Why Going 'All Out' Can Change Your Life

Joining an over-50 Zumba class

As soon as I stepped in, I knew I was in the wrong place.

Anxiety twisted in my belly. I toed my shoes off, wondering if I should bolt before anyone noticed.

“Hello,” the instructor greeted behind the tiny counter, matching leggings and sports bra like exploded cans of paint, “remind me of your name again?”

Too late.

“Ah, I’ve never been to this class before, so you wouldn’t know it.” I reluctantly approached and began the sign-in process. She welcomed me; asked if I had done Zumba. (“Once, a long time ago.” “You’ll catch up!”)

There was no turning back now. For the next hour, I was in.

I had been going to this yoga studio for three months. It was my first real concerted fitness effort postpartum, and I was struggling. Simple postures had my legs trembling, or my still-separated abdominal muscles flexing in the wrong way. Three times a week, I tried to squirrel away in a corner, unnoticed, and inevitably ended up next to an acrobat, contorting her legs in unimaginable ways, springing back and forth on her mat like a fox diving into snow.

I fought to hold in my grunts with each chaturanga push-up.

One Monday, I biked past the studio and glimpsed a vivid tableau: the space was packed with bodies gyrating to upbeat music. I looked at the schedule online.

Zumba, Monday mornings. I should give it a try, I thought. Maybe dance would suit me better, get me out of my head. It’s hard to be self-conscious of your soft muscles when pumping your fists, right?

What I hadn’t noticed was the demographic. It was suddenly apparent as I made my way past the instructor and into the studio. All of the women were over 50, and they seemed at ease with each other. They wore similar sports gear—shirts branded “Zumba” in slashing letters, sweat bands and bandanas, tennis skirts. Everyone wore shoes. 

Shoes? Isn’t it easy enough to dance barefoot?

I hovered near the back brick wall, wondering if I was somehow intruding. I had never seen these women before. They didn’t attend my yoga classes. Maybe there was a distinction I didn’t know about, between the yogis and the Zumba people. 

I was crossing the boundary.

“Alright,” the instructor chirped, marching to the front of the space, “let’s get started.” 

The music kicked on. Without hesitating, the group started moving, swaying their hips, feeling the beat before the instructor counted off, “Five, six, a-five six seven eight!”

Everyone churned to the right. I stumbled after. Arms shot in the air, then clapped, then hips thrust left to right. Twirl, stomp, clap. One, two, cha, cha, cha.

I fought to keep up, my brain whirling to recognize the patterns, to coordinate my hands and feet, which were being asked to do different things. All the while, the instructor sang along quietly to the song, eyes almost closed. She smiled and she danced.

There’s a term I learned growing up dancing. When you “mark it,” it means you’re doing a smaller, more conservative version of the dance, just to practice the moves. But when you need to really practice, you do it to the fullest extent you can, fingers reaching so hard they’re shooting lasers, toes pointed as if you’re trying to crack the bones in your foot.

You “go full out.” 

This woman was going full out.

Before I knew it, the first song ended. My heart was racing, feet still trying to find their way underneath me. I flinched as the room broke out into a round of applause. Belatedly, I picked up my hands and joined in.

The next song began, and off we went.

After the initial shock, I began to settle in. Not to the moves—I continued fumbling a few seconds behind—but to the atmosphere. The music pounded. Our shoulders shimmied. I followed the instructor as she licked her finger, placed it on her buttock, and made a sizzling sound.

Everyone was in their own world, feeling their body from the inside out. No one cared when I turned the wrong way, just as they didn’t care if I added an extra flourish with my wrists. They weren’t paying attention to me. They were going full out.

When the next song ended, I was the first to join in our rousing cheer. A smile had found its way onto my face. Despite the effort it added, I couldn’t stop.

I’ve been listening to a lot of John O’Donohue recently. He was an Irish philosopher and poet who died in 2008 at the age of 52. In a talk he gave, he shared what it was like to help people die during his time as a priest. One man, a bit of a rebel, told O’Donohue that he had squeezed everything out of life. Others, O’Donohue said, sat in their deathbed, which was a “place of the most tragic, lonesome, forsaken regret. People who never lived the life they desired.” They were always “waiting for a future time to enter their lives and inhabit them, and never did.”

Their “sad, lonesome eyes looked back on a life they had squandered.”

I didn’t know the group around me. I’m sure they all had their regrets, times they held back instead of grabbing life with both hands. But this morning, as sweat gathered around our armpits and shoes squeaked across the hardwood floors, was not one of those times.

To the sound of Bruno Mars singing “‘Cause uptown funk gonna give it to ’ya,” they were entering their lives fully.

It was getting close to the hour. My feet burned with the beginnings of a few tender blisters (ah, that’s why they wear shoes!). My blood thrummed. A smile was still plastered to my face. The instructor, who had deftly danced all about the room, never missing a step when guiding us, brought the energy down. The body rolls and hip thrusts were replaced with playful air-ukuleles and slow squats. The music turned lyrical.

“Everything is going to be alright,” a woman sang through smooth notes. Inexplicably, tears gathered in my eyes. 

I clapped with the group upon the conclusion of class. Just as abruptly as it had started, it ended. The women went back to talking to each other, sharing plans for the week ahead. Water bottles were retrieved from the sides of the room, sweat toweled off.

I slipped to the front door, pulling overalls over my exercise clothes so that I didn’t look too out of place when I sat down in the cafe next door, starting my work day. Just as I tugged the sandal strap around my heel, the instructor called out. “I hope you’ll come back!”

I smiled and thanked her. Then, I exited the studio, entering my life.

From the swelling feeling in my chest, I could tell: I was entering a little more fully.