The spin class that saved my life

I know what you’re thinking. “Are you really going to sit here and romanticise a class where people sit and pedal on stationary bikes?”

Well, yes and no. Because this isn’t just about spin – it’s about finding community when you need it most.

Earlier this year, I felt more lost than I’d ever thought possible. Life felt pointless. Anyone who has ever lost a loved one is familiar with the feeling: Your life feels like it drifted out of everyone’s orbit, spinning aimlessly in solitude, with neither direction nor anchor in sight.

To add salt to injury, I fell apart at the same time that my friendship group did, too. When I went looking for comfort, solidarity, and —most of all—companionship, I was met with a fragmented support system. That’s not to say I was completely alone. I was not. I had wonderful friends and family who checked in often. But, anyone who has endures a period of mourning will also tell you, I just couldn’t do one-on-one anymore. Everything I had to say felt too dark, too morbid, and I hated feeling like a burden. Having to slap a smile on my face and fake any ounce of joy was equally unbearable. What I needed was a space where I could be part of something bigger than myself, without the pressure to perform or pretend.

The first time I walked back into the dimly-lit, trendy spin room, intimidation and dread buzzed around every cell of my body. I hadn’t moved my body in months. I felt fragile, physically and mentally. And everyone seemed to know each other, which made me feel more alone.

But then, the music started, and suddenly we were all moving as one. Left, right, left, right. Bodies swayed, ponytails swung, and elbows dropped in sync. Whoops and cheers echoed the room after particularly challenging movements and sprints. We were told to high-five our neighbour, which I timidly did. Coincidentally, the last song of the class was one that I had listened to in my first weeks of grieving–it was like a sign. After weeks and months of searching for companionship, I found it in a dark, sweaty room full of strangers.

That day, I left the class, got into my car, and sobbed in the middle of the parking lot. It felt like my best friend had guided me to a place that, for the first time, felt safe.

Over the next few weeks, I started going twice, even three times a week. And every time, I felt like I had walked into a room where I was free to feel anything and everything I felt. Not only that, but I could release all my anger, sadness and fear. The harder I pedalled, the faster it all rushed out. It was instant therapy. One day, I caught a glimpse of myself in the massive mirror at the front of the class and saw myself actually smiling. A real smile. Not one that I had to force to avoid awkwardness or worry. It took me by surprise, how much I recognised my old self, my pre-heartbreak self, under the flashing neon lights.

I started branching out and going to HIIT classes, too. I became addicted to places where I can get lost in the sweat, effort and movement. I unearthed my love for running all over again. I found incredible instructors who played the best music, and I sang along to all the Fred Again and Natasha Bedingfield and Drake tunes the old me used to love. And whenever it felt too hard, I would look to my left and right, and draw energy from the strangers sharing my physical struggles. And, in time, it started to heal my emotional ones, too.

And so, if you ask me if this is a romanticised telling of a spin class, I’d say no, it absolutely is not. I would tell you this is exactly how I found my community. I would tell you that, thanks to these silly little 45-minute-long classes, I don’t feel alone anymore.

I’d tell you that you are not an island. Once you know what to look for and where to look for it, you will never be truly alone. It took me twenty-nine years to learn that my solace doesn’t have to come from people who share my background, my story, or my interests. My community is made up of people who move in sync, who cheer for each other, who go into a room full of strangers and give their all. Just like me.