Most teacher pages are not missing anything. They are in the wrong order.
The photo is enormous, the philosophy is at the top, the schedule is a link at the bottom that opens a studio timetable in a new tab, and the person who came to find out whether you teach on Thursdays leaves without knowing. Nothing was left out. It was just buried under the parts that mattered to you rather than to them.
Fixing the order is most of the work, and it is free.
Start from why they arrived
Nobody lands on a teacher's page casually. They took your class, or a friend said your name, or they saw you on a festival lineup. They arrive with a question already formed, and it is almost always one of four:
When does she teach, and where. Does she do anything besides that class. Is she the right person for my back, my nerves, my level. How do I actually reach her.
Put those four answers in that order and you have a page. Everything else is decoration, and decoration goes underneath.
What goes at the top
Your name, one line about what you teach, and where you are based right now. Twelve words is plenty. The full bio can sit further down: writing it is a separate skill and it is not the first thing anyone reads.
Nina Alves. Ashtanga-rooted mornings, Lisbon. Strong, structured, beginners fine.
Then, immediately, before anything else, the schedule.
The schedule is the page
This is the single most common failure. The recurring classes you teach are the reason most visitors came, and on most pages they are a link to somewhere else.
What it needs to say: the day, the time, the place, the language, and how to book. Five facts per line.
Tuesday 07:00 Leela, Príncipe Real. English. Book through the studio. Friday 07:00 Leela, Príncipe Real. English. Thursday 19:30 Amplify, Alcântara. English or Portuguese.
That is more useful than anything else you could put on the page, and it is the part most likely to be wrong, because you teach at more than one place and the places do not talk to each other. Most teachers earn per class from a studio that holds the booking and the student list, so you are the only person on earth with the complete picture. If you do not publish it, it does not exist anywhere.
If a class is on a break, say so on the line rather than deleting it. "Paused until September" answers the question. A missing Thursday just makes people wonder.
The part almost nobody includes
What else you do.
Ask a room of your regulars whether you teach privates and half of them will not know. They think of you as the Tuesday class, because that is the only version of you they have met. They are not being inattentive. You simply never told them.
So the page needs a short list, and each item needs one line, not a paragraph:
One to one. In your home or at Leela. Mostly people with an injury or coming back after a long gap. Workshops. Two or three a year, usually backbends or breath. Six-week beginner series. Runs in January and September. Retreats. One a year, co-hosted, usually spring.
Notice these are written as things that exist rather than things that are currently on sale. That distinction matters more than any other decision on the page, and it is the difference between a page that ages well and one that quietly rots.
Things that expire, and things that never do
Split every element on your page into two piles.
Things with a date in them expire: this retreat, this workshop, this series, this cover class. They should be dated, and when the date passes they should stop being announced. A page still advertising a May retreat in October tells a visitor you have stopped paying attention, and they extend that judgment to everything else on it.
Things without a date never expire: what you teach, how it feels, who it suits, the languages you teach in, that you run retreats, that you take privates, the fact that a beginner series happens twice a year. Write as much of your page as possible in this second form. "I run a beginner series in January and September" is true forever. "January 2026 Beginner Series, book now" is true for eleven weeks.
Most stale pages are not neglected. They are just written entirely in the first form.
One line that says whether you are currently around
Teachers move, and they move more than any other profession this page could be written for. A student who took your class in February and comes looking in November has a real question that most pages do not answer: are you still here.
One sentence at the top solves it, and it is worth writing in a form that stays true for a long time.
"Based in Lisbon. Away most of August, and I usually teach somewhere in Germany in the spring."
That is honest about a shifting life without needing an edit every time a plane lands. Compare it to a page that says "currently in Bali," written eighteen months ago, which is now actively misleading and makes every other fact on the page suspect.
If you are between cities and genuinely do not know, say that too. "Moving to Berlin in the spring, still teaching in Lisbon until then" reads as a person with a life, not as a page that has been abandoned.
Photographs, and how many
Two or three. One of your face, clear and recent enough that someone could recognize you at a studio door. One of you actually teaching, in a real room, with real students in it. That is the whole requirement.
The photo that helps most is the unglamorous one: a normal room, mats at slightly wrong angles, you talking to someone. It tells a nervous person what they are walking into, which is the only thing photographs are good at. A silhouette on a beach tells them nothing, and there are already forty thousand of those.
Do not build a gallery. Nobody scrolls a gallery on a teacher's page.
The people you work with
Nearly every retreat is co-hosted, and most teachers can name two to four people they build things with. Say who they are, by name.
It is the fastest credibility on the page, faster than any certification, because a reader can go and look at those people and see a real network rather than a claim. It is also how you get found: their students read their page, see your name, and arrive already half-warm.
One line each is enough.
"The spring retreat is with Marta, who does the sound. The breath workshops are with Tomás."
What to cut
The training list. Almost no teacher has a visible certification number, and students never look for one. Where you teach and who you study with does the same job better and reads as a fact rather than a credential.
The philosophy essay. If you have something real to say about the practice, it is a good thing to have, and it belongs somewhere below the useful parts, not above them.
A blog with two posts from 2023. Either it is alive or it is off the page. A dead section is evidence.
Long class descriptions for classes you no longer teach. The most common form of page rot after the retreat that finished.
Testimonials, mostly. Three quotes praising your presence read the same as everyone else's three quotes. If you keep any, keep the specific ones: "I came in with a herniated disc and she gave me something to do on the days I could not get to class" is worth more than any amount of praise, because it describes what actually happened.
How they reach you
At the bottom, in plain text, with no form.
Say which channel you actually read, and say it honestly. If you never open email, do not put an email address on the page.
"WhatsApp is fastest, I usually reply the same evening. Email if it is a studio or a booking."
One more line, and it is the one most pages forget: a way to hear from you again that does not depend on a feed deciding to show them something. A list, a broadcast, a monthly note. What that looks like is its own subject, but the place to ask is here, at the bottom, after they have already decided they like you.
Open it on your phone and count
Do this now. Open your page on your phone, and time how long it takes to answer one question: when do you teach next, and where.
If it takes more than eight seconds, or if it takes a tap out to another site, that is the whole problem, and it is the only thing on this page worth fixing today. Everything else can wait until you actually have a free evening, which, realistically, is not this week.