Written and photographed by Selina Ferrais
Athlete. The word conjures images of toned bodies sprinting across tracks, executing minimal splash 9.2 dives with appreciative nods, or rounds of fist-pumping at the sight of a PB blazing across billboards like Times Square. It’s crossing the finish line, arms thrust skyward in triumph, as if calling down the blessings of the old Olympian gods themselves.
But if you’re like me, more voyeur, less participant, a proud Olympic spectator, a gym tourist clutching a passport of good intentions, and an admirer of “real athletes,” the word feels a little out of reach and other-worldly. Still, there is a truth I have come to understand: you don’t have to be an athlete to embrace movement.
Not long ago, on the advice of a spiritual healer/clairvoyant, I found myself signing up for a beginner’s salsa class, not because I fancied myself a dancer, but because I was on a quest to reacquaint myself with me. The gym, boxing, and HIIT of a twenty-year regime had settled into a feeling akin to punishment. A war was raging. My body, my mind, and my heart, at odds like siblings at Christmas time. My mission was to wave the white flag, a truce of sorts with my body. I wanted to learn how to love it, to move it in a way that would allow me to reconnect with an old friend, one I had ignored for far too long.
I walked up the shiny, polished floorboard stairs, their creaks ricocheting as laughter at my sheer ineptitude. No backing out now; their cries had alerted others to my presence. I’d been detected. It is a disconcerting feeling, that sense of liminal space, the no-man’s land where the stuff feels a little wobbly. I realised I had not stepped out of my comfort zone in years, and the thought of trying something completely new had me tiptoeing through an enormous field of endless doubts.
The experience turned out to be more than I expected. It wasn’t about getting the moves right or impressing anyone. I was doing it! I was moving, no swaying, no dancing! Part of something bigger. Around me, 29 strangers moved as one (ish), a mix of awkwardness and joy, all caught in the rhythm. My body, which had been stiff and distant for so long, found a way to move again. Salsa was simple, like a memory from childhood, when moving didn’t feel like a chore. No one was judging, just encouraging. For the first time in a long while, I felt that lightness. It was not about perfection; it was about listening to my body and finding the rhythm again.
For some, movement is yoga in the park as the sun sets. For others, it’s a bushwalk, a swim at the beach, or even a Zumba session in the garage. It doesn’t matter how or where; what matters is that you find what makes you smile while you move.
Athletes inspire us, but the real win is in discovering your own version of joyful movement. Finding something that moves your heart and brings you closer to home. Because, in the end, it’s not about being an athlete; it’s about showing up for yourself, and that is a victory worth celebrating.
