Why am I the only Black girl in this workout class?
Get over it and keep going, keep outperforming, keep shining.
Turning five was like a right of passage in my parents’ home. At the stroke of midnight on our birthday, it’s like they had already enrolled me and my siblings into every possible sport they could afford.
Swimming was first, then dance, and naturally soccer. Growing up in Ann Arbor, Michigan I was accustomed to always being the only Black girl on a team. On a unique occasion, there would be one other Black girl and we’d instantly bond over the unspoken understanding that it was probably better to have each other’s backs than not. Happy-stance coincidences like those occurred only two times out of the thirteen years I played organized sports.
Interestingly enough, as I reflect on the years of playing on several travel soccer teams with white girls who could not understand the concept of my curly hair when wet but were so fascinated they stared curiously, it has weirdly prepared me for what I experience now whenever I step into a group fitness class.
It only takes one pilates class, one soul cycle class, or just step into a super expensive gym like Equinox and I often find myself wondering “where are all the other Black people?” Since the early days of playing sports, I’ve never really complained about needing to have more people of color present. If I loved the sport I was playing and I was damn good at it? I just had to get over it.
Get over the discomfort. Get over the weird looks. Get over the comparisons. Get over it and…
Keep going, keep outperforming, keep shining.
However, as I’ve gotten older, either the white people have gotten weirder or I’ve just become more sensitive to being the only one.
I love working out. It’s part of what keeps me sane. I effortlessly fall into a state of flow as I try to control my breath with each movement, the sweat dripping from every orifice, and the endorphins flowing through me as a reward for my hard work – it’s addicting.
In 2023, I started going to a studio in Chicago called Studio Three. A great gym concept where people have the choice between heated weight lifting circuits, yoga, cycling, and treadmill interval style workouts. Sounds amazing, right? Except in a room full of fifty, I was always the only Black girl (up until recently).
Again, as a young girl who grew up playing sports in a predominantly white area, I didn’t often question or complain about my circumstance. However, in adulthood I can’t seem to full shake these thoughts.
Do people of color choose not to go to these classes because it would make them feel uncomfortable to be the only ones?
Or do people of color not go these classes because they’re unaffordable and inaccessible?
Do people of color not go to these types of workout classes because growing up, sport and organized movement were considered a luxury? Which is a mindset carried into adulthood?
On and on the questions swirl in my head, especially when I peer around the room in down dog. The answers often are more complex than the questions. Yet, similar to my younger self I continue to go to group fitness classes full of mostly white women without complaint, always elated when I lock eyes with another Black girl, because I enjoy the way I feel after and I’m damn good at it.
Being the only one in 2024 isn’t a badge of honor. I feel an immense responsibility to always tell my friends about new studios I’ve found, encourage us to do weekend workouts with guarantees of coffee chats after, post my workouts online in hopes of showing other women who look like me that it isn’t as intimidating as it may seem.
Intentional movement is a human right and we deserve to be in these same spaces as much as anyone. I understand it’s not as simple as just “getting over it”, the fears, anxiety, and traumas are very real when it comes to being a person of color in these spaces but I must leave you with a question I ask myself often – is a life well lived worth the inevitable discomforts or am I living to make others comfortable by succumbing to discomfort?
This is such a relatable experience. Contrary to your experience growing up in predominantly white organized sports, I spent most of my childhood in Nigeria, surrounded by kids who looked like me.
Fast forward a little over a decade of being in white spaces—recently, I was talking to a friend about my feelings and experiences when I’m in the locker rooms at Equinox or taking a barre class and find myself as the only Black girl there. I’ve noticed that I’ve started feeling very self-conscious, especially in the locker rooms, where I have to take off my wig to steam and shower, unlike the other girls who don’t have to.
At 24 years old, I’m experiencing self-consciousness and shame? I don’t know—it’s a weird feeling, and I’m struggling to shake it off. But it’s refreshing to hear your experience and know that I’m not alone.
So, thank you for sharing!