Pole dancing, performance, and the strange experience of learning how to feel

The mirrors are everywhere.

Not the soft, forgiving kind either.

Bright white walls.
Metal poles stretching from floor to ceiling like something between a playground and a dare.

I sit cross-legged on my mat, trying not to look as uncomfortable as I feel.

The small talk before class feels harder than the class itself.

Women introducing themselves easily.
Laughing like they’ve known each other for years.
Stretching casually across the floor like they belong here.

The room feels softer than I expect.

Like everyone here is carrying something they’re quietly trying to come back from.

Meanwhile, I keep adjusting my shorts.
Looking around the room.
Smiling just enough.

Then the instructor says,
“Alright, let’s start.”

Instant relief.

She pulls the dark velvet curtain closed.
The lights dim into red and violet.

The room changes temperature somehow.

My shoulders soften.

I signed up for pole because I thought it might make me feel sexy.

Connected to myself.
More feminine.
Like I was reclaiming some part of myself.

Back then, I thought confidence was something you learned visually first.

Makeup tutorials.
A better outfit.
A slower walk.
A stronger gaze.

Perform it long enough and maybe the feeling catches up.

That strategy had worked before.

Growing up as a child performer, I learned early how to create choreography people responded well to.

Smile here.
Tilt your head slightly.
Hold the pose half a second longer.

Adults called me confident.
The best dancer on the team.

I learned quickly that presentation mattered more than sensation.

The class starts with warm-ups.

Cat cows.
Hip stretches.
Lunges.

Simple movements.

Too simple.

My brain immediately starts judging everything.

This is easy.
Why am I even here?
This feels like a waste of money.

Meanwhile, everyone else is rolling slowly through their hips while I’m mentally ranking the efficiency of stretches.

Then the instructor says:
“Soften your chest.”
“Feel the stretch.”
“Do what feels good in your body.”

I understand the words.

I don’t understand the instructions.

What does “feel” even mean here?

I copy the movements anyway.

Technically, I’m doing them correctly.

But everything in me still feels performed.

Even stretching.

I keep checking the other women between movements.

My posture.
My angle.
Whether I look awkward.

My stomach stays pulled in the entire class.

The other women don’t move better than me.

But they look different.

Looser.
Faces relaxed.
Bodies moving without negotiation.

Like they actually live inside themselves.

That’s the part I can’t understand.

The instructor tells us to slow down into a wide-legged forward fold.

Around me, bodies melt toward the floor.

I force my upper body toward my toes.

Too far.
Too hard.

Trying to prove I’m the most flexible person in the room even though my hamstrings are screaming.

And then I stop.

I let go of my stomach first.
Then my shoulders.
Then my back.

I pull myself slightly out of the stretch instead of deeper into it.

Far enough to challenge myself.
Not far enough to prove something.

And suddenly the sharp pulling pain disappears.

I feel the stretch settle into my hips instead.
The heat in my thighs.

Nothing bad happens.

Nobody is watching me as closely as I thought they were.

My body softens a little when I stop treating it like it needs to earn its place in the room.

That feeling lasts maybe five seconds.

Still.
I notice it.

Like my body is trying to introduce itself to me for the first time.