Two hearts, or one

There’s a picture on my fridge of my mother standing in Syria, in a world she says no longer exists. She’s wearing a fringed dress, her smile against the backdrop of an intricately carved stone building. 'It’s gone now,' she tells me. A world lost. A place I may never see.

Being half Syrian offers a unique perspective: the feeling of living in between. This duality has shaped me and, in turn, shaped Sala. Growing up, I often felt displaced - although back then I didn't have the language to know that I felt caught between worlds, but never entirely belonging in either. That sense of not fitting in left me yearning for something deeper than surface-level connection. I craved a community that felt safe, real, and alive. That yearning became the foundation of Sala—a space for those who’ve always felt outside the mainstream, for people who’ve felt unseen or underrepresented. I often joke that Sala is the gym for people who thought they hated the gym. For those seeking something else, but who find movement as a doorway back home. Genuine connection goes beyond looking for people who look, identify or consume in the same way as you do. It's rhizomatic, it lives beyond time and space.

It’s interesting that I have found myself in the wellness space, rooted in an unseen undercurrent—the traditions and rituals that so much of modern wellness has quietly borrowed from the Middle East. Take the mysticism of Sufism, centered on the inward journey to divine connection, transcending the material world through meditation, poetry, music, and dance. Then there is Rumi—you can’t open a wellness journal without encountering his poetry. Rooted in themes of love, longing, and spiritual awakening, his words continue to guide people toward self-discovery and a deeper connection with the universe all these years later. This connection threads its way into my own yoga classes, where storytelling plays a central role. Storytelling, a cornerstone of Middle Eastern culture, is a small way I bridge the worlds I come from and the one I call home in Auckland.

My family’s story is one of diaspora. Cousins scattered across Germany and California piece together our shared history in broken English, trying to weave a family tree that stretches across continents but may never truly root in one place again. I know how much privilege I hold, yet part of me still feels untethered. Like many children displaced from their culture, I sometimes question whether I have the right to claim it as my own. Is it still mine if I no longer belong to it? Still, the heart knows no borders. Syria’s legacy of music, movement, and mysticism flows through me, whether I want to acknowledge it or not. I do not need to claim it. It is mine. The rituals of healing and community—the songs, the shared meals, the collective gatherings—are all woven into Sala’s ethos, and with each year that passes, I feel an ache to be louder about it.

To me, Sala isn’t just a gym. It’s a place where people can navigate their own feelings of otherness. Whether they’re seeking healing, connection, or simply a break from the loneliness of modern life, Sala offers a sense of belonging. It’s a space where movement becomes a reminder of who we are and who we can be.My mother’s photograph reminds me of the richness of what has been lost—and the responsibility I carry to honor it. Sala, in many ways, is my way of saying: we belong, we heal, and we move forward together.