Between Luxury and Simplicity: Lessons from Life as a Traveling Yogini

From the outside, my life once looked like the very definition of a dream. I spent years working with billionaires, flying on private jets, and moving in rarefied circles that few ever glimpse. My role was unusual: I wasn’t an advisor or a guest, but a Yogini—teaching meditation, yoga, and presence to men of extraordinary privilege and to the families and entourages that orbited them.

It was a world of contradictions. I guided people through breathing practices while standing on the decks of yachts, helped release tension before golf games on manicured courses, and taught mindfulness to those who owned more homes than they could possibly inhabit. My job was, quite simply, to bring grounding and calm to those who had everything except peace of mind.

The Glamour and the Mirage

The life of a traveling Yogini had its glamour. I saw the world, lived in villas that others only dream of renting for a week, and forged connections with people at the very top of global power structures. For a time, it was intoxicating—the beauty of the settings, the adventure of constant travel, the surreal proximity to wealth and influence.

But glamour is rarely the whole story. Beneath the shine, I often felt the weight of paradox. My task was to help people reduce the stress of unimaginable privilege: to soothe the exhaustion of abundance, the loneliness of command, or the pressure of having “more” always within reach but never enough to satisfy.

The Paradox of Wealth and Suffering

What struck me most was how little wealth insulated people from suffering. Yes, private jets remove the discomfort of airports, but they cannot remove the discomfort of anxiety. Villas can shelter the body, but not the mind. When I looked beyond the outward luxury, I often saw men and women struggling with the same doubts, fears, and restless searching as anyone else.

It was here that yoga revealed its true relevance. Yoga is not just about postures—it is about non-attachment, balance, and the inner freedom that no material possession can provide. In that context, my role was not simply to teach movement or breath, but to remind even the wealthiest that peace does not come from owning more, but from needing less.

Living Between Two Worlds

During those years, I felt myself suspended between two very different realities. One was the glittering world of privilege, where no desire was too large and no comfort too extravagant. The other was my own: a life rooted in simplicity, guided by the philosophy that everything is temporary and that true contentment lies within.

This tension became its own kind of practice. Could I hold space in environments dripping with excess while remaining centered in simplicity? Could I appreciate the beauty without being consumed by it? Could I serve without becoming entangled? Living between these worlds taught me balance in ways no asana ever could.

What Remains

When people ask about those years, I don’t think of the jets or the mansions first. I think of the deeper lesson: that wealth magnifies everything—both joy and suffering. And that no matter how much you have, the search for meaning remains universal.

For me, the greatest gift of that chapter wasn’t luxury, but perspective. It reaffirmed what yoga has always taught: true freedom is not in what you own, but in how you live, breathe, and meet each moment.

And so, while I once traveled the world with billionaires, today my compass points not toward luxury but toward presence. Because in the end, that is the only wealth that cannot be lost.