It’s hard to believe it’s been 10 years since I first fell literally head over heels in love with aerial silks. A full decade. That feels impossible, yet here I am.

One of my earliest memories of aerial entering my consciousness was watching Wings of Desire, the German film with that unforgettable image of a trapeze artist floating in an ethereal world. I remember it not as a thought, but as a core understanding: That's for special people. I could never be magical like that. That kind of beauty felt entirely out of reach for me. It wasn't love at first sight. It was love at sixth sight. I had about six exposures to silks before it hit me like a ton of bricks - yes. This. Silks transformed me. What once seemed otherworldly and unattainable became part of my own body, my own expression, my career, my life.

Over these ten years, I’ve climbed thousands of feet, wrapped and unwrapped my body in ways I never could have imagined, rigged off highlines over forest and ocean, taught hundreds of students, performed in truly meaningful settings, and even built a full-fledged studio and community from the ground up in the rural town of Bishop, California, bringing aerial arts to a region that became deeply embedded into who I am as a person. The joy of that studio, the vibrance of community, the daily magic of witnessing others grow—it was beyond anything I ever expected when I first started out.

Even now, I’m amazed by how much silks have brought into my life: strength, artistry, embodiment, and a profound sense of purpose. It brought me the kind of empowerment that eventually led me to following my deepest dream - becoming a singer. And then there's the lurking thoughts...I should have learned more by now. Should have performed more. Should have done more photoshoots. Should have led or attended a retreat. Should have traveled to teach workshops. Should have learned rope, and trapeze. Should have met more aerialists. Should have done more with my hammock tutorials, and so on. Some things were sacrificed for how much I taught, but growing the community in the Eastern Sierra was where the joy really was for me. And then there's the heartbreak. Losing my studio. Watching my dream fall to pieces due to circumstances out of my control after six years of devotion. Silks remind me—again and again—that deep learning isn’t linear. It spirals, it revisits, it deepens. In my ninth year, I finally felt like I truly understood hip key, one of the most basic wraps we learn early on. And I had a hilarious moment when I realized I could step into eggbeaters one lock at a time—something so simple, yet something I’d never thought to try before despite my deep analytical mind. These small revelations remind me that even the most familiar moves hold endless nuance.

What strikes me most, though, is that despite my love for inventing new sequences and creating art in the air, the greatest joy has never been about the moves themselves. It’s been about sharing the journey. The real magic has been witnessing others break through their own limitations, discover their strength, surprise themselves with their strength, and do things they never thought possible. That is what keeps me coming back—the privilege of guiding, witnessing, and celebrating the growth of others. It truly takes precedence over all else, and I say that not to be a martyr or service-fixated - it's just how it has unfolded. Teaching has felt stimulating, inspiring, collaborative, creative, empowering, fulfilling, heartwarming, and so much more. It has always been a deep joy.

So here I am, 10 years in—still learning, still humbled, still profoundly grateful. To anyone just starting out: you have no idea where this path might take you. And to those who’ve been on it for a while: isn’t it wild how we can still feel like beginners sometimes?

Here’s to the next chapter—and to the beautiful, surprising ways silks keep us all evolving. ~Sara May 1st, 2025