how I hold what you share
I keep what you tell me
I keep what you tell me
only as long as it
serves you.
A simple promise, written out in plain English. No clever wording — only what's true.
A simple promise, written out in plain English. No clever wording — only what's true.
When you write to me through the form, I keep your name, your email, your phone, your city if you share it, and the words you wrote in the "what you're carrying" box. Nothing else. No cookies that track you. No analytics that watch your every click. No tags sold to anyone.
If you book a class or pay for one, I also keep that record — the date, the amount, the gateway reference — because I'm required to.
I read every inquiry myself. I keep your message so I can write back, remember you across visits, and understand your body's story over time. That's the only use.
I will not send you marketing emails. I will not add you to a list. I will not share your words with anyone — not a partner, not an algorithm, not a teacher I admire.
If you reach out and never return, your inquiry settles into rest after a while — written down, then quietly archived. If we stay in touch, your thread stays open. If you ask me to forget you, I do, fully — every row, the whole story.
To ask: write to me and say please remove me. That's all you need to do. I will confirm when it's done.
Your data sits on Cloudflare (their D1 database), encrypted at rest, behind login. Emails are sent through Resend. Payments, when they exist, go through Razorpay or Cashfree — neither sees your message, only the transaction. I am the only person with access to the inquiries and notes; if that ever changes, this page will tell you.
This page is dated May 2026. I'll revise it as the practice grows, and I'll tell you what changed.
I'd rather hear from you than keep something you'd want gone. The same form, the same one pair of hands.
The open hand