When I was a teenager, my mom and I used to go to Jazzercise together.
I don’t really know how this happened — by all accounts, most of my peers would have been mortified to go to an exercise class of any kind with their mother, let alone an aerobics workout with a name that conjured images of peppy moms in technicolor leotards. (For the record, this reputation was, even then, deeply outdated.) But I loved it.
“Most of my peers would have been mortified to go to an exercise class of any kind with their mother, let alone an aerobics workout…but I loved it.”
Most weekdays I’d rush to meet my mom for the packed 5:30pm class, where we’d squeeze into the back. For the next hour, we’d dance and lift weights to top 40 hits, pouring sweat despite the air conditioning.
This was in the early aughts, and there was nothing aesthetic or fancy about it. The class was in our neighborhood community center, and there were no mirrors — just a linoleum floor, some skylights, and an elevated stage where one of the dozen or so athletic, powerful instructors played the music and cued the routines. I wasn’t always the youngest, though when I was, it wasn’t by much. If I had to guess, the median age was probably 35, though the groups were often made up of a mix of older teens like myself, middle aged women coming straight from work, and even the occasional octogenarian holding down the low impact options right up front.
The first half of class was the cardio portion, where we’d do choreography that intensified with each song — picture rib pops, shimmies, V-steps and skips, followed by full-out grapevines and attitude kicks. We weren’t wearing leotards, but the moves were not, strictly speaking, cool. And I was seventeen — very little mattered to me more than being cool.
“We weren’t wearing leotards, but the moves were not, strictly speaking, cool. And I was seventeen — very little mattered to me more than being cool.”
But I loved Jazzercise. I loved it enough to, on occasion, go to the 5:30am class if I couldn’t make the afternoon. It had all the qualities I need for a workout to be something I will stick with — challenging enough to make me sweat and sore the next day, but also fun enough to keep me from thinking about how hard it is. Equally as important? A community of people who, whether I talk to them directly or not, I come to expect to see each class. I notice when they aren’t there, or when something is different about them — and I suspect they feel the same way about me.
The instructors for our classes were not the 80’s Jane Fonda types but a group of visibly strong women who ran each workout like a boot camp sergeant conducting a dance party. They whooped and joked and smiled, but there was a steely edge to their gazes as they looked around the room and commented on our form. “Get those knees UP, ladies!” had an instant rallying effect on our group, every single one of us pushing our body just that little bit more. In the middle of a minute-long round of deep squats, “Keep that booty low, y’all,” they said, and we all sunk another inch.
When they asked “How we doing out there?” every single one of us whooped — even me. It wouldn’t have even occurred to me not to. And I was the sort of art school kid who sat in the back of class with my friends, who curbed any instinct to earnestly engage with a teacher my classmates had decided was “lame.” Yet there I was, going full-on cheerleader next to my mom and forty other middle aged women nearly every day, joyfully executing a jazz square to Maroon 5 and whooping on command.
Even though I lived in passive, mild fear that I might be discovered by someone I knew, I somehow understood that it would be infinitely more embarrassing to not only be seen in a Jazzercise class, but to be seen doing it half-heartedly. Like watching someone in a play who just didn’t seem to care — is there anything more cringey and uncomfortable than that?
“I somehow understood that it would be infinitely more embarrassing to not only be seen in a Jazzercise class, but to be seen doing it half-heartedly.”
Plus, it just wouldn’t be as fun. And if it wasn’t fun, then it was only going to be hard and embarrassing — and then what would be the point of doing it at all?
So I took the risk that someone I knew might be dropping by the community center while I was doing lunges to Jason Mraz. And eventually, I became confident enough to mention it to a few friends. “Wait you what?” a few of them asked, chuckling, and I just shrugged. “Yeah, it’s actually really fun.” And every single one of them, without exception said, “That’s cool.”
Wait, I remember thinking. Is that all it takes to make something cool?
Push, stop, laugh
When my parents moved to my city this past summer, getting to go to our local Y together was one of the major perks of finally being in the same town for the first time in over 20 years.
My mom and I are similar in so many ways but complementary opposites in others, and I think these qualities are at there peak when we exercise together.
“My mom and I are similar in so many ways but complementary opposites in others, and I think these qualities are at there peak when we exercise together.”
She is a high achieving, competitive machine when it comes to her workouts. She has been doing Jazzercise and Pilates for decades, and she will always do the hardest options full out — or feel like a total failure if she can’t.
Meanwhile, I am also high achieving and competitive, but I don’t like to be uncomfy. Ten seconds into a two-minute plank, I’ll shamelessly flop to my stomach and start writhing around in protest. She’ll look up at me without breaking her steel form, and shake her head and laugh.
It’s a dynamic that works for us — because she’s always pushing herself as hard as she can next to me, I find myself doing so too. (Ten seconds into a two-minute plank is ten seconds longer than I would’ve done on my own, when I take the core work portion of the class as my cue for a bathroom break.) I’m happy to stop and say “Good enough!” when things start to hurt. And that makes it a little easier for my mom to let herself have the break she might need and otherwise wouldn’t have let herself take.
“Because she’s always pushing herself as hard as she can next to me, I find myself doing so too.”
There aren’t any Jazzercise classes in the area, sadly, but we’ve found some good Les Mills classes at the Y. Our favorite (and I use this term loosely, the way one might say that their favorite leafy green for a smoothie is spinach because the alternative is kale) is BodyPump, an hour long barbell-based weight lifting class that is very, very hard.
And yet, when I go with my mom, it is also very, very fun.
Because we go in the mid-morning weekday time slot, the majority of our class is made up of retired folks and other women around my age. The instructors are equally as deft as our Jazzercise instructors were at walking the tightrope of being both enthusiastic and also extremely intimidating. Only now, there is no dancing — no fun kicks or silly music, nothing that can distract from the gradually building agony in our shaking muscles.
I like to lift heavier with less repetitions (to be clear: due to laziness, not because it’s what they’re recommending these days), so I always start out with way too many plates on my barbell, which I have to inevitably drop (with much drama, obviously) partway through each routine. I am sometimes playing it up to buy myself a break, and my mom laughs at me before deciding that, yeah, this shoulder track is bananas and maybe she should also go down a plate, too. But then she keeps going, ever the straight-A student, with her eyes dutifully trained on the instructor — and despite my desire to fake an important phone call, I find myself picking my barbell back up and finishing the set.
At the end of every class, on the sort of high that only comes from pumping a ton of blood through your muscles, we laugh and complain and catch up. “The only reason I came to class today is because you were going to be here,” we take turns saying to each other. Then we spend the next two days texting a list of all the places we feel sore, and grumbling about whether or not we could even handle pushing through another class the next day.
“’The only reason I came to class today is because you were going to be here,’ we take turns saying to each other.”
For me, this is fun. I like to work my body but I lack the inherent motivation to push past my comfort level on my own. Knowing I’m going to be working out with my beast of a mother makes me not only show up to class, but also work hard enough to feel proud about it.
That said — it doesn’t take much to make me feel proud about my workout. I’m not under the illusion that I’m competing for any sort of medal, and I’m careful not to motivate myself by vanity metrics that could cause me to slip back into unhealthy habits. I work just hard enough so I can feel it, and then I’ll clown around about what I didn’t do to mitigate my inner critic gremlin who might otherwise have less helpful commentary.
And here’s the truth: I do this on purpose. Despite appearances, my silly little tantrums about our workouts are not actually tantrums at all.
What I’m doing is a little bit of pressure release — letting off steam, making some comic relief. I’m venting the very real discomfort and fatigue and pain in my body through a filter of silliness. Why? Because the alternative — giving up, complaining, dropping my weights and silently fuming about how it’s all too hard, and I’m not good enough — is poison. It’s poison to me, and it’s poison to the people around me.
And I’m just not about a bad vibe.
Whooping on command
In every group, there exists a vibe (that ol’ chestnut lol). We often think of ourselves as subject to the vibe, mere observers or passive receivers of it, but the truth is that we each hold a bit of its reins. Sometimes there might be a more dominant force or figure in the mix, but by and large, we all have the power to shift and alter the flavor of any room we walk into.
“We all have the power to shift and alter the flavor of any room we walk into.”
And if we aren’t aware of this, or don’t let ourselves own the power of our own influence, we could very well miss an opportunity to turn a bad vibe into something good.
Sometimes in our BodyPump class, the vibe is off. There might be fewer people, and everyone sets up smushed up in the back, as if they are afraid of the instructor. It would be easy to come into class, note the situation, and follow suit — find an out-of-the-way spot and try not to make eye contact with anyone while you push through the workout. When the instructor inevitably calls out “How y’all doing this morning?” you can make a tight lipped smile in the ensuing silence, and just try to get through the awkwardness without thinking about it too much.
And look, I’m not judging — despite my love of yapping and general extroversion, I often do not want to talk to strangers when I’m on a walk or exercising or running errands. But! Here’s what happens when we show up to a community of people and let a subpar vibe rule — we have a subpar time. Possibly even a bad time.
“Some of these communities — like our regular workout classes — might really need a vibe boost. Why not be the one to give it?”
And some of these communities — like our regular workout classes — might really need a vibe boost. Why not be the one to give it?
On one such day in our BodyPump class, my mom and I walked in, clocked the situation, and immediately set up front and center. (To be fair — I set up front and center, while loudly announcing it and peer pressuring my mom into joining me.) The instructor gave me a subtle yet visibly relieved look.
We started the class, and it was, as usual, very hard. As usual, I loaded up too many plates, my mom looked at me askance, and then halfway through the class I threw everything on the ground and made an over-the-top show of unloading all the weight. My mom rolled her eyes at me. The instructor requested a whoop, and I let one loose loud and clear, a lone cricket in the night.
I’m not going to claim that I inspired the rest of the group to move their stuff up closer or start hooting and hollering like we were suddenly having a party. But the vibe definitely shifted for the better.
In the same way that my lighthearted shows of giving up help my mom relax a bit when she needs to, my willingness to put myself out there in this class helped the rest of the group loosen up a little bit. The class was still hard, but it was also, if not a little bit fun, not totally miserable.
In other words — I didn’t save the world that day, but I didn’t drink the poison, either.
A power we all have
Influence is so much more than a social media job. It’s the impact we have on one another as we go throughout our daily lives. It’s our attitudes, the way we move through space, how we speak to one another, and how we treat ourselves.
“Influence is so much more than a social media job. It’s the impact we have on one another as we go throughout our daily lives.”
Humans are multifaceted, complicated creatures, and we are all always carrying so many feelings, thoughts, responsibilities, and goals, juggling as best we can. It can be easy to absorb the vibes around us instead of considering how we might be contributing to them. It can be easy to mirror someone else’s mood, whether we’re feeling something similar or not.
The gift I’d love to give to all young people is the unshakeable knowledge that loving what they love without excuses is the only thing that’s truly cool. Imagine what it would change if we could all have learned that as teens? If the self-consciousness about standing out or being different didn’t follow us through so many stages of our lives?
Would we go to a workout class only to hide in the back? Or would we set up wherever there was space, ready to try, to push through the pain or take a break when we need to?
Influence isn’t coercion. It isn’t force, manipulation, or a mandate to make other people act more like you. In fact, it can be the opposite: By being unapologetically ourselves we can influence others to be entirely themselves, too.
“By being unapologetically ourselves we can influence others to be entirely themselves, too.”
Influence is power, but the quiet, subtle kind. It’s the gentle way we learn by example, the way we learn that there are other ways to be, other methods to try. It’s how we suggest that whooping on command in an exercise class is, actually, kind of fun.
Becoming aware of our influence isn’t about trying to change people around you, but instead a chance for us to be the people we most want to see in the world — to bring the versions of ourselves that can turn the tide on any bad vibe, just by resisting it.
Stephanie H. Fallon is a Contributing Editor at The Good Trade. She is a writer originally from Houston, Texas and holds an MFA from the Jackson Center of Creative Writing at Hollins University. She lives with her family in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, and she is the author of Finishing Lines, where she writes about her fear of finishing, living a creative life, and (medical) motherhood. Since 2022, she has been reviewing sustainable home and lifestyle brands, fact-checking sustainability claims, and bringing her sharp editorial skills to every product review. Say hi on Instagram or on her website.
