I bought my first road bike today. It’s shiny, light, and a little bit intimidating. I’m entering my second year of riding in a cycling club, and now I have the kind of bike that many road cyclists have.
I am working through the difference between doing cycling and being a cyclist, and what it means to step toward something before I feel entirely ready.
For example, clip-in pedals. Everyone has an opinion on them. I am already preparing to face today the well-intended male employee fitting me on my new bike who has already twice insisted—insisted—on clip-ins.
But I’m nervous about them. Two cyclists were hit by cars in my area of recently. Every time I roll to the edge of the road, there’s a flicker of fear. It’s not just about falling in traffic but feeling unseen, or worse…seen but then dismissed by drivers.
Riding a bike means having to take up road space in my city. However, I was encouraged by an awesome documentary, Breakaway Femmes (2025), which retrospectively reveals the space women had to take up to be part of the male-dominated Tour de France race during the late 80s. That film showed how cycling is about taking risks for the sport one loves. It’s about choosing to move forward, even when standing still would feel safer.
So today I am moving forward on a version of myself I’ve been imagining for a while now. And first space I must claim for myself as a cyclist is the one in my own head. So here I go.
Every year I choose a WOTY, as many of you do, no doubt, and many of us here at Fit Is a Feminist Issue. I was having so much trouble choosing my word for this year, that I couldn’t even contribute to our group post. I kept saying to people, I want a word like ease. Something that captures the lightness and flow of ease. The way we can be more present when we are at ease. And I kept not wanting to choose the actual word. Ease. One friend sent me this fabulous Japanese expression, ichi-go ichi-e, which basically means for this time only or cherish this moment. It’s a version of Marcel Proust’s madeleine or the Heraclitus’ line about never stepping into the same river twice, with a dash of gratitude added, for the beauty of the river we are stepping into or the deliciousness of the madeleine we are eating. As beautiful as all these ideas are, ichi-go ichi-e felt heavier than what I was looking for. I try to make a practice of being grateful for as much as possible in my life. And that gratitude does not necessarily bring me ease. Gratitude demands attention and intention, especially in hard times. I was looking for a word that captured a feeling of less effort, if not full-on effortlessness (if that’s not a contradiction).
As I was effortfully trying to write this, pushing words and ideas around on the page, as if they were one of those sleds people push in CrossFit, I came across this quote from Norman Fischer, a Zen priest, poet and teacher: In the full intensity of the present moment there is never anything to fear—there is only something to deal with. It is a subtle point, but it is absolutely true: the fear I experience now is not really present moment based: I am afraid of what is going to happen. So, maybe ease is less about gratitude and maybe more about finding a way through fear. Not that that is simpler. Yet softening around all my myriad fears feels like it just might be a route to ease. A few days later, while writing something else, I came up with this formula:
What I was wrestling with was the idea that if I can move into the future with trust and find the grace to dance with what the universe delivers, then I will be able to move through my boat load of fears. And there, on the other side of fear, is where I will find ease.
As I headed out to meet a friend for a run on January 1st, in a cold winter rain, which turned to snow just in time for our run and then switched back to rain as we took our last steps (thank you, universe, for that opening gift of 2025—an easy gratitude!), I realized that I was resisting the word ease, because it felt so impossible, or like I don’t deserve it. Here’s a sampler from that voice in my head: It’s coming up on 3 years since your marriage started falling apart and you still can’t find ease? What’s wrong with you? Why are you not over it already? If you can’t find ease by now, you never will. Also, that’s your fault. The inside of my head is not always the most cheerful place to be.
When I realized that my dis-ease with the word ease was about resistance (my fear!), and not my usual, there’s-a-more-perfect-word-to-describe-what-I-mean, I knew what my word of the year had to be. EASE. Sometimes my word is aspirational and other years it is a beacon. This year it is the former—an aspiration, which I will try to hold lightly, mindful of the paradox that if I aspire too hard, then I will surely not find ease. What will ease look like? Less time in my head, worrying about the future. More time just being (trust!). Making choices rooted more in pleasure and less in financial fear (grace!). Less fighting against what is, like taking my medication (grace!). More noticing the gifts on offer, like how well my medication works (trust!).
This year I will trust and dance with grace. Aspiring. Letting go. Moving through fears. That’s where I’ll find ease. If I do. Not that I’m attached to the outcome. Okay, maybe a little bit. Here goes.
I’ve been TNT’ing (Try New Things) a lot in the past couple of years. In addition to the fact that much of my current life is new and definitively not new things I wanted to try—such as, my breakup, my fear-provoking financial situation (which I wrote about here), my new (and only temporary) home, my cat-less-ness and my auto-immune challenge (induced by all the stress of these new things and which I wrote about here)—I’ve also been voluntarily, even enthusiastically, trying quite a number of other new things. In an earlier version of my life, I was a regular TNT-er. I’m an expert on being a beginner. TNT-ing stokes my enthusiastic nature. Plus, they say, that great, amorphous they consisting of experts, influencers, ordinary people and basically everyone who is not me (oh, and also me, here) … they say that trying new things keeps us young (in outlook) and/or sharp and/or curious. So sure, I’ll have what she’s having. Maybe it will nourish new shoots in the devastated territories of my life.
Yet, I hit my TNT limit a few weeks ago. A brick wall of I-can’t-do-this-and-I-don’t-have-to-or-want-to. I’ll come back to that in a moment.
Here’s a short list of new things I’ve been trying:
Trying a new running technique. After 30 years of serious running, I’m going back to basics. Deconstructing my running style, to then reconstruct a more sustainable and efficient technique. Or at least that is the promise of chi running. Yes, I am exceedingly late to the chi running party. The book first came out in 2004. It turns out that now is just the right time to refresh my relationship with running. I listened to the book once through and now each time I go out running I listen again to the two guided runs, in which Danny Dreyer moves through a series of what he calls focuses. My favourite focus is the instruction to imagine that my stride begins partway up my spine at my T12L1 vertebra. This is the last vertebra on the thoracic spine and sits just above the lumbar spinal column. T12L1 is the spot that Chinese medicine calls the Gate of Destiny (or Center of Vitality or Gate of Life, among other things). He instructs me to run from the Gate of Destiny. How beautiful is that image? Prosaically, he means for me to bring my attention to the gate, without intentionally twisting my back to initiate my leg swing. To notice the origin source of my legs’ impulse to move. I love tuning into the channel of that electrical twitch of desire that lifts me from my bed and accompanies me out the door. The image of running through the Gate of Destiny has a gone a long way to renewing my love of running. It’s also possible that my running is more easeful.
Trying a new breathing technique. About two months ago, I listened to James Nestor’s book, Breath, which has inspired me to focus on breathing through my nose as much as possible. I mainly focus on this when I’m running (to which I’ve also added the chi running focuses). In the last couple of weeks, I’ve been experimenting with taping my lips closed while I sleep, to force myself to breath exclusively through my nose. So far quite interesting. I’m not sleeping worse and possibly better. I wake up less thirsty. I may go to the bathroom less during the night. At first, it seemed like my dreams were more vivid, though as time has passed, I’m not noticing that effect anymore. I had an amorphous hope that the new breathing technique might have a positive effect on my Addison’s, but sadly my blood test last week showed that the extreme breakup stress I’ve been under this last month has boosted my potassium and renin up past the high ends of the healthy range again. Thankfully, so far, I still feel okay, though I may need yet another dose increase and the diet restrictions are unjoyful.
Trying CrossFit. In mid-December I tried a CrossFit-like class for the first time. Prior to that moment, I had never lifted a barbell in my life, nor a dumbbell (DB, in XFit acronymic lingo). Unless a 5lb weight counts as a DB (there aren’t any on the rack at the gym). I thought I wouldn’t like the classes. I thought I’d find them macho or meathead-ish. Instead, I was inspired by the intensity. I think it helps that the gym I’m going to is pretty low key. I don’t mean the classes aren’t hard. They crush me. Every time. And the music is loud. And the coach claps and encourages us in a loud voice. Yet, in the midst of all the loudness and crushing-ness, the vibe is friendly and non-competitive. Everyone seems to be focused on their own thing. To be transparent, I’m not totally focused on my own thing, because I have noticed that my DBs are the lightest weight of anyone else in the class. I’m okay with that. A couple times I’ve felt discouraged at the end of a class. Mostly, I feel vivified and I notice that I’m getting stronger. Slow but steady.
15lb dumbbells (my kind of weight) Delaney Van on unsplash
Trying Capoeira. Here’s the brick wall … Picture me at the base of that wall in Game of Thrones. Impossibly high and thick. Capoeira is an Afro-Brazilian combination of martial arts and dance. In its original conception, it was developed by slaves who wanted to train in the martial arts, without giving away that’s what they were doing to the malevolent outsider watching. It’s quick, elaborately choreographed, acrobatic, intensely aerobic and beautiful to watch. And totally incomprehensible from the outside. I realized early that my fitness was not enough of an advantage, not even close. The speed is dizzying, not to mention the cartwheels, handstand-like moves and near constant level changes (from standing to crouched to a push up posture and back up again). The complexity is confronting for a beginner, especially with no dance or martial arts background. I was overwhelmed. As much as I wanted to learn (or did I just not want to give up?), I recognized that the psychological and time investment, not to mention the financial commitment, was not where I wanted to put my resources. Psychologically, I didn’t feel good about myself in the few classes I went to. I felt like a total incompetent with no hope of improvement. Time wise, I understood that, if I was to have any hope of improving, I would need to make room for a twice a week commitment, which would mean giving up other sports and activities I loved. Financially, that frequency would have been an expensive proposition. Did I want to commit time and money to a pursuit that was massively discouraging? Instead of coming to the obvious conclusion, a voice in my head doubled down on my discouragement, criticizing me for not being tough enough to take on the challenge. A week-long wrestling match took place inside my head. One voice trying to shame me into going back, taunting me for not being intrepid enough, for wallowing in a rut of breakup self-pity. There was another voice though. She invited me to focus my attention on things that give me pleasure. In the end, that second voice prevailed. She pointed out how much else on my plate was new. She forgave me my lack of go-get-em-ness, acknowledging that my self-esteem is not at an all-time high and that it is perfectly okay to be easier on myself.
The depth of my relief when I canceled the booking that I’d made for my fourth capoeira class was profound. A huge weight lifted off my chest and I could breathe easier. After all the self-criticism and shaming that my inner voices had rained down on me, once I made the decision, every single one of them quieted. No second thoughts. No shame.
I feel surprisingly easy with my choice. Even weirdly proud. In a period when I’ve been having some self-compassion gaps, this was a rare moment of solicitude for my current condition. I still believe that TNT is a worthwhile beacon. And, it is not always what’s needed.
Two months after an emergency visit to the hospital for 3 days (which I wrote about here), I’ve finally been diagnosed. I have Addison’s Disease. So, not enough for me to have a name for what ails me. It has to declare itself a disease. That causes a lot of dis-ease for me. There’s a strand of thinking that says we are empowered once we are diagnosed. Along the lines: Knowledge is power. Now you know what you’re dealing with. And that classic marketing tag line: If it can’t be measured, it can’t be managed. With a diagnosis, I’m in measurable territory. There’s a map. I can manage.
I should be relieved.
Instead, I feel defeated. I’m not yet able to accept that the price of staying alive is medication for the rest of my life. Before, when my condition was nameless, I could imagine it being easily solved by the integrative medicine protocol that I undertook with great optimism. In fact, the calculated risk I took in going off of the prescribed conventional medications did not, at least in the short term, work out. I had imagined myself proudly declaring to my medical doctors that I’d been off the medication and wasn’t my healing capacity amazing. Instead, I ended up with blood work results that clearly indicated my body spiraling toward another emergency visit. I could feel the deterioration happening. The exhaustion coming back. Instead of my smug satisfaction with the medical doctors, I was contrite, owning up to my infidelity to their recommendations. As the endocrinologist said, I can’t impress on you enough how important it is that you take these medications seriously, if you want to stay alive.
I do. Want to stay alive.
Most days.
My energy rebounded quickly after getting back to the recommended protocol. And, I feel ridiculously fragile. Death accompanies me everywhere. Sure, I know in that mindfulness way that, I could die at any moment. Now this consciousness is not about mindfulness, it’s the knowledge that if I stop putting these little pills in my body three times a day, then my heart will quit. Some days, I hold the pill in my hand and toy with the idea of not taking it, of letting nature take its course.
I wonder if my vitality even counts anymore. My energy is so much a part of my identity. If it’s not real, am I a fake? Who am I?
I understand that the fact that I have not been on medication before now is a massive privilege. I was not nearly as aware of that privilege as I am now. I understand that what I write here risks triggering people already on medication. You have every right to think, Get over yourself.
I had distanced myself from the possibility of disease. That won’t happen to me, I thought. I took credit for my health; thought I deserved it. After all, I exercise, eat veggies, sleep, meditate … you know, all the things we’re supposed to do. Right? Then my adrenal system stopped functioning. For no discernible reason. Except … these last 18 months have been stressful—my 28-year marriage dissolved; I lost my financial security, my home, my mother, my cat; and now, the cherry on top, this business with my health. I’ve written about the mountain of grief here and the psychological toll of my financial insecurity here. I haven’t even gotten to the perilous state of the world.
A loud inner critic attacks me: You failed to manage your stress. This disease is all your fault. More. You deserve this disease, because you have not had adequate empathy for others’ illness, because you were so cossetted in your healthy person privilege. You have brought this on yourself with your hubris, with every time you’ve answered a health questionnaire with the word robust to describe your health. The critic could go on at much greater length, but you get the picture.
A friend of mine, who was trying to be helpful, recently told me that I just needed to shift the narrative in my head. She tried to reassure me by saying that everything happens for a good reason, that there’s always a silver lining and that I need only put a different spin on the events unfolding. My inner critic was delighted to be so affirmed. See, she said, your fault. Oof. I get that my friend and my inner critic have good intentions. They fear that I’ve lost my belief in myself and they want me to pull up my socks. I want to pull up my socks. There’s nothing more annoying than a falling down sock that pesters the foot. Yet, sometimes I just want a caring human to sit down beside me while I take off my shoe and look at my sock and bemoan it’s falling down-ness, as if I were a character in a play written by Samuel Beckett.
At the same time, I actually do want to put one foot in front of the other and I know that will be easier with functional socks. So, even as I still crave the accompaniment and patience of another human, I’ve come up with a sock-friendly narrative I am working on adopting. New narratives don’t happen in a minute.
Here it is: Everything that’s happened in my life, just happened. Not for a good reason. Not with a silver lining. I am grateful to Thomas Moore, the author of Dark Nights of the Soul, for his clear-eyed book, in which he spoke with many people who had been through serious ordeals. Although they had all learned from their challenges, they did not say they wouldn’t have it any other way, or that they were grateful to their ordeal for having awoken them from their slumber. Instead, they said, in more eloquent words than the ones that follow, what happened sucked, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, and, despite the bad hand I was dealt, I made the decision to grow from the experience and not to fold beneath its weight. The book gave me permission to feel all my grief and rage. Life will serve lemons. We have the right to gnash our teeth and wail or not get out of bed or whatever we need to do to honor and embody the ordeal. What doesn’t serve us is to resist the dark feelings that come with the dark nights. And, the and is key, we then have a choice about how we want to alchemize the lemons we’ve been served. We can bypass and add lots of sugar, hoping to hide the bitter. Or we can make bracing fresh lemonade that cleanses our system.
What is, is. I can either fight against what is, or I can work with it. Some years ago, I had the word compassion tattooed on my arm. It was supposed to remind me to have compassion for others and, crucially, for myself. This ordeal has brought me face to face with the compassion gap caused by the unconscious bias of my previous privilege. My inner critic screams into the gap, provoking an echo response from the canyon walls inside my head. The lemonade opportunity in all this is compassion. So simple. And so not. A super tall, skyscraper of an order.
I have the beginning of a to-do list for this new narrative: I need to begin with a hand outstretched to my critic. After all, compassion, like most things, starts at home. She is working hard to keep me upright and aware. I want, too, to create more ritual around taking my pills, to honor the fact that every time I take one, it’s a conscious choice to live. My friend Lori, who is a Reiki Master, suggested that I infuse my pills with the energy of Reiki and bring to them the intention of receiving their grace into my body as pure light and healing. I had a sudden flash of, Oh, that’s what my levels 1 & 2 Reiki certifications are for. More compassion put into practice.
The last thing that I’ve come up with so far, is to be compassionate with the critic and with all the other voices in my head who are having a hard time: The anxious part of myself, who trembles faced with all the unknowns in my life right now. The grieving part. The demotivated part. All of them.
Just as I long for someone to sit beside me and my falling down sock, I will sit beside my critic and my anxiety and my grief. After all, they are friends who need my support. Earlier in this piece, I wondered who I am and whether my diagnosis changed the answer. I’ve found my way here to several answers. First, I am the same person, with many different, sometimes conflicting and hopefully evolving characteristics. Another answer is aspirational, I want to be a person who sits beside others. And I’ll start with myself.
On the morning of June 14th, I went for what was to be a vigorous walk with a friend. About 30 minutes into our walk, we took a set of stairs up and out of Riverside Park. Stairs I’ve walked and run up for almost 30 years, with ease. I was so winded that I needed to take stop to catch my breath. Then I got dizzy and my friend suggested we sit down on a park bench. I started crying. This is what I was talking about, I said. I’d been telling her about my increasing tiredness these last months. The trouble I was having mustering for a workout. Not mentally. Psychologically, I still wanted to move. Very much. And physically, my body was fritzing out on me. That morning I’d felt my physical exhaustion as I lay in bed. My heartbeat was erratic. The way it gets when I’ve had far too little sleep for several days running. I’d already made a doctor’s appointment to check my blood work for a clue about what was up. But it’s New York City. The appointment wasn’t for another month. I’d started taking more iron and a B-complex.
We’re walking over to urgent care, my friend said. I agreed. Reluctantly. At urgent care the doctor took my pulse and blood pressure and pointed his finger out the door. You need to go to the hospital emergency right now. Whatever is going on with you, it’s beyond what we have the capacity to address here. I don’t remember his name. As I write this, I’m thinking that I want to go back to that office and thank him.
I walked up the 10 blocks to the emergency department of the nearest hospital. With my note from the urgent care doctor, they whisked me to the head of the line of walk-ins and zipped me through intake. I waited a short time, that felt like forever, for them to take my blood. I sat on the last free chair, that had been wiped free of its streak of … was that shit or blood? I felt tired and frustrated and disconcerted among all the ailing people. Notice that I didn’t say “other ailing people,” because I wasn’t one of them. In my mind. I was just anemic, or just … something else. A woman next to me on a gurney was sitting up and moaning. Pulling on her clothes and skin and hair. Begging for more painkillers. All the patients, regardless of race, looked like they’d been washed with a patina of grey.
Then a nurse (was it a nurse?) came and crouched down beside me with a look of urgency. She explained things to that I didn’t hear. About potassium. About my heart stopping. About follow her, please. Now. She led me into the belly of the emergency department and after a search, found a bed to put me on. I was walking. How bad could it be? She was followed closely by a nurse (I know he was a nurse, because I saw him multiple times) who was carrying an armload of syringes and an array of coloured electrical wiring. Things went sideways from there. I was pumped full of many things, which I understood were at minimum saving my heart from severe damage and more likely saving my life. At one point I said to the nurse, trying for lightness, I guess I’m not wasting your time being here. He looked at me and shook his head. You are lucky you’re here.
I feel lucky now. I felt less lucky in the thick of those next days.
36 hours in the Emergency Department, which is its own kind of special hell. Bright interrogation room lighting. The sounds of people in distress. Incessantly beeping machines. The clank and clatter of other metal and plastic rolling around. Voices talking about dire situations, like the multi-car accident that landed a slew of people into the ED who needed to take priority over everyone else. From my bed, I could see the resuscitation room entrance where ambulances unloaded. At my angle, I could only see the heads and shoulders of the emergency response teams wheeling people in through the plastic antechamber. Then I’d hear the announcements asking for Ron and Sergey to the resuss room. I imagined those less lucky than me. I want to say it made me feel fortunate, but I was so exhausted and strung out, it was hard to tap into my inner resources.
Friends brought me necessities: toothbrush and toothpaste, a phone charger, a pillow, noise canceling headphones, slip on sandals; also, pizza and chocolate toward the end of my second day there. Eventually I was moved to a regular floor of the hospital, where I shared a room with one other person and the relative silence was a deafening relief. Every few hours someone came and took my blood and gave me medications. They dripped sodium through an IV, then magnesium. They stripped potassium from my body. There was an urgent request that I drink successive cups of orange juice to stabilize my blood sugar, only to realize later that oranges are a high potassium food.
I began to feel better.
They did other tests, too—ultrasound for my kidneys, echocardiogram for my heart. Nothing yielded answers about why my body had tipped into such an extreme imbalance.
I begged to be allowed to leave. Later, I saw in the doctors’ notes, Patient is anxious to leave. I was terrified by the lack of answers. And I was terrified to be in the hospital.
It’s been a month and a half since that experience. I’ve been washed through by tsunamis of anxiety. I’ve gotten partial, interim answers. Mostly on things that have been ruled out. I’ve seen a kidney doctor who gave me stopgap medication to stabilize my system and who has promised to be available to me until I get to the kind of doctor I need to see, apparently an adrenal specialist. I’ve had a CT scan with IV contrast, which was a trip to another level of hell. I’ve consulted an Integrative Medicine team, who have given me an alternative protocol to heal underlying causes, if I can trust them and have faith in my body.
I feel shaken to the core. I cry a lot. I sleep, sometimes deeply, and then wake seized by terror.
A foggy road through a forest … how my life feels. Santiago Lacarta on Unplash
And, in the midst of the unknown, my body has found a fragile interim stability. My energy has started to return. I’ve been able to run and go to yoga and Pilates. I don’t feel 100%, but I feel so much better than in the 2 months leading up to my hospital stay. Friends tell me I should take it easy. I rebel. I asked the one specialist I’ve actually gotten to see (a nephrologist, aka kidney doctor) whether I could be physically active. To which he said, Do whatever feels possible.
I don’t want to take it easy. I’ve been drained for months. If I have a drop of renewed energy, I want to indulge in it. Revel in it. Be gluttonous. Feast on the energy and come back for a second helping. Moving is my happy place. And my happy place has been relatively inaccessible to me these last months. I’m scared my happy place will move beyond my reach again. I want to fill up on it while I can.
I am more acutely aware than I have ever been that the future will do what it wants. The best I can do is live fully. Laugh when possible. Find joy where I can. And offer thanks to my body every day it can move me to a sweat.
We watched the first episode of a fun documentary series at my house the other night, The Human Playground. It’s on Netflix, narrated by Idris Elba. There’s a book project of the same name released to coordinate with the Netflix series.
Cover of the book The Human Playground: Why We Play
We watched the first episode, Breaking the Pain Barrier which included a marathon in the desert, bullfighting, a brutal bicycle race, and ice swimming.
What was striking was that three of the four athletes featured were women
The first was Amy Palmiero-Winters who raced in the Sahara Desert, in Southern Morocco in the most painful marathon in the world, Marathon des Sables, French for “marathon of the sands.” It’s a six-day, 156-mile-long ultramarathon, equal to six regular marathons. One marathon a day for six days over blazing hot sand and yet there are hundreds of participants each with their own personal reasons for taking on this very painful challenge.
Needless to say we weren’t tempted and I’m still shocked that there are that many participants. It’s not the back to back marathons that make it look impossible but the conditions including the bright sun, the heat, and the scorching hot sand.
Next up was cycling and the story of the famous very dangerous Paris-Roubaix race and its first women’s event.
The episode follows Ellen van Dijk, one of the first women to ever compete.
Why is this race so dangerous? It includes sections on ancient cobblestones, the bicycle’s worst enemy. This race is so bad it’s called the Hell of the North. There are numerous inevitable crashes and broken bones and damaged bikes. It looks terrifying to me.
Ellen van Dijk with mud and dirt on her white jersey and helmet and her face
The episode also includes the story of a woman who swims below the ice in bone chilling temperatures. And there was a dude who did some sport that involved risking his life dodging horned animals while unarmed. I confess I tuned out about during that bit. Not because the athlete was a man but I’m not a fan of sports that involve animals in combat.
And I’m someone who has enjoyed her fair share of punishing workouts and pushing myself. That said, this show did not really help me understand the athletes who seek out the extremes. The ice swimmer’s story involved recovery from sexual assault and she sought out very painful (and very risky) extreme cold swimming as a way of dealing with trauma. But I worried she was going to die beneath the ice from passing out from the cold the whole time I was watching her swim. I thought, “get a therapist!”
The scorching sand marathon? No way on earth. And even the bike racing–the least deathy of the activities and most in my wheelhouse–didn’t appeal even though the worst case outcome involved broken bones and not death and there is skill involved in not crashing. The bike race and the horned animal avoiding sport at least looked like there was more skill involved than just your body’s ability to endure the extreme conditions but still, no way on earth…
Watch it and let me know what you think.
I asked Sarah who watched with me if the show either helped her understand the athletes’ motivation or tempted her to undertake such painful and dangerous sports. She’s promised me her two cents in a separate blog post.
I am interested in how dancing connects us with others, such as when dark dancing provided a community for dancers during the isolation of the COVID-19 pandemic. At the same time, dancing with others can also inhibit us, especially when we fear that others see us as bad dancers out on the dance floor.
Today, my post today reflects on the people who need neither community nor coping mechanisms—they dance boldly and fearlessly to music around others, even if they dance alone.
Recently I was at an outdoor country music festival stage show—supporting a friend who was supporting her partner who was in the band. The set started for about 30 people sitting or standing in the warm sun.
Soon I noticed someone dressed in cowboy hat, jeans, and boots who had started dancing at the side of the stage. He looked about 80. He was the only person dancing. I gestured to my friend over to him, and she said, “Oh, that’s Bev. He always dances, no matter what music is playing.”
I learned more: Bev has special notoriety among local musicians for coming out to so many shows and always, always dancing. Bev has even been featured in a music video by my friend’s old band.
Jenn Marino & the Hearts – Got Me Movin’ featuring Bev Camp
Not dancing but watching
Watching Bev shuffle out moves like a one-man line dancer, I thought about the (very few) number of times I was brave enough to be the first one up and dancing. I get my itchy feet from my parents, who have always loved music and for years enjoyed two-stepping and square dancing. But the risk of being seen as the weirdo dancing by herself has, more often than not, kept me rooted in my chair.
Some guy in front of me pulled out his phone, training it on Bev rather than on the band. When the guy noticed me noticing him, he smiled and gestured towards Bev in a conspiring way, like I should agree that Bev was making a spectacle of himself dancing alone, so it was ok to record him.
Before the set was over, Bev had moved closer to centre stage, continuing to dance as if he didn’t even notice anyone else was there. We all noticed him, but nobody joined him.
Dance like no one is watching
I didn’t speak with Bev, but I guess that he doesn’t dance at live music to make a spectacle of himself. Bev is there for the music. Maybe he does it to maintain muscle strength and agility, or maybe he just no longer fears what other people think. Maybe Bev doesn’t feel he as if he is dancing alone: his dance partner is the music.
Perhaps dancers are gawked at and teased by those who want to dance but lack the courage to do so. I am still not always able to (as the platitude goes) “dance like no one is watching.” But I will cheer on Bev and others like him, and maybe enjoy the music a little bit more, knowing there are beautiful, brave people who don’t need anyone’s approval to just go ahead and dance.
FIFI bloggers have shared many beautiful and uplifting posts about the aerobic, aesthetic, historical, cultural, and social aspects of their dance and dancing.
But I want to talk about bad dancing. Not defining what is bad dancing (too subjective, or in the case of trained dancing, too specialized). Rather, I want to consider how we respond to the fear of bad dancing in social situations that can creep on the edges of our minds before, during, or after we dance.
Dancing, the media, and us
If you’re of a certain age, a single one word brings to mind the epitome of “bad dancing”: Elaine.
Elaine dancing, from Seinfeld.
If you’re not quite at that age, but close, here’s second word that sums up dancing so bad it’s good: (the) Carlton.
Carlton dancing, from Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.
Both tv sitcom clearly characters find joy and freedom in their dancing. Yet, these scenes also capture some not uncommon worries about dancing: folks laughing behind our backs without our knowledge (like Elaine), or being seen and judged when we dance (though I realize that race, class, and culture ground the joke of Carlton dancing to a Tom Jones song as well).
The media not only reflects but can also amplify our worries. Elaine’s scene reminds us that wedding and parties are places where dancing is a social expectation. We might start to compare our dancing with the many mainstream media celebs and performers who dance with more style and grace (thanks to professional training). Also, there are TikTok dancers around to remind us how much money we are not making from our own dancing.
I bet my non-existent jazz flats that—even those with actual dance training—most folks at some point have wondered whether they were a bad dancer, or if others might have thought so. Just last week, after a fun house dance night with about 12 people I avoided watching the phone videos that were shared around because I didn’t want to watch myself, or see others watching me.
Am I a bad dancer? Part I
How do we respond to fears of being regarded (or regarding ourselves) as a “bad dancer,” or at least not a very good one, when dancing in social settings?
There are lots of ways, most of which fall somewhere between the Elaine (totally surprised/defensive) and Carlton (hyperaware/embarrassed). Read on to see what strategies you have used, and let me know what I have missed.
You can avoiddancing situations, or refusedancing when you cannot avoid those situations, and accept the social consequences of being a non-dancer, as this blogger explains in 20 Things You’ll Understand if You’re a Bad Dancer.
You can seek out ways to reduceyourinhibitions to care less about how you (or other) feel about your dancing. “Liquid courage” is a common method. There’s even a study that suggests that if you find the “platform of effective intoxication,” alcohol can actually make you a better dancer.
You can choose ironicdancing, an exaggerated form of dancing that is intentionally self-deprecative, as this DJ describes. (Think the Robot, the Sprinkler, or any other passé dance craze). Some may interpret your ironic dancing as making fun of not yourself but them on the dance floor.
You can find places for social dancing that will keep yourself anonymous or your body movements invisible to the crowd. Examples include virtual reality dancing, masquerades, and dark dancing at home or in clubs.
You can accept that you are not a trained dancer, but danceanyway—just for fun, relaxation, or exercise. Perhaps you are someone with the congenital condition known as beat deafness, in which you cannot distinguish rhythm or move in time to it.
You might get constructive and practice dancing, as suggested by the advice in this Steezy blog post: take time watch online dance lessons, practice in front of a mirror or in safe places with friends, and take in-real-life dance classes.
You may embrace your dancing as a form of resistance or protest—to white/middle-class/ableist dance norms, the hyper-regulation of bodies, and other forms of systemic injustice. I will never forget for the first time watching Childish Gambino (Donald Glover) in his music video “This is America” (warning: violence)—his dancing had me re-thinking my assumptions about what dancing is, who dancing is for, and why dancing is such an important form of representation and resistance in BIPOC communities. (See this Atlantic article for more.)
Am I a bad dancer? Part II
Upon re-watching Elaine after her let-loose dance scene, I didn’t find myself sharing in her friends and employees’ teasing. Rather, I wished Elaine would have taken her own advice from her wedding toast: “Here’s to those who wish us well. And those who don’t can go to hell.”
In her post Bad Dancers?, dance and fitness instructor Karen Kiefer writes, “A dance floor will always have people with different styles and knowledge levels about dancing: which doesn’t mean they are good or bad dancers, just people enjoying themselves for an evening.”
This is a reminder to you (and me): when you have an Elaine and Carlton-level love of dancing, don’t ask the question—because then the answer doesn’t matter.
I am pleased to report that after a mere thirteen years of Taekwondo training*, I am finally virtually unfazed by being asked to lead the warm-up for my class.
If you recall, my post for International Women’s Day was about my challenges with stepping up to lead in that specific way and how important it is/was to me to get past those challenges.
So, back in March, I had decided that the way to get over my reluctance was to 1) lead the class for several weeks in a row- so I would be able to get used to the feeling and 2) make a lesson plan in advance to reduce the risk of going blank while I was up in front of everyone.**
And it totally worked!
I didn’t even end up leading the class every week that I was planning to – I was sick one week and my instructor led the entire group together another week. It was still enough time to get used to being up in front of everyone, to find my own groove with instructing, and to prepare enough lesson plans and warm-ups that I can use at any time.
Image description: a GIF of Moira Rose from the TV show Schitt‘s Creek. She is wearing a referee’s uniform and her expression (lips pressed together, eyes looking to one side) looks as if she is admonishing someone. Text below reads ‘One must prepare for any event.’
I have to say, I like knowing that I am prepared and that I won’t feel overwhelmed by being asked to take the class. In fact, two weeks ago, I was asked on the spur of the moment to take the class and as I stepped up onto the small stage at the front I realized that I wasn’t uncomfortable at all.
That was exactly what I was hoping for when I made my plan for March.
In June, I am going to be testing for my 4th degree black belt, a rank that means there is a lot lot more teaching in my future. I am grateful to know that the ‘trick’ to making myself more comfortable with that really is to prepare and to practice.
(Yes, this is the same ‘trick’ I apply in every other area but it had never occurred to me to apply it at TKD.)
Do you have one area of your life where you can’t quite bring the same oomph that you bring in other areas? Have you found a way around it? Were you able to transfer a skill from somewhere else?
*I’m being funny here, or at least trying to be. My fear of taking charge of the class has only been an issue for the past few years since I wouldn’t have been asked or expected to lead the class for most of the early part of my training. Previous to the past few years, I might have been asked to lead a small group or to lead students who were behind me in my training but my reluctance to step up in front of the whole group – my peers and students with more advanced ranks – was a relatively recent issue.
**Taekwondo is practically the only time I fear going blank on stage. I tell stories, give speeches and presentations, and do workshops regularly and while I might feel a bit nervous, I don’t worry about going blank. I guess that because TKD involves coordinating what I am saying with what I am doing it adds an extra layer of stress for me.
I honestly didn’t know what other title to give this post, and I’m also not quite sure where it’s going (nowhere, is probably where).
Over here in Europe, we’ve got our eyes turned eastward in horror. We pack boxes of baby items, nappies, cereal, fruit purée pouches, and face masks, and send them off in a lorry in the hopes they will reach the desperate people who need them. We wonder whether we should start stocking up on non-perishable goods and have a survival backpack ready to go just in case. At work lunches, we talk about whether we should be ready to flee to a different country, and if so, which one (Canada comes up a lot). And we try to guess whether Putin will stop in Ukraine, and what will happen if a Russian soldier so much as puts one little toe over the border of a NATO country. We wonder if, in the face of a never-ending pandemic, global warming, and war just one country over, bringing a child into this world was really the right thing to do.
Thinking about fitness, or doing fitnessy things, doesn’t come easy these days. It feels shallow to care about whether I will achieve 222 in 2022 (probably not). I catch myself thinking, “what if war happens and we have to survive outside or flee on foot, and I’m as unfit as I am right now?” But at the same time, when I can get myself to move, it helps. It distracts me, it gets me out into the sunshine (finally, a hint of spring!), it gets me away from the onslaught of horrible news coming at us from all angles right now. An hour in the pool makes me feel invigorated. A short Yoga with Adriene session makes my body feel less stiff. And a long walk in the sun with friends makes me feel more optimistic.
And then our very own Sam shares an article on Facebook entitled “What to do when the World is ending”, and I realise that, as hard as it seems right now, and as much as I want to curl up in a dark corner, close my eyes and stick my fingers in my ears, I will continue trying to take agency and working to build a good life amidst all this chaos. Thanks for sharing that article, Sam, it was exactly what I needed the other day.
