The Joy of Movement Read online

  FINAL THOUGHTS

  While I was writing this book, I used a corkboard that runs from floor to ceiling in my home office. At first the board was sparsely filled with scribbled notes on index cards, the names of sources I planned to contact, and scientific abstracts I needed to follow up on. As the book progressed, many of the people I spoke with sent me photographs related to their stories. I printed them out and pinned them to the board, along with photos and screen captures of videos they had posted on social media.

  One of my favorite photos on the corkboard was shared with me by Kimberly Sogge, a member of the eight-woman masters’ crew at the Ottawa Rowing Club. It was taken in October 2017, when the crew competed in the fifty-third Head of the Charles Regatta, the world’s largest two-day rowing event. Over one weekend, more than three hundred thousand spectators flock to the banks and bridges of the Charles River, which divides Boston from Cambridge, to watch athletes from around the world propel sculling and sweep-oared racing shells up the river. The Ottawa crew had won a lottery spot in the Women’s Senior Masters race, in which the average age of rowers must be at least fifty. Participating in the regatta was a dream come true for the women. After the team arrived in Cambridge, the crew’s coxswain, who steers the shell and coaches the rowers, gave each of the women a gift. Her eight-year-old daughter had cut hearts out of construction paper for the crew to take to the regatta. The young girl was enraptured with the Disney movie Moana, and she wanted the women to be able to carry the Heart of Te Fiti with them on the water.

  The Women’s Senior Masters race began just after ten A.M. on Saturday. The Ottawa crew had stuffed the construction-paper hearts down their matching red tank tops and into their sports bras, along with their IDs. The weather was unseasonably summerlike, the sun shining as the crew carried a fifty-eight-foot shell over their heads to the dock, then into the water, where hundreds of boats were slowly navigating toward the entrance point. The women took their seats facing the coxswain. Each handled a single oar sporting the blade of the Ottawa Rowing Club. As they rowed to the starting point, the coxswain said, “Ladies, we’re here,” reminding them to enjoy the moment. When the official called out, “Ottawa Rowing Club, Bow 30, you’re up!,” the coxswain yelled, “This is it! Let’s do it!”

  Rowers use their sense of hearing more than their vision, so what Sogge remembers most about the regatta are the sounds. The women’s forceful exhalations, synchronized to each stroke. The oarlocks clicking together. The water rushing under the boat. The echo chamber created each time the boat went under a bridge. And the distinctive voice of a friend from Mexico City who stood on one of the bridges and screamed, “Go Ottawa!” when the crew passed by. As the shell made its way upriver, the crew relied on the trust and teamwork they had built in their training, at all the early-morning, after-work, and weekend practice sessions on the Ottawa River. As they approached the last hundred meters of the three-mile race, the coxswain called out, “Give it to me now, give me your hearts! I want the Heart of Te Fiti, and I want it now!”

  “We rowed our hearts out,” Sogge told me. “That was a moment of pain, hard work, mastery, and oneness that none of us will ever forget.” The crew crossed the finish in twenty minutes and thirty-seven seconds, coming in thirty-first out of thirty-eight teams. They were thrilled with the results; they had achieved their goal of working together to complete an excellent technical race. As the crew paddled back to the dock, they paused and let the boat glide for a moment. The coxswain reminded the rowers of her daughter’s gift. “Now you have to give your hearts to the river,” she commanded. Exhausted and happy, the women pulled the now sweat-stained paper hearts out of their sports bras. On the count of three, they threw the hearts into the water. This is the photograph Sogge shared with me. It captures the exact moment the women stretched their arms to the sky. The gesture—their right arms raised, paper hearts clasped between thumbs and fingertips—is as synchronized as a rowing stroke. Sogge remembers feeling a sense of joy and letting go as the paper hearts fluttered away, thinking, Even this beautiful thing is already water under the bridge.

  One day, as I glanced up at the corkboard in my home office for what must have been the hundredth time, I started to think about how interesting it was that these images existed. We don’t document things that don’t matter. These photos were captured because people were recording a moment they wanted to remember. It means something that people take and share videos of physical accomplishments, and that they fling sweaty arms around one another for a group selfie after a workout. And it means something that people cherish the mementos in these photos—that they display race bibs alongside family pictures, or hold on to T-shirts from twenty years ago. All of the images on the corkboard were evidence of how physical activity can bring people together and bring out the best in us. They were reminders of how even simple actions—lifting a heavy weight, scaling a wall, joining hands in a circle—can take on meaning in surprising ways. These moments get captured in photos, preserved through objects, and retold as stories. Memories crystallize around such moments of joy, connection, or triumph. And over time, identities are forged and communities formed.

  In a 2017 essay, Norwegian ethicist Sigmund Loland posed the question: If it becomes possible, should we replace exercise with a pill? Scientists are already trying to manufacture medicines that mimic the health benefits of exercise. What if they succeed? “Considering exercise takes time and energy and usually financial resources in addition to implying a risk for injury, the only reason for not replacing exercise with a pill must be related to values in the very activity of exercising in itself,” Loland writes. “Does exercise have such values, and if so, what are they?”

  Based on what I’ve learned from the science and stories that fill this book and from my own direct experience, I would say the answer is a resounding yes. Movement offers us pleasure, identity, belonging, and hope. It puts us in places that are good for us, whether that’s outdoors in nature, in an environment that challenges us, or with a supportive community. It allows us to redefine ourselves and reimagine what is possible. It makes social connection easier and self-transcendence possible. Each of these benefits can be realized through other means. There are multiple paths to self-discovery and many ways to build community. Happiness can be found in any number of roles and pastimes; solace can be taken in poetry, prayer, or art. Exercise need not replace any of these other sources of meaning and joy. Yet physical activity stands out in its ability to fulfill so many human needs, and that makes it worth considering as a fundamentally valuable endeavor. It is as if what is good in us is most easily activated by or accessed through movement. As rower Kimberly Sogge put it, when she described to me why the Head of the Charles Regatta was such a peak experience, “The highest spirit of humanity gets to come out.” Ethicist Sigmund Loland came to a similar conclusion, declaring that an exercise pill would be a poor substitute for physical activity. As he wrote, “Rejecting exercise means rejecting significant experiences of being human.”

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  Physical activity helps us tap into instincts that have allowed humans to survive for millennia: the abilities to persist, cooperate, and form communities of mutual support; to invest in the future, overcome obstacles, and endure hardships; to defend and protect the vulnerable; to sense ourselves connected to other people and the world we live in; to give back, reach out, and pull one another up. And the mechanism by which movement seems to accomplish all of this is joy. Joy is what ties together the neurochemistry of the runner’s high, the elation of moving in synchrony, and the unity sensation in nature. It’s what draws us to ritual and music, and what makes achieving a personal best, cooperating with others, and witnessing someone else’s triumph so satisfying. When movement brings out the best in us, it does so by making us happy. Not only through short-lived feelings of pleasure or pride, but also in the deepest sense of the word. The happiness that comes from having a sense of purpose
and from belonging. The happiness of feeling connected to something bigger than yourself. The happiness that is best described as hope.

  It’s not difficult to experience the psychological and social benefits of movement. As philosopher Doug Anderson writes, “the possibilities—the transformative traits of movement—are there for each of us if we will awaken to them, if we will pay attention to our own experiences.” There’s no training formula you have to follow. There is no one path or prescription except to follow your own joy. If you’re looking for a guideline, it’s this: Move. Any kind, any amount, and any way that makes you happy. Move whatever parts of your body still move, with gratitude. Move by yourself, and in community. Move in your home. Move outdoors. Move to music or in silence. Set goals that are personally meaningful. Take baby steps, then conquer a big stretch. Seek out new experiences and explore new identities. Pay attention to how activities make you feel and how they change you. Listen to your body. Give yourself permission to do what feels good. Revel in metaphor and meaning. Look for places, people, and communities that inspire you and make you feel welcomed. Keep following the thread of joy as long as you can.

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  As I was finishing revisions on this book, I added another photograph to my corkboard. It was taken after a dance class I taught at a local gym on Halloween. Despite the fact that the class took place at eight A.M., half of the participants arrived in costumes: a spider in its web, a black cat, a wizard, a bumblebee, a skeleton, and two Wonder Women. I had brought persimmons and harvest-crisp apples in a trick-or-treat bucket for everyone to enjoy after class. One of the other dancers brought chocolates. The playlist was mostly our standard songs, but I threw in a few Halloween surprises. We howled like wolves, lurched like zombies, and laughed at our own silliness.

  Among the participants in class that day, one was undergoing chemotherapy, and another was grieving the recent loss of her husband. Another woman was recovering from both a traumatic brain injury and the death of her father. And yet they each found a reason to show up and dance—or perhaps, these were the reasons. After our cooldown stretch, as the next class was clamoring to get into the studio, we held them off so we could take a group photo. A couple of weeks later, one of the women in that photo sent me a note explaining what the class had meant to her over the past year. “Sometimes it’s given me the opportunity to feel strong and empowered, sometimes to work through difficult emotions, and sometimes to feel joyful and optimistic. I had experienced these benefits before, but new this year was feeling really seen and supported by my wonderful classmates. Some of them were experiencing their own challenges, but by dancing together in community, I think we drew strength from each other, and I was reminded that I wasn’t alone.”

  I printed out her email and pinned it on the corkboard, alongside the Halloween class photo, where they joined all the other moments captured by the people who had spoken with me for this book. There was Cathy Merrifield jumping into the water at Tough Mudder. A pack of GoodGym runners posing outside a food bank where they had just sorted donations. CrossFit coach Reverend Katie Norris carrying her husband on her back along the beach. The “We Are Family” T-shirt Costas Karageorghis made for his track team at Brunel University. Jody Bender running her first 5K on the treadmill at physical therapy. Green Gym Camden volunteers celebrating the group’s ten-year anniversary of caring for green spaces in their community. Ultrarunner Shawn Bearden’s Instagram snapshot from the open road. Joanna Bonilla boxing with Devon Palermo at DPI Adaptive Fitness, earning her place on the Wall of Greatness. The Dance for PD dancers in the rehearsal room at Juilliard, their arms lifted in the air in a gesture of joy. The rack of half-marathon race medals in Nora Haefele’s living room. Amara MacPhee posing with her 305 Fitness “fit fam” at her first class after having open heart surgery. My sister and her husband running a race side by side, pushing their twin girls in strollers. My eight A.M. dance class, taking the opportunity to celebrate life with friends.

  As I stood at the corkboard, looking at all those images of persistence, bravery, and community, my heart swelled. This is what hope looks like.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE ON SOURCES

  T his book includes the personal stories of many individuals. When these individuals are identified by their full names, it is because I received permission to share their stories and to include their full names, or because their stories had been previously published or shared publicly. When a person is identified by a first name only, it is because the individual was willing to share a story but did not want to be identified (in which case, I gave them a pseudonym or used their true first name with permission), or because I could not reach that person to receive permission to share the story (for example, if the story comes from a case report in a scientific journal, and the individual was given a pseudonym by researchers). All quotes from named sources were obtained during personal interviews (in person or via phone, Skype, email, or social media), unless otherwise noted in the research references at the end of the book. The scientific references listed are representative sources supporting statements made in the book, but are not exhaustive. I have tried to include citations that will direct the reader to both important research reviews as well as any specific studies mentioned in the text. In this book, I describe research conducted on nonhuman animals. I believe that there are serious ethical considerations when it comes to both conducting and profiting from such studies. I have chosen to discuss animal studies when they represent a substantial part of the scientific basis for the idea I am explaining. These studies followed the scientific community’s consensus for the ethical treatment of nonhuman subjects at the time they were conducted.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  W riting a book is its own kind of ultramarathon, and like any endurance athlete, I could not have reached the finish line alone.

  On the publishing side, I owe so much to my agent, Ted Weinstein, who continues to be an incredible advocate and ally. Deep gratitude also goes to the entire team at Avery and Penguin Random House. To my publisher and editor, Megan Newman, thank you for taking on this project. You challenged me to think bigger, trust my curiosity, and follow the most fascinating threads. Thank you also to editor Nina Shield for your patience and guidance through the revision process, and to Hannah Steigmeyer for all the behind-the-scenes support. To Nancy Inglis and Janice Kurzius, thank you for not only catching errors but also elevating the manuscript. And to Lindsay Gordon and Casey Maloney, thank you for always making the publicity process fun. I’m so glad we’ve had the chance to keep working together over the years.

  My family started supporting this book before they had any idea I would become an exercise instructor or an author. Thank you to my mother, Judith, for bringing home all those garage sale workout videos, and for putting me in musical theater and dance classes. Thank you to my father, Kevin, for driving me to and from all those classes and rehearsals. And to both my parents, thank you for demonstrating—and passing on—a devotion to teaching. To my twin sister, Jane, thank you for your encouragement in all things in life, and for your enthusiasm for the topic of this book in particular. It kept me motivated even when I didn’t know how to move forward. To my husband, Brian, thank you for being a constant companion in this ultramarathon of a writing process. Like any good pacer, you provided moral support, kept me focused during the homestretch, and when I was exhausted and overwhelmed, reminded me why I was doing this.

  I am thrilled to also have a chance to publicly thank some of the exercise and dance instructors who have contributed so much to my happiness and mental health over the years. There are more than I can name, but they include Barry Moore, Gerry Barney, and Linda Polvere, who nurtured my love of dance when I was young; the instructors at HealthWorks in Boston on Commonwealth Avenue, where I took my first kickboxing classes; the faculty of the dance department at Stanford University; Judi Sheppard Missett, Margaret Richards, and all the other pioneers and role models wh
o have inspired me, including Nia founders Debbie Rosas and Carlos Rosas and the wonderful Nia trainers I’ve learned from; the fabulous Zumba educational specialists and jammers I’ve had the chance to dance with; the program directors and international presenting team of Les Mills; and the creators of all the programs that bring so many people joy, including BollyX, REFIT, and 305 Fitness.

  A special thank-you to the communities where I’ve taught group exercise over the years, especially Stanford Aerobics and Yoga, where I led my first class in 2000 and continue to teach; and to Sarah Ramirez, my first Nia teacher, my favorite collaborator in spreading the joy of movement, and an individual who truly embodies what it means to build community and choose hope in the face of obstacles.

  Most of all, I want to acknowledge the individuals who shared their personal stories in this book, and the organizations that allowed me to write about them. Thank you for your generosity. You took the time to participate in this project because you wanted to help and encourage others. Nothing could be closer to the heart of this book, and why I wrote it. I hope that you feel I captured something true and meaningful about your journey and what you bring to the world. And if this book makes a difference in the lives of others, your contribution will be one of the reasons why.

  NOTES

  Introduction