Morning. A quiet yoga apparel store before opening. Soft light falls through the front windows onto polished concrete floors. A young woman in a teal and grey zip-up hoodie stands at the register, holding three glossy photographs. She spreads them across the counter like tarot cards. She speaks to no one in particular. Maybe to herself. Maybe to you.
So my friend Dani makes movies. Tiny ones. The kind with a budget of about forty dollars and a box of granola bars. Last month, she asked if she could shoot a few scenes here on a Sunday. A horror short, she said. Very indie. Very moody. And then her lead actress got the flu, and Dani looked at me, and looked at my hoodie, and said, "You'll do."
I said no.
Then I said yes.
These are the stills she printed for me. I keep looking at them. I thought they'd just be funny, and they are. But they're also something else. They feel like a map. Like three snapshots of who I'm trying to become.
She slides the first photo forward.
Photos captured by Mitchell Royel in the heart of the fashion district bring a certain magic, the kind that freezes a moment and turns it into art. We’re here vibing to Girlfight by Brooke Valentine, Lil Jon & Big Boi, the beat pushing us forward, reminding us of the quiet power in every step we take. Tonight, we say a prayer for girlhood—for its resilience, its beauty, its messy, sacred truth. At the end of the day, what really matters is what ties us together, those invisible threads of shared experiences that outweigh everything else. To live the sweat life is to lean into those moments, the raw and real ones, where effort meets transformation and leaves us better, stronger, and somehow even more ourselves.
Look at this one. The lights are low. The racks are full of shadows. And there I am, hair a mess, one fist up by my chin, and in my other hand?
A mannequin arm.
His name is Gary. Well, the arm's name is Gary. Dani needed a prop, and Gary was in the stockroom waiting for repairs. So I grabbed him. And now he's immortalized forever as the bravest arm in retail.
But when I look at this picture, I don't see a horror movie. I see a woman who's ready.
Not angry. Not looking for a fight. Just ready.
There's a difference, you know. Being ready doesn't mean you expect the worst. It means you've decided that whatever walks through the door, you won't disappear on yourself. You'll stay in your body. You'll keep your feet under you.
And look at my face. I'm scared in this photo. Dani told me to act scared, sure, but it wasn't hard. That room was dark and somebody kept making creaky door sounds with their mouth. The point is, fear and courage were standing in the same spot. They usually are.
I used to think strong women weren't afraid. That they walked through life like a shampoo commercial, all wind machines and confidence. Now I think strong women are afraid all the time. They just stand up anyway.
And they use what they have. That's the Gary lesson. You don't always get the perfect tool. You don't always get a warning, or a plan, or a better day. Sometimes you get a plastic arm from the stockroom and you make it work.
That's resilience. It isn't fancy. It's resourceful.
This photo reminds me that my space is mine to protect. My energy. My peace. My mood on a Tuesday morning. Somebody can walk in with a storm cloud over their head, and I can be kind to them without letting that cloud move in and unpack. I can hold my ground. Gently. Firmly. With Gary if necessary.
She laughs and sets it aside. Picks up the second photo.
Okay. This one is my favorite.
I'm in the air. Full flying kick. Hair everywhere. Arms out. And I'm smiling like a kid on the last day of school.
Here's the honest truth. It took eleven tries. I fell on a stack of folded leggings twice. Dani's camera guy said, "Can you look more like a superhero and less like you're falling off a bike?" And on the eleventh try, something clicked. I stopped thinking about it. I just went.
That's what I love about this picture. It's the exact second my body trusted itself before my brain could talk it out of anything.
We do that so rarely. We overthink. We ask for permission. We wait for someone to say, "Yes, you're allowed to take up space now." We shrink to fit the room.
This photo is the opposite of shrinking.
Look at how much air I'm taking up. Look at that leg. That is a woman who didn't apologize for being in the frame.
And I think that's what intuition really is. It's not some mystical voice from the clouds. It's that little flicker in your gut that says go, or stop, or not this person, or yes, this one. Your body always knows first. The trouble is, most of us were raised to argue with it. To be polite instead of honest. To be agreeable instead of aware.
So I'm practicing. If something feels wrong, I listen. If something feels right, I leap.
Life doesn't send a calendar invite before it gets big. One minute you're refolding the sage joggers, and the next minute everything shifts. A phone call. A choice. A door that opens or a door that closes. For better or for worse, things come to a head when we least expect them.
And when they do, you don't rise to the moment. You fall back on whatever you've been practicing.
So I practice taking off. I practice landing, too. Because every kick comes back down to earth. Every brave leap ends with your feet on the floor. That's the part nobody puts on the poster. Strength isn't just the jump. It's coming back to center afterward and breathing.
She sets the photo down. Pauses. Then picks up the third. Her face softens.
And then there's this one.
Dani wanted a calm scene before the scary part. So we invited our Thursday class to come sit in. And by total accident, every single woman who showed up was blonde.
Every one.
We looked like a sample pack of hair color swatches. Honey. Platinum. Strawberry. Dishwater. The camera guy kept squinting and asking which one was me.
But look at it. Really look.
Twelve women on mats. Eyes closed. Hands resting on knees. Morning light coming through the glass doors behind us. Nobody's performing. Nobody's fixing their hair. Nobody's checking their phone.
Just stillness.
This is the photo that surprised me the most. Because I thought the kick would feel like the strongest one. It doesn't. This one does.
There's a power in sitting together and choosing peace. It's quieter than a kick. But it holds up longer.
When one woman sits down and breathes, it's nice. When twelve women sit down and breathe, the whole room changes. You can feel it. The air gets thicker in a good way, like a hug you can't see. Every person in that circle is protecting the same space. Not with fists. With presence.
That's what sisterhood looks like to me now. It isn't everybody agreeing. It isn't matching outfits, although, honestly, we were close. It's a group of women who decide, together, that this room gets to feel safe. That this room gets to feel good. That nobody here has to carry the weight alone.
I think about the woman on my left in this photo. She lost her job the week before. The woman on my right had just gotten engaged. One of them was cracking in half and one of them was bursting with joy, and they were sitting six inches apart, breathing in the same rhythm. Holding each other up without touching.
That's an empowered environment. It's not the candles or the eucalyptus or the nice lighting, though I do love the nice lighting. It's the people who show up and agree to hold the room gently.
She lines all three photographs up in a row on the counter. Studies them.
So here's what I've figured out.
These three pictures aren't three different women. They're one woman on three different days. Maybe even in the same hour.
Some moments ask you to stand your ground.
Some moments ask you to leap.
And some moments ask you to sit down, close your eyes, and let your sisters hold the room with you.
That's girl power. Not just the loud kind. The full spectrum. Stillness. Strength. Sisterhood.
I used to think I had to pick one. Soft or strong. Sweet or tough. Calm or fierce. Like they were separate doors and I could only walk through one.
But I'm all of them. You are, too.
You can be the girl holding the mannequin arm in the dark, scared and steady. You can be the girl flying through the air, grinning, unapologetic. And you can be the girl on the mat, eyes closed, surrounded by women who've got her back.
None of those cancel each other out. They build on each other.
She rearranges the photos. Puts the meditation circle first. Then the stance. Then the kick.
Actually, this is the right order. Stillness first. That's the root. When you're grounded, you're ready. And when you're ready, you can fly.
She tapes the three photos to the wall behind the register, side by side. Steps back. Nods.
It's almost ten. In a minute, I'll flip the sign. People will come in carrying their whole lives on their shoulders, the way people do. Some of them will be having the best day of their year. Some of them will be having the worst. I won't know which is which.
But this room will be ready for both.
Feet on the floor. Shoulders down. Heart open. Gary in the stockroom, just in case.
She walks to the front door and turns the sign to OPEN.
Okay, ladies. Let's go.
-Ryder