Once I started having back problems at the ripe old age of 19, I finally caved in and began taking yoga classes. Until that point, yoga seemed to be for granola hippies and bored housewives — not exactly my scenes, and I surely didn’t want that perception. But lo and behold, after just the first session, my body was already feeling monumentally better. So, even though I was terrible at it, I kept going.

Just as I suspected, the class was full of cliché, femme-presenting women, which made me feel uncomfortable. Though we had much in common (most of us were young, middle class, female, independent, and interested in yoga), I was more aware of our differences: They all wore yoga-specific athletic clothing, while I arrived in baggy sweats and one of my many unisex band T-shirts. They all managed to maintain perfectly applied makeup, while I avoided wearing even mascara, lest it bled into my eyes. They all had slender frames and sinewy arms, while the fact remains that my friends from a prior gym life had fondly nicknamed me “Beefcake.” I think it is safe to say that I didn’t exactly blend in.

At that same gym, I also explored other classes. I was super into fitness then and fearlessly dipped my toe into many different metaphorical exercise pools. When I was looking for something fun to fill up a night, I would attend a hip-hop or Zumba class. I also ventured into the more high-impact exercise program known as “Insanity”. For a while, I even took up aerial silks and would spend many hours at the gym swinging through the air.

A few years later, I had fallen out of this exercise world and desperately wanted to jump back in. I learned the owner of my old gym was now teaching some classes at a different studio. Motivated to see a familiar face and take up aerial silks again, I signed up and started going. My body had changed since I had last been on the silks, however, and I quickly realized I didn’t have the muscle strength I needed. So, I decided it was the perfect excuse to check out what other classes my new gym had to offer.

This is how I found myself seated in my car one night with my inhaler in hand and goosebumps running up my arms. I was about to take my first-ever kickboxing class. I was early (as I often am), so I killed time until it seemed reasonable to walk in and introduce myself. Once inside, I tried to stealthily scope things out but stared around too intensely, silently announcing to everyone that I was an outsider. I saw a few small groups of women, but it wasn’t clear whether or not they were also there for kickboxing. Besides them, I was surrounded by a bunch of young, very fit-looking men who were warming up and clearly prepping for class to begin.

Sure enough, when the instructor appeared and shouted for us to start stretching before the group warm-up, the other women began clearing out to the room next door. I found myself the lone female in a studio full of testosterone. I had shown up to class with my hair in a bun, ready to sweat like everyone else, but my basic sweatpants were somehow conforming enough to make it clear that I had a different body. My tank top accentuated my breasts, even though I had tried to tone them down with a modest sports bra. Even the conversations in which I tried to engage with my fellow athletes underscored my differences. Once again, I felt like the odd woman out, although this time, it was as part of a very different scene.

This sort of in-betweenness was not a new experience for me. I had felt it in the yoga class at my previous gym and on many other occasions before and since. By the time I found myself standing there in that room full of sweaty men, I had already grown familiar with the ways my unique approach to gender made me different from the norm. Regardless of whether I was surrounded by males or females, I never quite fit in.

Most of the men in this class seemed aware of my differences too. They would politely suggest modifications or hand me lighter weights. Obviously, I was not about to do bicep curls with 25 pounds (11 kilograms), but my classmates never extended the same offer to new men joining the group, regardless of their fitness level.

I have no other way to sum up this experience than to label it “considerate sexism”, which is a term I use to describe thoughtful acts that are motivated by sexist views. My uncle, for example, is the king of considerate sexism — he will joyfully offer to take me shooting and let me use his “girl guns”, thereby suggesting that I am somehow incapable of handling a standard firearm. Yes, my stepmom had needed these softer shooters, but that was because of her arthritis, not her vulva.

Whatever the reason, I was clearly the exception — not the norm — in my kickboxing class. But why was it so strange for women to participate?

Throughout my life, I have explored a wide array of sports and exercise programs. I love the rush of endorphins I get from a fun workout and the validation I feel from being soaked in sweat. Nothing silences a negative inner voice like throbbing muscles and upbeat music. To me, part of the beauty of exercise has been that it is presumably open to all — all body types, all levels, and all people, regardless of their sex or gender. But is it?

Sports competitions are typically divided by reproductive sex to encourage a level playing field (whether or not this approach is effective is a separate matter). In contrast, most of the exercise classes I've attended have been open to all bodies. And yet, there has still been a pretty clear trend toward either masculine or feminine associations in all of them. Why? Why did I have this idea that one must be feminine to partake in yoga? What about kickboxing makes it more masculine and hence, so apparently strange for women to join?

In part, I think the trend may be explained by the differences between male and female bodies. In sports, the two groups compete separately because their biology is different. Compared to females, male bodies tend to have a greater oxygen consumption capacity, larger and longer bones, and a ratio of higher muscle mass to body fat, all of which makes them potentially faster and stronger. Meanwhile, compared to males, female bodies generally have wider pelvises, lower centers of gravity, greater glycogen conversion, and more flexible joints, making them better with balance, endurance, and potentially better range of motion.

These biological differences may explain why women tend to be better at yoga and why men excel at kickboxing. But, they in no way justify the perpetuation of gendered stereotypes. Sure, disparities in the participation rates of men and women in various forms of group exercise may be due partly to biological differences naturally influencing individual interests, but such differences should not affect a person’s reception or treatment in the class. Social expectations about who can participate or what they should look like needlessly limit participation.

So, to break down these barriers, I find myself challenging gender norms wherever I go. I like deep stretching and breathing exercises, and I have no reservations about joining a yoga class when I feel like I am missing some zen. I also like bro-ing out by flipping tires when my biceps need a little attention. I like being athletic, and I will continue to do so in whatever classes capture my attention and fit my wallet. Above all, I like taking gender and sex out of exercise because — who really needs it there?

Published Jul 1, 2020
Updated Jan 6, 2023