overwhelming loneliness. The noise, the lights—everything blurred into nothingness. I felt myself inside slipping out and I broke down, crying for hours, and when I finally looked up, I was standing in front of my mother’s house.

She was surprised but welcomed me with a hug, no questions asked. That moment didn’t magically fix everything, but it reminded me I was still loved. I didn’t know what to do next, but I knew I am safe here and I can rest. However, now I am back to Japan, I had no goal or idea of what to do—until I found an old notebook from high school, where I had written subtitles for The Sound of Music and High School Musical. Those movies made me happy. And suddenly, a thought struck me: What if I studied abroad? It wasn’t a grand plan—just a last attempt to give life a last chance before giving up completely.

Honestly, at that time, I was not mentally ready to study abroad, I felt that time was passing by without me but I knew I can not go back anymore. The day I moved to Canada, I was filled with fear. I was not excited, I was scared and missed my mother again. However, I knew I could not give up again this time, I had to succeed. My English was not great, so when I started my language school, I studied from 6 am to 10 pm at school, asking my teacher to let me study at school, I had many tearful nights, stressed over adapting to a completely different culture. However, because of the amazing host family and great teachers and friends, step by step, I found my way and myself.

I was still purging even after moving to Canada, but since the washroom outside of the homestay house was so disgusting that I did not want to puke outside and at home, I did not want to worry my host family. I did still struggle and puke once in a while, but with the body positivity Canadian culture carries and warm support from my host father, I gradually found my way out of the excruciating vicious cycle. I was 26 ish when I started to notice that I was not obsessed with counting calories or food intake as much as before. For ten years, I lived in relentless, excruciating pain. Every moment of my life was consumed by anxiety and guilt, and I felt trapped in a body that refused to cooperate. It wasn’t just the physical agony—it was the frustration, the anxiety, and the hopelessness that came with it. No matter what I tried, nothing seemed to bring lasting relief. It was a decade of feeling disconnected from myself, of longing for ease but never finding it. It is a lifelong addiction to pursue a perfect body shape, so I can not say I have fully recovered and call this a past, but I found a way to live with it.

After nine months of language school, I began studying psychology at Langara College. I pushed myself so hard that I earned a place on the Dean's Honor Roll—but I wasn’t happy. When I received a 92, I cried, believing it wasn’t good enough. Despite my doubts, my GPA was high enough to transfer to the University of British Columbia (UBC), a school I had dreamed of attending for years. I couldn’t believe I had actually become a student there. After countless sleepless nights and tears, I finally made it.

Two years later, I graduated with a degree in psychology. I thought achieving this lifelong goal would make me feel confident, that it would finally prove I was good enough. But it didn’t. I felt… nothing. I had wanted to accomplish something great to make my bullies feel regret, to prove my worth to them. But of course, none of them even knew I had graduated from UBC—or even what UBC was, or where I had gone. I felt lost. After all that effort, I found myself asking: Why am I in Canada? Who am I? What do I want to do? Who do I want to be?

At the time, I worked as an administrator at the same language school I had once attended. Since my job required little movement and ended at 5 PM, I decided to start going to the gym afterward. That decision changed everything. I fell in love with intense workouts and the sense of accomplishment they gave me. The cultural shift in Canada also reshaped my mindset—here, strength in women was celebrated, not shamed. I saw strong women proudly embracing their defined muscles, and men finding it attractive rather than intimidating.

One instructor, in particular, stood out to me. She was small, Asian, and had a similar physique to mine—but she was incredibly strong. No one could keep up with her. There were many other female instructors, but her workouts were on another level. Inspired by her, I set my next goal: to become a fitness instructor in Canada. I studied, sent my resume everywhere, and did everything I could to break into the industry.

It wasn’t easy. I had no experience teaching in Canada, and as a small, non-native English speaker, I had to overcome countless barriers just to get a chance to audition. Many studio owners assumed I was too weak or that I could only teach yoga. Since most studios wanted instructors who could teach both yoga and fitness, I struggled even to get an interview. But then, one studio contacted me and offered me a regular fitness class—without even requiring an audition. I was shocked. It felt too good to be true, but I was overjoyed. I seized the opportunity to prove myself.

That studio is now my home. I have amazing regular clients who have been attending my classes since day one. I can’t express enough gratitude for their belief in me, for allowing me to be their instructor, and for giving me the space to learn and grow. One of the greatest treasures of being an instructor has been meeting them and building these connections.

At first, I only taught fitness because I didn’t have a yoga certification yet. Ironically, I didn’t even like yoga back then.

I started practicing yoga in 2018 after a back injury, but my first class frustrated me. People were just lying on their mats. The slow pace felt like torture for someone who thrived on adrenaline. Breathwork was suffocating. And while I respected yoga’s philosophy, I refused to fake a spiritual connection I didn’t truly understand. I found forced authenticity offensive—though I still don’t fully understand why I was that angry about it (lol). Even now, though I love yoga, I don’t say Namaste at the end of class—not out of disrespect, but because authenticity is at the core of my practice. Yoga has a deep, sacred history, shaped by many generations. I can’t pretend to embody all of that just because I’ve practiced asana and pranayama for a few years.

Still, despite not liking yoga at the time, I kept practicing and teaching, trying to find what made it enjoyable.

Everything changed when I met my yoga mentor in Japan.

During a visit home, my mother asked me to join her at the hot yoga studio she attended almost daily. I agreed without thinking much of it—I just wanted to spend time with her. Before we went, I asked, “Why do you enjoy yoga so much?”

She answered, “I can feel and experience my body changing. I love the process of going from ‘I can’t do this’ to ‘I can do this.’”

I didn’t really relate to that at the time, but I was happy for her and tagged along. I never imagined that class would change my life.

That’s when I met my mentor. She didn’t just teach me yoga poses—she taught me how to connect with myself. She helped me discover the meaning of finding your own yoga. Her classes were incredibly challenging, filled with sequences I never imagined I could do. But she did them all with a smile. She was outgoing, positive, and deeply inspiring. I wanted to be a better instructor because of her. Seeing how she had impacted my mother’s life also made me realize the power of this profession.

My mother and I took yoga classes together almost every day, but one lesson from my mentor has stayed with me:

"When we think about the past, we get stuck in regret—what we should have done, what we shouldn’t have done. And when we think about the future, we become consumed by anxiety about the unknown. What is the opposite of both? The present. If you feel lost, sit down. Ground yourself. If you feel anxious, focus on the now."

For the first time, these words truly resonated. I had heard similar advice before, but never had it sunk in so deeply. That was the moment I realized yoga isn’t just about movement—it’s about the mind-body connection, rooted in breath. This revelation changed my life, and now, I’m passionate about sharing it with others.

To me, yoga is kindness to yourself. It gives me space to make mistakes and to grow. I firmly believe that yoga doesn’t have to be an all-consuming spiritual practice—finding what yoga means to you is the most authentic way to practice. You don’t need to change your entire lifestyle or move to India to embrace traditional yoga. Instead, yoga can be a tool for self-love, patience, and living authentically.

Because I lost my prime—at least physically—to years of anorexia and bulimia, I now understand how precious it is to move, to breathe, to be here, and to share meaningful moments with loved ones. I do regret losing those ten years. So many times, I’ve thought about what could have been—maybe I could have been an Olympian, a dancer, or pursued the cheerleading career I loved as a child. But there’s no use dwelling on what’s already lost. Instead, I choose to use my experience to inspire others to appreciate what they have now—before they lose it.

For a decade, I was disconnected from myself, unaware of how valuable it is to truly be in your body and experience an authentic connection with yourself. That journey has made me deeply aware of how intertwined mental and physical health are.

I hesitated to share my past publicly, but if my story can inspire even one person to treasure their own body, their own life, then I believe that’s the best way to transform regret into something meaningful.

I hope to help you discover your version of yoga, to use it as a way to practice kindness toward yourself.

And when I’m not teaching or practicing yoga, you’ll probably find me kayaking, dancing, working out, or baking!