From growing up dancing in Southern California and dropping out of college to surviving a brutal motorbike crash in Phú Quốc and opening Vietnam’s first barre studio, Yasmine’s path has been anything but linear. After talking with her for nearly three hours at Mar Studio, the yoga and dance studio in Bình Thạnh she manages alongside her husband Son Lam, she laughed and said, "My story is all over the place." I assured her it was okay. Most people's stories are.
Yasmine is from Los Angeles. She was born in Torrance before settling in El Segundo. Growing up she tried out multiple sports—soccer, softball, even ice skating—but she always returned to her first love: dancing. From the age of four, Yasmine has been a dancer. Her dance journey started at the Studio Art of Dance in El Segundo under her teacher, Ms. Christy. Outside of the home, Ms. Christy was Yasmine's biggest role model. Yasmine boiled down her impact as a mentor to a few major lessons: punctuality, discipline, and trusting yourself. “Don’t ever be late,” she would remind Yasmine and her fellow classmates. Case in point: when I showed up to meet Yasmine for our interview she was early, prepared, and exuded a positive energy throughout sharing stories.
On the dance side, earning a part in one of Ms. Christy's performances demanded discipline. Every time her teacher passed out CDs at the end of class—tutorials related to each section of the upcoming performance—many students never bothered to watch them. They considered it extra work. Yet, Yasmine saw a chance to prove herself. Taking the CD home, she'd watch the tutorials with the studiousness of a professional. When others chose to relax at home, Yasmine had the self-control to focus on her craft. The most notable thing her mentor did for Yasmine during her twelve years at Studio Art of Dance was challenging her by placing her in groups beyond her age and experience. As a result, she was always the youngest in the room. Surrounded by older, more experienced dancers, Yasmine learned not to doubt herself through repeated trial and triumph. Even now, as a young business owner in charge of the first studio in Vietnam specializing in barre—a workout that combines elements of ballet, pilates, yoga, and strength training—people continue to doubt her. However, she remains adamant about never letting anyone's judgment intimidate her. That sense of fearless self-belief is what she aims to instill in her students now. Not only is she carrying the torch Ms. Christy passed to her, but at a much deeper level, she carries the lessons her mother taught her too.
Yasmine's mom arrived in the U.S. at sixteen years old after immigrating from Peru. Since Yasmine's dad was largely absent throughout her childhood, she was raised in a single-parent household. Beyond working multiple jobs throughout Yasmine's childhood—nanny, cleaner, assistant at a local preschool—Yasmine's mother also helped clean and sell merchandise at Ms. Christy’s studio in exchange for her daughter’s dance classes. It's one of many reasons Yasmine describes her mom as her rock. She was always supporting her at shows, cheering and clapping in the audience, as well as waking up early and staying up late to put in the unsung hours that gave her Yasmine the chance to do what she loved. Although busy, Yasmine said her mom never missed the small details in her life—especially not the passion she saw in her daughter's eyes on the dance floor.
Yasmine admits she adopted her mom's hustle mentality, along with a fair share of her stubbornness. Until the middle of high school, the only thing on Yasmine's mind was dance. Deeply craving the chance to try something new in a different environment, at the age of sixteen she quit dance and joined track & field. This was not due to discovering a newfound passion, but because joining track meant she could excuse herself from the last class of the day. Unbeknownst to her, she had what it took to excel, using her long strides to succeed at the 400 meter event. However, during her senior year a knee injury put an end to her track & field days.
Alongside the end of sports and a break from dance came an early end to high school. Finishing her credits ahead of time, Yasmine attended Santa Monica Community College at eighteen. Her rebelliousness was at an all-time high at that point. After one semester, she dropped out and moved out of her home and worked several jobs, such as a barista, waiter, and nanny to support herself. In her quest to grow up, join the real world, and establish her independence, Yasmine received the untethered freedom she desired. In the process she also took a break from school. However, with the help of family friends she returned to her studies transferring to El Camino College in Torrance. She pursued a degree in pre-med—given her experience as a nanny, becoming a pediatrician made sense. Yasmine also had a close family member who was a doctor, and wanted to emulate her dedication and professionalism.
Beyond core pre-med classes like biology and chemistry, she also took a chance at getting back into dance. Two years had passed since she'd last stepped inside a studio, and although her defiance may have led her astray, she couldn't deny a curiosity to return to the craft she'd dedicated herself to for years. She started with a modern dance class. Up until then, she'd done mostly ballet, jazz, and tap, so this was a chance to get back out there and also explore something new. Although she expected to ease back in, her childlike love for dance emerged all at once. All it took was one class to remember how alive dancing made her feel. Afterwards, she recalled the punctuality, discipline, and self-trust it taught her as a child. The following semester, she signed up for more sessions. It was during one of those lessons she crossed paths with Son Lam.
The two met in a choreography class. Yasmine was assigned to be a choreographer, instructing dancers on their routine. Lam was assigned to be a dancer. Yasmine smiled, recalling Lam's opening line when they met before auditions, where choreographers and dancers would request one another for the semester. "He was like, 'My name is Lam. It's Liam without the i,' and then he disappeared," Yasmine said. She remembered him being quiet then, mostly keeping to himself—though there were already rumblings of his fame back in Vietnam. "And then we did auditions, and we went number by number, and Lam performed, and he of course did what he does, and I was like, 'You are really cool.'" Yasmine let out a huge laugh again, here—probably the biggest of our conversation—reimagining that first time witnessing Lam dance. "I was amazed. It was crazy. And then I remember thinking, 'We're going to be friends.' I don't know how, but I'm gonna become his friend."
Yasmine picked Lam to be one of her dancers. He chose her to be his choreographer. From that point on, they hung out almost every day—their class schedules happened to line up almost perfectly. Whether it was grabbing coffee before class, working together on their routine, or practicing choreography on top of the school's library in front of the huge glass windows, the two were inseparable. But then winter break arrived, and it was time for Lam to visit his family back in Vietnam. He suggested she join him and Yasmine agreed. First, though, she had to convince her mom. "It's so funny—I was already past 18. I'm technically an adult, but you're never an adult in a Hispanic household," she said. Her mom put up a hard front. "You're not flying across the world for some boy," she stated. Yasmine pleaded back: "I want to go. I've never been to Asia, and he's there, and his family is there, and it'd be really cool to experience this." Her mom answered, repeatedly, with a resounding, "No."
The back-and-forth went on for days, until Yasmine found her best option: she told Lam her mom had to speak to his parents. One FaceTime call later, her mom's worries eased just enough to grant her wish. Yasmine ended up staying for a week and a half. The first week was great. She explored Saigon for the first time, met Lam's childhood friends, stayed with his family—who greeted her with open arms—and came to realize just how much attention Lam receives because of his stature in the dance scene. All was going well until the end of the trip. Yasmine and Lam caught an early flight to Phú Quốc, and it was only a matter of hours before disaster struck.
"We should have taken a nap, but we were already pumped with adrenaline of being in a new place," Yasmine said, thinking back to that morning on the island off Vietnam's southwest coast. "I just remember I was so sleepy, and I fell asleep on the back of the motorbike. I passed out. The next thing I remember we were on the floor." It's difficult to say exactly why they crashed—even having heard the story from both Yasmine and Lam, the details blur between each other's retellings of that morning. Maybe they hit something, or the roads were slick from rain, or it was simple tunnel vision from driving too long. What Yasmine remembers is waking up, seeing Lam face down, and yelling his name.
He shot up from the ground, signaling he was okay—the adrenaline numbed the pain from fracturing his ribs in the crash. Yasmine was not okay. "I just felt almost like a water bottle being poured down my face, and I remember it looked like the movie Carrie. I just looked around, and I was covered in blood, all over my body, and I was in shock. I don't even know how I didn't pass out—probably because I grew up watching all these medical shows." Out of nowhere, a handful of Vietnamese people showed up to help. One woman stood out. "I felt like she was a guardian angel," Yasmine said. She and Lam got on the woman's bike, and she drove them to the nearest clinic. The damage was still unclear at that point, so they moved on to the nearest international hospital. The woman followed them the whole way there, and once Yasmine was admitted, she left without a trace, as if she really had been a guardian angel disappearing into the wind. The final diagnosis: a cracked nose, a muscle tear in her leg, a few burn marks from the motorbike's engine—but worst of all, her two front teeth had been pushed up into her gums and shattered. "It looks like broken glass in your gums," the doctor said. Trip over.
By the time Yasmine arrived back in LA she was rolling around in a wheelchair with a face mask covering her face. "I told you not to go over there. I knew it was a bad idea!" her mom said. Yasmine tried to calm her down, "It's fine. I'm alive." True as that may have been, she was in serious pain and facing multiple reconstructive surgeries. Fortunately, with the help of family friends, Yasmine was able to find the best dentist to help her and was able to get back into school sooner than expected. Additionally, Lam was there the whole time drinking smoothies and watching reruns of The Bachelor with her. For long stretches, it was just the two of them.
Ten months later, nearing the end of 2018, Yasmine attended a hot yoga class. She'd regained enough strength to practice and take classes again, and it felt good to get outside and reconnect with her body. She loved the class, but the studio's membership fees were expensive, so instead of signing up, she applied for a front-desk position. Being new to yoga, she found herself once again surrounded by people more experienced than her—and self-conscious about something else, too. "It was in Manhattan Beach. I think every girl there was like a blonde, blue-eyed, six-foot girl who wanted to work at a yoga studio, and I'm Latina with my brown curly hair.” After multiple rounds of interviews, followed by eight-hour training days, Yasmine was surprised at how in-depth the onboarding could be for what she assumed was just a front-desk job. Management corrected her: this wasn't just a front desk job. It was the head of the studio. Put another way: you're the first and last person every client sees, and everyone's schedule depends on you. Still, she got the job—and to this day credits that job as instrumental to her future experience running a studio. "Everything in business, management, running a team—I learned it there. Team meetings, team bonding, training, firing, hiring. I learned their process, starting at the front desk. I'd work the 5:30, 6 a.m. shifts, cleaning the bathrooms, scrubbing the mats," she said. The studio's motto set the bar: "hottest, cleanest, most connected studio.” She's stuck with that studio for over eight years now, and still works remotely as a yoga advisor. Beyond teaching her the responsibility of a front-desk role, the studio also pushed her to advance in her study of yoga. She received her Yin certification in 2018, barre in 2020, and her 200-hour certification last year. "I've done all my training through them, which I really admire. They push the front desk to learn and grow," she said. "It's shaped how I run things here, too"—gesturing to Mar Studio—"Everyone who comes in wanting to grow, it's like, 'let's figure out how to help you do that.'"
Hearing about the origins of her yoga journey, I wondered what happened to dance. Yasmine returned to school soon after she started working, taking dance classes alongside Lam. She finished her associate degree, and right after, in February 2019, she and Lam tied the knot, celebrating surrounded by family and friends. They decided to transfer to San Francisco State University (SFSU) to start a new chapter together, but by the time they made the move from Southern to Northern California, COVID hit. Fortunately, even as Yasmine moved away from her studio's LA location, the company opened a new spot in San Jose, close enough to SFSU that she could work remotely throughout the pandemic.
Two years later, Yasmine finished university. In the aftermath of school, a conversation would arise every now and then—dreaming about one day opening their own studio. For so long it was a distant goal in the future that they never thought would come to fruition anytime soon. However, thanks to the generosity of Lam's family—who, upon moving out of their old house, offered them the space—the two were able to get to work on their dream far earlier than they’d imagined. They started figuring out logistics such as scheduling, pricing, and hiring. Exciting as it was, it didn't come without hardship. "We jumped right into it," she said. "It was very hard in the beginning, especially since I'd never worked for myself before. I was always working for somebody else. This was the first time I was like, 'well, we're in charge,' and still learning alongside everybody too." By the beginning of March 2023, Mar was running pop-up classes taught by Yasmine and Lam’s friends. By the end of the same month, it opened to the public with a roster of dedicated teachers who teach everything from Yin yoga, Vinyasa, and barre to hip-hop, popping, and house dance.
Originally, Yasmine's vision was simply to bring yoga to Saigon. Before permanently relocating, she and Lam had sampled classes around the city. At the time, she was teaching mostly Yin yoga—a slower, more meditative style she felt most comfortable with—but barre stood out because nobody else in the city was doing it. What she didn't anticipate was how widely misunderstood the discipline would be. As someone who practiced ballet and is certified in barre, Yasmine is quick to draw the line between the two: "Barre is not ballet." While it borrows certain positions and exercises, it pulls just as much from Pilates and yoga, building its own vocabulary around a low-impact, full-body workout targeting the core, legs, and arms. The differences show up in the equipment: light dumbbells, yoga blocks, bands, small Pilates balls, and sliders. Then there’s the music. Unlike Yin and other yoga classes such as Vinyasa, barre classes move to a rhythm following the BPM of the song, whether that's house, hip-hop, or rap. "I love taking it, though, because of the misconception that barre is this pretty ballet class. It can pull some aspects and exercises from ballet—but you're gonna sweat. You're gonna look rough after. Your hair's all crazy, you're drenched, and that's fine. People don't realize how hard it actually is, because it targets muscles you don't usually train in a regular workout. Everybody shakes. I love having the guys come in with three kilos, and I'm just like, you're gonna die."
Overall, beyond building a healthier and stronger body, the goal is to build a healthier and stronger community—and their method for doing that is the same on both the yoga and street dance sides of the studio: changing what and who people assume a given practice is for. On the street dance side, most of Mar's regulars aren't competitive dancers. They're people with everyday jobs looking for a release after a long day of work, who find something at Mar that improves memory, cardio, and mood in unexpected ways. "It's been really nice to bring street dance events and culture to people who have never even been around it," Yasmine said. That mission comes with a responsibility she takes seriously: making sure appreciation doesn't slide into appropriation. "It was almost like gaining respect for the culture here—dance culture—but also educating people in Vietnam too, because there can be cultural appropriation," she said. "I am sure it comes from a place of wanting to appreciate and really immerse into the culture and not in a way of making fun of it or wearing a costume, but at Mar we love to invite and host people who will educate on street dance culture, even if you already love and admire it. Learning where this stuff comes from, having respect for it—because all street dance goes back to Black and Brown communities. So bringing that here and educating has been really important for us to have the Mar Studio community.”
Looking ahead, Yasmine's ambitions for Mar Studio split into two. On the yoga barre side, she wants to grow the studio's teacher-training program under the guidance of Ava Moreno, the instructor who co-led Yasmine's first barre training. Currently they have four trainees in their first cohort and five in their second. Her target is fifteen trainees a year, enough to call it a legitimate training pipeline rather than a weekend add-on. "A lot of training programs here are just three days, and you get certified," she said, "and it's impossible to actually learn in three days. I want to bring more value to the practice. It's not just exercise. You're learning to change people's lives." She tells her own instructors the same applies to them: keep training, keep leveling up, because if you stop learning, your teaching will flatline. On the street dance side, the goal is to keep bringing international teachers and dancers to Vietnam for workshops so aspiring dancers don’t have to fly overseas to learn. They’ve already brought some of the global street dance community’s most respected instructors and battle champions through Mar’s doors, bridging the gap between Saigon and the international scene. Further out, Yasmine hopes to open a second, smaller studio to expand Mar Studio’s community.
Although Yasmine claims her story is all over the place, there's a thread that runs through it all. Ever since the first year she stepped foot in a dance studio, she's never let being young, inexperienced, or out of place stop her from putting one foot in front of the other. "It's so funny reflecting back on it now," she said. "I think my whole life it's always been like: 'You're so young. You're so little.' Yet whenever I enter class, I say, 'Hi, I'm Yas. This is what we're gonna do. Let's get forward.'"
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