Fitness Classes for Estranged Daughters

On finding maternal energy in unlikely places...

A few years ago, I realized that if I want to maintain a regular fitness routine, I can’t wait around to feel motivated or expect a free hour to magically appear in my day. I have to hack my schedule.

At the beginning of every week, I block off hours on my Outlook calendar so I can sneak off to the neighborhood gym or Pilates studio for a group class. I schedule these faux meetings at various times. 11:30 on a Wednesday morning. 2:00 on a Friday afternoon. I label the sessions “urgent,” not to deceive my clients and coworkers, but to signal that the appointments with myself are nonnegotiable.

In the middle of a weekday, most adults my age are either at work or at home caring for young children – not donning stretchy pants and grippy socks and practicing side planks. Instead, these midday workouts are attended primarily by women who are retired, semi-retired, or empty nesters. In other words, women who are 10, 15, 20 years older than me. Women who, as I discovered, light up when I walk in the door, who ask me if I'm drinking enough water, who notice my new haircut and ask about my writing as we stretch and warm up. I’ve come to crave their attention, the instructor's hand on my shoulder gently correcting my form, the steady stream of chit-chat and encouragement. I feel surrounded by surrogate mothers.

My own mother often claimed she should have never had children, an opinion of hers that became a defining principle of my childhood. She said it whenever she tripped over my brother's Matchbox cars. She said it when we ran out of food. She said it whenever bill collectors called. She said it when my dad moved across the country. She said it as she languished in bed, paralyzed by depression and anxiety. 

From a young age, I understood that my mother was not a reliable source of nurturing. I learned to compensate for her limitations by seeking out other maternal figures: grade school teachers who offered me warm hugs; my friends' mothers, who invited me over for playdates and made me peanut butter sandwiches, sliced in perfect triangles; the clerk at the grocery store who recognized me by name and gave me a lollipop; an elderly neighbor who loved to brush the knots out of my hair. 

I used to feel ashamed by how much I needed these encounters. (A lollipop is a poor substitute for mothering.) Yet, as an adult, I've come to embrace tiny maternal gestures, even seek them out. One of the things I love about visiting the South, where I grew up, is the likelihood that a complete stranger will call me Darlin’ or Sweetheart. I realized that cumulatively, these interactions fill a void. They don't erase the neglect I experienced, but they are a balm, soothing the young parts of me that still want to be parented, that want to feel special. 

“Are you my mother?”

As a kid, I loved to read the picture book "Are You My Mother?" by P.D. Eastman. It's a story about a baby bird. His mother, thinking her egg is safe in the nest, flies away to find food. The baby bird hatches while his mother is away. The hatchling doesn't know where his mother is, so he leaves the nest to look for her. He asks a kitten, "Are you my mother?", then a hen, a dog, a car, a boat. The book, published in 1960, was named among the "Top 100 Books for Children.” The story endures, I think, because everyone understands the primal need to belong to someone, to be seen and known and loved. 

Psychologists might put my maternal encounters under the label “corrective emotional experience.” Exposing yourself to favorable environments and experiences that run counter to your childhood can help rewire your brain. Over time, the good can outweigh the bad, providing a sort of catharsis and self-compassion that makes it easier to heal. 

It’s a complicated equation, and I know the ladies in my midday Pilates classes can't ever make up for what my mother lacked. But their kindness is a gift. And though I know it’s not transactional, I offer them my gratitude and respect. Maybe I give them a little of the attention that they crave from their adult children. In a world that tends to overlook women of a certain age, I see them. More than that, I aspire to be like them – intuitive, embodied, self-assured.

At the end of each class, we all feel resilient, warm, less alone. And when I start my book tour next month, many of these women will be sitting in the audience cheering me on.

Follow me into the dark…

This summer I’ll be teaching a craft seminar at Lighthouse Writers Workshop about using questions or unknowns to drive your personal narrative (a device I use in my own memoir). To prepare, I’ve been reading (or re-reading) some pieces that explore unanswerable questions (or unfinished business) in a satisfying way. A few I’m loving:

• Siri Tells a Joke

• The Unravelers

• Alexander Chee’s exploration of receipts, money, and pain

If you’re in Colorado and want to sign up for the class, click here. It takes place June 12th in person at the Lighthouse headquarters in Denver, and last I checked, there were 6 spots still available.

Book Tour: Reserve Your Seat!

• 5/14 Boulder Bookstore Launch Event

• 5/20 Eagle Eye Book Shop in Atlanta

I can’t tell you how excited I am to meet readers in person. I hope you’ll join me at one of these events. Stay tuned for more tour stops coming this summer and fall.

Book Club Visits

I’ve had a couple requests to visit book clubs this summer. If you’re part of a book club that wants to read my book and have me speak (via Zoom or in person for locals), send me a note! I’d love to make that happen.

Preorders Really, Truly, Actually Matter

If you’ve ever wondered why authors focus so much on preorders, read this post. I am so grateful for every single one of you who has purchased or recommended my book.