By Katelyn Roberts
@katelynjroberts
As most people have during the pandemic, I, too, began working out at home: yoga, boxing, running, HIIT, new age pilates regimes, you get it. Although this addiction to remain “on schedule” or to “have a routine” or to lie to myself and say that “I’m still a high functioning member of society” is absolutely exhausting, the last few months have brought me clarity and a deep revelation.
It started with me doing these 20-minute yoga YouTube videos. In one, the instructor told me “pull your knees in nice and tight, give yourself a little hug, maybe even give yourself a little kiss.” My first reactions were: show my body kindness? Sweetness? Hug myself? Kiss myself? WHY? But alas, I gave my knees little kisses because I’m a rule follower through and through. And I started to cry. As if my body felt my kindness and my brain simply did not know how to process it. Then I gave myself more little kisses on my arms and legs and squeezed myself tighter. I sprawled out on the floor for a few minutes and cried then I got up, showered and didn’t let myself think about it again until now.
To be clear, I don’t normally shy away from feelings: I cry at almost everything (happy or sad) and discussing why I’m so emotionally stunted is one of me and my partner’s favourite pastimes. I do, however, base 90 per cent of my self-worth on how my body looks (the other 10 per cent is based solely on whether or not my dog sits next to me on the couch), which has led me down some very sad, dark, dangerous roads. I equate the love I deserve with whether or not my ass can fit into the size 28 jeans I bought pre-pandemic. So when a friend asked if I wanted to do “The Class” with her, which is basically HIIT-meets-reiki-meets-pilates-meets-therapy, I said “yeah, for sure!” And let myself ignore that request for months. During the summer, though, I got into one of those deep funks that tells me I’m worthless, boring, unproductive, ugly, yucky, and so, naturally, I turn to my body to try to increase my self worth and I tried The Class.
For my first class, I choose an instructor who’s wearing a (very cute) rusty pink leotard, has long balayage hair and a tight, svelte composure to her. Within three minutes I am wheezing and my butt feels like it is on fire, and Natalie started firing questions at me “What’s stopping you from becoming more of you?” “What does your doubt look like?” “In the time that you have, where do you choose to go?” At one point in the routine, the instructor said to “just feel the beat” while making guttural noises, which I first scoff at but then I do it and it feels GOOD. Like, with each noise I create more space between my body and the rest of the world. She whispers, “take all those expectations, all that comparison and let go. Let go,” and although it feels so corny and embarrassing, my body moves in a way that I haven’t allowed it to move in many, many, many moons. For a moment I feel true to me. The class ends by swinging your arms and body back and forth to a lyrically inspiring song until you are basically numb. I undoubtedly cry each time I perform this bizarre ritual. It is so strange and yet, so profoundly therapeutic. It is called “Heart Clearing” and I often crave it.
So what? Am I now revolving my entire existence around The Class just like I’ve done many times before with other identity replacements? Honestly, I think so??? Dear reader, I know how dumb it sounds but as each day passes and my brain becomes more reliant on finding “victories,” it is often the only thing keeping me feeling normal. And then the other day I had an international transaction alert on my credit card and I realized my free trial was over.
I’ve heard people describe The Class as bougie but I’m realizing now that what they really mean to say is that The Class is for the bourgeoisie. The same way that all wellness culture, anyone that uses the hashtag #FitFam, any program or club that requires us to enter our credit card numbers, is capitalist. When I talk about capitalism, I’m referring to the economic and political system that we live and work in, the foundation of which is “the harder you work, the more you will receive” (I.e. $$$$) and it creates and maintains what is essentially a hierarchy of humans all striving to achieve greatness (wealth, happiness, love). When you internalize capitalism, you are creating a narrative in your mind that tells you all resources are finite and you better work, bitch.
Although often branded as being “for everyone,” exercise and health culture is rarely free. What this means is that to be part of the “club,” you have to spend money and time. This means that in order to be “in” you likely have to exist within a certain socioeconomic status; this is often extended to gender expressions, the colour of your skin, physical expressions of clothing, hair, piercings, tattoos. How often do you see a goth bitch at Equinox? Literally never.
I often feel shame for being so fortunate and privileged and yet still, have the audacity to hate myself and my body. But what I’ve come to realize is so much of my distaste for myself is fuelled by my inability to feel like I have “value.” When you quantify your actions, you’re allowing internalized capitalism to dictate your motives. Let me ask you: does exercising make you feel like you’re better than others? Do you feel better about yourself when the number on the scale is lower even though you feel sickly? Does your expensive gym membership include an unlimited use of eucalyptus-scented towels and that makes you feel superior? Have you ever cried because you ate too much and that somehow that made you feel ugly?
When we internalize capitalism, we believe that unless we can meet these standards we aren’t worthy. If we can’t work out, we can’t get strong, thin, taute or toned. If we aren’t those things then we are nothing. When you assign value to your body, or part of your body, you are instantaneously subjecting yourself to being worthless. At what point does your value increase? What magical action determines your “stock” to go up? They are just products of the capitalist system, which I have subconsciously allowed to shape me. It costs me $52 per month to clear my heart on demand.
I can’t explain how embarrassing it is to feel so angry about how monetization controls my life and at the same time feel like I absolutely must pay this monthly fee to feel like me. I feel shame contributing to the very system that breaks down my spirit on the daily and, yet, there are times when it can make me feel so validated, so good, so complete. Like I have won. It is absolutely my privilege as a white, cis-settler to have these feelings, and I am learning, albeit slowly, how to negotiate them to dismantle the very system I benefit from.
In a time of anger, chaos, grief and sickness, why am I still so obsessed with the way my body looks? I choose unlimited self loathing when I could just choose unlimited love, unlimited gratitude. I could choose to believe the perky instructor when she tells me “it’s so beautiful seeing you become more and more of yourself.”
Not because of but in spite of the way internalized capitalism conflicts with my desires, I’ve started to challenge myself to do the following: stop measuring the sizes, the weights, the amount of food on my plate or the amount of time spent sweating. Instead, consider why I get so emotional when I show myself kindness? Can my 90/10 self worth calculation be measured on intangible parts of me? Better yet, why does it even exist in the first place? Why can’t I be enough on my own? Choose to hug myself, hold myself, kiss myself.
By some force of nature, while sobbing in the middle of a jumping jack I realized that to be kind to myself, to love myself is indeed an act of defiance. If capitalism teaches us to despise ourselves, to work harder, faster, more, then to not do those things is radical. To take care of yourself, your family, your friends, are all acts of insubordination. So in a time of protest and sadness, by being me, by being okay with where I’m at, to move or to not move, by rolling up in a ball and kissing my knees: I am declaring myself autonomous, defiant.
Katelyn prides herself on her tenderness for her alien dog, her family, and her dearest friends. She is indebted to her ability to prosper under pressure, seek love in all wickedness, and to recognize when The Man is present.
