When my friend Bea started pole dancing, she was enthusiastic about getting everyone involved – a common trope I would later learn. As a former gymnast and dance enthusiast, I was a potential recruit, so in 2023, my sister and I joined her for a class.
The class was packed, and the studio felt overly commercialized. The friction of skin against metal on the pole was painful, and spinning made me dizzy, forcing me to sit down to reorient myself.
I was also quite bad at it, and if I'm being honest, it damaged my fragile former gymnast ego.
In 2025, a few months after breaking up with my decade-long relationship. As a newly single person does, I tried new things and "put myself out there." After attending a burlesque show, I set my sights on taking pole dancing lessons – a way to connect with my femininity, build confidence, and perhaps one day perform on stage with full glamour and flair.
After some research, I found a Sydney pole studio that also offered striptease. When I learned that striptease wasn't being offered that semester, the owner offered me a trial pole class. I wasn't sure at first, but for $15 and the chance to try something different, I thought, why not?
Fortunately, my second class couldn't have been more different from my first. The studio had natural light streaming in through the windows, giving it a warm, cozy feel. The owner and instructor, Lucy, greeted me with a wide smile and laughter that immediately put me at ease.
Unlike my first crowded class, I was the only pole student here. I spent the afternoon learning the basics: walking around the pole, chair spins, climbs, and combining them into a mini routine, all cheered on by my personal fan.
By the end of the class, I was proud of myself for giving the pole another chance. The pain and dizziness were still there, but not as bad as I had imagined. I was curious to learn more, so I signed up for a 10-week beginner course the next day.
During a heartbreak period when days blurred together, pole dancing gave me structure, and soon, Sunday afternoons became sacred: a weekly class to attend, a syllabus to follow, and a place to just show up.
Nine months later, I now take two to three pole classes a week, and like many children, I've created a "polegram" Instagram to track my progress.
This digital archive is a way to remind myself of how far I've come. For example, I used to struggle with pole climbs, but now I do them effortlessly. Dance used to be a barefoot activity, but now I can do it in seven-inch heels. My pole endurance (how long you can stay on the pole) used to be measured in seconds, but now it lasts well over a minute.
I've learned how to invert (upside-down from the ground) and now practice doing it aerobically and through a shoulder mount.
It hasn't been a completely smooth sail. Like many children who get hooked on the pole and start practicing too much, too soon, I've had minor injuries. My third month of pole, when I was practicing four times a week, I got a mild scapula injury; it forced me to reduce my classes and start pole-specific physiotherapy.
Ultimately, pole has deepened my appreciation for my body and taught me patience, both in the studio and outside it – whether it's learning a skill or "getting over" my own heartbreak.
Pole is a reminder of my self-discovery: a hobby I've chosen for myself, for myself.
I also deeply value the sport. Pole dancing has a rich and meaningful history to learn about. There are countless styles to explore and endless areas to improve and refine (flexibility, strength, performance, heel technique, floor work). And, opposite to my second solo pole class, pole studios are rich communal spaces. Cheering is the norm, words of encouragement are common, and shared celebration is given.
So now, of course, I invite other members too.
