Tag: Acceptance

Late to Class, Right on Time for Perspective

I was almost late to my Pilates class the other day. I like to get there early to grab my favorite reformer—it’s perfectly positioned under the air conditioning and to the right side of the room, which works best for my non-functioning ear. (I’m 98% deaf in my left ear, but let’s be honest—98%, 100%, it’s all the same. I hear nothing.)

But alas, I was distracted and arrived just a minute before class started. My usual spot was taken, and I ended up in the back, squeezed between two other reformers. Not ideal. But class was great regardless, and I was happy I made it.

There’s a nice mix of women in the class—some younger, some older. Some wear those perfectly coordinated Pilates-girlie sets, others show up in whatever they grabbed from their closet that morning. I usually fall into the latter camp. That day was no different.

I admire the cute outfits, but I rarely wear them. They don’t work well for my body. I was born with Spina Bifida, and it’s visible if I wear low-rise pants or crop tops. It looks like a belly button on my back—I’m used to it, but other people, not so much.

Over the years, I’ve been poked, prodded, and asked more questions than I can count. Most people are just curious and mean no harm, but sometimes the questions are too much. So, I often opt for clothes that cover it all up. It’s not just about comfort—it’s about avoiding attention, avoiding questions.

My reformer choice is also influenced by who ends up next to me. If I’m not early enough to choose my spot, I sometimes spend half the class adjusting my shirt to keep my lower back covered. That morning was no different—I kept tugging at my top between movements, trying to stay hidden.

But then, somewhere mid-class, I looked around. Both women beside me were completely focused on their own breath, their own bodies. Not looking at me. Not noticing my back. Not thinking twice.

And it hit me—maybe it’s me. Maybe I’ve been the one too self-conscious all this time. Maybe I’ve spent fifty-plus years worried about exposing something no one is actually paying attention to. I’ve avoided cute outfits, backless tops, anything that might show “too much,” thinking it would invite questions or judgment. But what if it wouldn’t? What if people are more focused on their own stuff—just like I am?

So maybe next time, I won’t worry so much about the reformer, or the waistband of my pants, or who might be glancing at my back. Maybe I’ll wear the outfit I’ve always liked but always avoided. Maybe I’ll let myself breathe a little easier, like the women on either side of me did—focused on their own journey, not mine.

Because the truth is, no one’s looking as hard as I think they are. And even if they are, maybe it’s time I stop hiding the parts of me that have carried me through life so powerfully. Spina Bifida, a late arrival, a back-row reformer—they’re all part of the story, but none of them get to define the joy I feel when I show up fully, as I am.

Maybe showing up is the cute outfit after all.