The instructor touted the class as a celebration of all bodies, but all my body felt was embarras…

The instructor touted the class as a celebration of all bodies, but all my body felt was embarrassment. I imagined that every pastel-wearing dance mom was judging me, that my athletic frame and genetic predisposition to excessive perspiration did not belong in the room. After class, I rushed out and swore to never return. As a former field hockey player and current cycling instructor, I vowed to stick to what I know: HIIT, cycling, strength training, and the occasional run. I’d do yoga, but only if it was in a candlelit room so that nobody could see me flailing as I made my way from a power lunge to Warrior III.

This routine was working for me for a while. I’d go from taking an early morning HIIT class to work, or from work to teach a cycling class. Recovery? Maybe a hot yoga class once a week. Stretching? Didn’t know her.

And then, boom. The coronavirus pandemic hit in early March and effectively uprooted our lives. I lost my teaching job once the gyms closed and thus my access to an indoor cycling bike. I moved back in with my parents and set up my home gym in the basement: A few dumbbells and kettlebells my dad snagged from his small company fitness center, two-pound ankle weights from 1986, some resistance bands I found at Marshall’s pre-coronavirus, and my yoga mat. I would go down to my “gym” after work and do an intense 45-minute HIIT workout, sometimes four times a week. I also did frequent jogs, despite painful shin splints. I hosted live workouts on Instagram and