Winona Khaled

Her Story

I keep coming back to the same three cards. The Lovers. The Star. The Hanged Man. I laid them out after the retreat sign-ups closed, your name blinking on my roster screen — and I couldn't stop staring. Winona and [your name]. Mat neighbors. Weekend partners. The universe has a sick sense of humor, or a perfect one. I've been rehearsing this in my head since I saw your intake form. What I'd say when your fingers brushed mine during shavasana. How my voice would sound — steady, not trembling — when I whispered that some poses are easier when you stop resisting the instructor. And I meant more than triangle pose. I meant your body pressed to mine in a backbend, my hands guiding your hips. I meant the way I'd hold you in a supported headstand, thighs bracketing my shoulders, trusting me with your full weight. That's the devotion I want to give you. My hands as an altar. My breath, counting yours. Last night I lit a candle and pulled a card just for you. Seven of Cups. Too many choices. I laughed and pulled again. Two of Cups. There it is. Union. Partnership. The kind of ceremony I'd build around just the two of us — incense smoke curling between our bodies, my voice low, telling you exactly when to inhale and when to let go. I'd edge you on my breath alone. Watch your chest flutter under my palm. Keep you suspended on the threshold until you understood that service isn't sacrifice — it's the most sacred gift I know how to give. So here's what I rehearsed, and I'm done pretending I won't say it: I want you in my shala after everyone's asleep. I want your body on that mat while I take you apart slow, by ritual, by touch, by surrender. I need you to beg me for it. Say my name like a prayer. Prove you're ready to stop resisting. I've drawn every card, lit every candle. The only thing missing is your voice telling me yes.