This was published 7 years ago
How adult dance classes helped me reclaim my body after birth
By Sarah McKenzie
The look of horror on my daughter's face when I told her I was signing up for adult dance lessons said it all – too old, too uncoordinated, too embarrassing.
No, I assured her, it would all be fine. I'd taken lessons as a child; I'd also spent a fair proportion of my 20s drinking illusion cocktails in nightclubs and believing myself the most gifted person on the dancefloor.
Dancing requires every part to be constantly vigilant and work as one.Credit: Stocksy
Now, as a grown adult, a kind of muscle memory would surely kick in and some previously-unrealised natural talent would cover the rest.
How wrong I was.
I chose a beginner/intermediate contemporary class, a somewhat confusing blend of classical ballet and modern dance, both rigid and fluid at the same time.
And there would be no church hall amateurism; I was going to go to a real proper dance production company. It probably shouldn't have come as such of a surprise then to find myself standing awkwardly among a roomful of confident, lithe 20-year-olds who had never stopped taking their dancing seriously, along with a sprinkling of semi-professionals recovering from injury.
To say that the first night was an exercise in humiliation is to sell the full horror of it way, way short.
First there was the language barrier. I didn't know a chaine from a chasse, and thought a fondu was a throwback to '70s dinner parties.
Then there were the physical barriers. Over the years I've swum, run, yoga-ed, worked out at the gym, and tried just about every Les Mills aerobics class known to humankind.
But there was something about dancing lessons that highlighted a massive disconnect between my brain and my body. No matter how hard I willed my body to replicate the same fluid movements of the teacher and others students, it remained frustratingly sluggish and disobedient.
This was physically demanding, emotionally frustrating and often just weird-looking – a world away from the poise and daintiness I had imagined achieving.
And never in my worst nightmares had I realised that I would have to perform these complicated jumps and turns and other ballet drills in my first lesson – one at a time. Oh, and in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
Also, did I mention, in a studio with gigantic glass windows behind which stood all the actual professional dancers waiting for their actual advanced class to begin.
But despite the intense humiliation, a quite incredible thing happened during that first class – my body and my mind started working together as one united, symbiotic unit. I hadn't felt that for years.
A combination of pregnancy, childbirth and getting older, I realised, had led me to reimagine my body as little more than a set of utilitarian mechanisms – like I was one of those butcher's posters of a cow covered in dotted lines where the whole thing can be carved up into individual, purposeful modules.
This bit grows a baby, these bits feed one, this bit can be used as a helpful perch for a toddler.
The beauty and exercise industry also encourage this kind of compartmentalisation of the female form. Our bodies are annexed into two main categories: assets to be highlighted; and problem areas to be targeted.
Legs must be shaved, tummies flattened, wrinkles diminished; squats build glutes and quads, planks work the core, dumbbells define triceps and biceps.
Dancing, however, doesn't work like that. It's a complicated, physically and emotionally cooperative activity that requires every part to be constantly vigilant and work as one.
There is actually little room for self-flagellation or to allow your mind to idly consider how uncoordinated you look because your brain is just working so goddamn hard.
I soon learnt, for example, that the perfect double pirouette isn't possible unless the preparation is expansive enough, the calves are strong, the retiré leg connects at just the right place, the hips are tucked under, the head spots quickly, while the arms make tiny adjustments in height and placement to maintain alignment and balance.
You cannot afford to see any part of yourself in isolation, otherwise you end up in a tangled mess on the floor. Which I did – many times.
But although that first lesson was entirely sobering, it was also transformational. I marvelled at the incredible capacity of the human body (not mine) to move as a seamless unit with grace and purpose and beauty.
I felt more grounded and more present within myself, like I was reclaiming my body as something that actually belonged to me, not a mothership on which various children clamber and subsist.
I also felt like I was using my brain in an entirely new and different way – indeed research points to improved memory, strengthened neural connections, and a potentially protective effect against dementia.
It's been nearly a year now since my dancing experiment began and, while I still mess up a fair proportion of the moves, I've grown stronger, more coordinated and increasingly accustomed to the concept of putting myself out there and risking humiliation in the pursuit of something that looks even slightly skilful.
And I've started thinking about my body differently. I still marvel at its ability to have grown and birthed and raised three young children. But I am also amazed at its ability to move, jump, stretch and flex.
I now see it as something that is greater than the sum of its parts. Occasionally, just occasionally, I even manage to pull off a half-decent double pirouette.