When my friend Bea took up pole dancing she enthusiastically tried to convert everyone she knew to it – a common trope, I’d later find out. As a childhood gymnast and dancefloor enthusiast, I was scouted as a potential recruit, so along with my sister, in 2023 we joined her for a class.
The class was packed and the studio felt overly commercialised. The friction of the metal pole against my skin was straight-up painful and spinning around made me so dizzy I had to sit down to reorientate myself several times.
Also, I kind of sucked at it. And if I’m being honest, that bruised my fragile ex-gymnast ego.
Fast forward to 2025, several months after the end of a decade-long relationship. As one does when catapulted into singledom, I was trying new things and “putting myself out there”. After attending a burlesque show, I set my sights on striptease classes – a way to connect with my femininity, build confidence, and maybe one day perform on stage in full glitz and glamour.
A little research led me to a Sydney pole studio that also offered striptease. When I learned that striptease wasn’t running that term, the owner suggested a trial pole class instead. At first I wasn’t sold. But for $15 and the chance to do something different, I figured, why the hell not?
Luckily, my second class couldn’t have been more different from my first. Natural light streaked through the studio’s windows, giving it a warm, homey feel. The owner and instructor, Luci, greeted me with a wide smile and a laugh that immediately put me at ease.
Unlike my crowded first class, here I was the only pole student. I spent the afternoon learning fundamentals: walking around the pole, a chair spin, a climb, and pieced them together in a mini routine, all while being cheered on by my personal hype girl.
By the end of the class, I felt proud of myself for giving pole another chance. The pain and dizziness were still there, but weren’t as bad as I’d imagined. I was curious to learn more, so the next day I signed up for a 10-week beginner course.
During my period of heartbreak where the days blurred together, pole dancing gave me structure, and Sunday afternoons soon became sacred: a weekly class to commit to, a syllabus to follow and somewhere to simply show up.
Nine months in, I now do two or three pole classes a week, and like many baby polers, I’ve created a “polegress” Instagram to track my progress.
This digital archive is a way for me to remind myself how far I’ve come. For example, I once winced over climbing up the pole, but can now execute this pain-free. Dancing was once a barefoot activity, until I stepped up to wearing seven-inch heels. My pole endurance (how long you can stay on the pole) once measured in seconds, now stretches well beyond a minute.
I’ve learned how to invert (go upside down from the ground) and am now practising how to do this aerially and via a shoulder mount.
It hasn’t been completely smooth sailing. Like many baby polers who get hooked and start training too much, too soon, I’ve had niggles of injury. In my third month of pole, when I trained up to four times a week, I developed a mild scapula injury; this forced me to scale back my classes and start pole-specific physio.
Ultimately, pole has deepened my appreciation for my body and forced me to be more attuned to it. It’s helped me practise patience, both in and outside the studio – whether that’s learning a certain skill or “getting over” my own heartbreak.
Pole is a reminder of my self-determination: a hobby I’ve carved out for myself, by myself.
I’ve also come to deeply respect the sport. Pole dancing has a rich and important history to educate yourself in. There are countless styles to explore ,and endless areas to improve and refine (flexibility, strength, performance, heel technique, floor work). And, contrary to what my second solo pole class would suggest, pole studios are rich communal spaces. Cheering is the norm, words of encouragement are frequent and shared celebration is a given.
So now, of course, I’m recruiting other members too.
