I remember the exact moment my world flipped upside down. It was 2011, in a cramped Auckland living room after a long day cutting grass in high-end gardens. I'd stumbled onto a YouTube video of a hand balancer—arms like steel cables, body defying gravity in a perfect line, moving with this quiet, ruthless control. No music, no crowd, just the raw poetry of balance. I hit play again, then paused, rewound, studied every flicker of the wrist. That night, I kicked off my boots, cleared a spot on the carpet, and tried it. My arms buckled, sweat poured, but something ignited—a fire that hasn't dimmed in 14 years. Hand balancing didn't just change my life; it became my life, the lens through which I see discipline, fear, the grind of falling and rising. It's the most important thing I've ever done, teaching me truths about my body and mind that no book or job ever could.

I came from nothing fancy. I was born on December 30, 1987, in Patos de Minas, Minas Gerais, Brazil—my full name is Miguel Sant'ana de Magalhaes Neto, and I am the oldest of four boys in a lower-class family that was crammed into a humble house. Mom and Dad worked full-time, scraping by. Public school, no computer or video games at home. One pair of shoes a year, meat maybe once or twice a week if we were lucky. But it wasn't misery; it was real. I'd get buzzed staying over at friends' places just to play video games—the only way I could. Childhood meant kicking around with cousins and neighbors on the roadside after school, or weekends at my grandfather's little farm, chasing chickens and climbing trees. From age 7 or 8, I was the one watching my younger brothers while parents were out hustling. It made me independent early.

By 13, I was working at a stationary shop, delivering school and office supplies after morning classes till early evening. Paid 350 reais—half the minimum wage back then, about 50 USD—for half-day shifts. It was grunt work, but it was mine. At 15, I used that cash to join a gym, paying for myself. Weights felt natural, like my body was built for it. I loved the burn, the quiet focus.

2007, I bolted to Europe for a couple years, bouncing around until I met a New Zealand girlfriend. We moved to her homeland in 2010. Started as a gardener with her dad, then back to Brazil for six months with her. By 2011, we settled in Auckland. I landed a city council gig mowing public parks—steady, but soulless. First time since 2004 I had no hobby. That void pulled me into a capoeira group. I dove in deep, loving the culture, the rhythm. Ambitious as hell, I ditched park grass for high-end estates, snagged a job at a private company, became a helper, then team leader running my own clients.

Life was simple: work Monday to Saturday, capoeira twice a week, open gymnastics once where I'd drill backflips, no coach, just raw trial and error. Got damn good—fast back springs, high backflips, full twists, double twists. Felt unstoppable.

Then, at an annual capoeira event in Wellington in 2012, I met a circus artist who saw my acrobatics flair. He showed me hand balancing videos on YouTube. Hooked. I started practicing alone at home after work, every day. Obsessed, visualizing the lines I wanted, chasing perfection through tutorials. In one year, self-taught: two-minute holds, 10-second one-arms, presses to handstand. The falls hurt—wrists screaming, shoulders aching—but the breakthroughs? Quiet euphoria, like unlocking a secret language of the body.

I started hitting circus community open trainings and gymnastics sessions weekly. Became "the handstand guy" in Auckland. Then, vivid as yesterday: a call from a circus warehouse offering me a teaching gig starting on Waitangi Day. I didn't know what I'd do, but I said yes. Once a week, class packed from day one—circus folks supporting me because handstand classes weren't a thing in NZ. Nerve-wracking at first, heart pounding, but once in, it flowed natural. Gratitude hit hard. Soon, two classes a week. Extra cash fueled savings for training with Claude Victoria in France—he'd shaped artists who inspired me. I kept gardening, teaching, training daily after work, sharing progress on social media.

One day, at this epic yoga event in Auckland's museum—Lululemon launching nationwide, 500 people, big influencers—I seized the moment. In the middle of the room, I hit a stable, straight handstand. Teacher spotted me, asked for a stage demo. I delivered: two-minute routine blending arm balances and strong presses. Elegant, powerful. Felt like all those solo hours paid off. Messages flooded Instagram—invites for classes in Auckland, workshops across NZ. I jumped in, hosting weekends. Got to where gardening's physical toll clashed with 2-3 hour handstand sessions. Quit in 2013, went full-time handstand teacher. Built privates, community nationwide. The more I shared practice and progress online, the more I inspired, the more wanted to learn from me.

Within a year, saved enough—hit the road for three quick years, traveling over 35 countries, sharing handstands, training with pros who'd lit my fire. Finally, five weeks with Claude Victoria at his house, mostly 1-on-1. Life-altering. I had the eye for alignment, but he taught the art: presentation, movement, respect for the practice. Not drills—philosophy. Everything shifted. I created the AoH method—Art of Handstands: high standards in alignment and stability, comprehensive for all levels, brutally simple.

By 2016, after globe-trotting, I landed in Hong Kong, met Elise Hamilton. It was one of those connections that felt inevitable, like the balance I'd been chasing finally clicked into place. She became my anchor in the whirlwind. I based myself there, teaching for Pure Fitness, hosting retreats, coaching their coaches and yoga teachers across Asia, public workshops. Stayed till 2019. Married Elise that year, and we headed to Australia to build a family. After years living out of a suitcase—hotels, airports, temporary setups—it felt grounding to try something different. We got a house in Melbourne, cars, furniture, the whole settled life. But deep down, our purposes tugged us elsewhere. Opportunities kept knocking, pulling us back into the flow.

Four months in, I hosted my first 30-day handstand training—the longest ever, a bold step outside the usual workshops. It was intense, rewarding, a chance to dive deeper with students, watching their breakthroughs mirror my own early obsessions. But mid-way, COVID hit hard. Folks dropped out, and Melbourne's lockdown crushed us: 23 hours indoors daily, for months. That isolation was brutal, staring at walls, the weight of uncertainty pressing down. Yet it forced reinvention—I started online workshops and classes. Skeptical at first, but seeing students correct alignments through screens, breaking down techniques without spotting, it opened my eyes. More demanding, more precise. I never stopped; now, with over 12,000 hours of teaching under my belt, across more than 1,000 students from every corner of the globe, online feels like the purest way to connect, to push boundaries without borders.

Early 2021, an opportunity arose for Elise's work in Hong Kong, and it felt right—like the city was calling us home. We jumped at it, and I took the leap: opened my first Invert Handstand Studio. Walking into that space for the first time? It was a dream come true, raw and real. After all the travel, all the borrowed mats and rented rooms, finally my own walls, my own energy. It became a community house—students laughing, sweating, supporting each other through the shakes and saves. Classes sold out instantly, one after another, a testament to the method I'd built, the standards I'd held. But after a year, COVID restrictions slammed Hong Kong—forced closure, down to 1-1 sessions outdoors, the frustration of momentum halted again.

Meanwhile, I'd been building our dream farmhouse in Brazil for 18 months. We escaped there to decompress, away from the tight rules. Seeing Santana Farm in person hit deep—roots I'd left behind, now a haven. Hosted the first exclusive retreat there: students flying in from Australia, sharing my childhood spots, Mom's home-cooked meals. It was rewarding on a soul level, blending my past with this life I'd carved. We stayed six months, then back so Elise could join Disneyland's Halloween show.

I dove right back: full schedule, opened a new space in Hong Kong central mid-2022. Early mornings online, all-day studio with semi-privates and small groups, self-practice squeezed in afternoons. Travel eased, retreats monthly worldwide—back and forth, Hong Kong base. Amid it all, I created the full AoH online course with Glen Cordoza—author of Becoming a Supple Leopard, Glute Lab, Rehab Science, Power Speed Endurance. Best in the business, a good friend. Three years, countless hours—it was grueling, but putting the method into a comprehensive course felt like solidifying a legacy, sharing what I'd learned from 200+ workshops and retreats over 10 years of sellouts, in 40+ countries revisited time and again.

Reached peak level in Hand Balancing Elite in 2020. Released the advanced AoH Level 4 in 2024, on my own. By 2025, I closed the second studio—running it alone, half-empty from my travels, it was time to pivot to more remote teaching in HK and online. That same year brought my son, Koa Santana. Fatherhood added this whole new layer—I'm sure other dads get it. Priorities shift overnight; taking care of my little man is the best thing ever, those quiet moments feeding him or watching him discover his hands. My practice has dipped, sure—less hours upside down—but I maintain it, snatching sessions when I can. It serves me so well now: pulls me in, clears the fog, gets my head straight. Makes me a better father, maybe, by reminding me of patience, of rising after every wobble.

Completed the first AoH teacher training manual in 2026. The AoH book's in the works, One Arm Online Course too. Looking back, these milestones—from self-taught holds to teaching thousands, building studios and methods that stand out in a field full of talented folks—aren't just ticks on a list. They're proof of what obsession and respect for the craft can build. I've poured more into this than most, and it's paid back in ways I never imagined: communities formed, lives shifted, my own fears faced daily.