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“Does anyone have any injuries?”

A mantra uttered at the start of nearly every fitness class.

A valid question at face value. It demonstrates the instructor’s awareness to adapt the class to every student’s unique needs. It allows the class to unfold with this essential knowledge in mind. 

The apparent innocence of this question is understandable. The instructor wants to make sure they don’t cause further physical harm or challenge for those students.

But it also brings public attention to health issues, problems, injuries, trauma, and any other personal considerations any individual may have. It removes the choice of whether that information stays private.

Even if the instructor comes over to speak privately, that student  has already raised their hand. They’ve already alerted every other person in that class that they have something wrong with them. And, no matter how soft voices are used, no matter how much diligence is given to having a private conversation with that student on the mat, all students on surrounding mats can hear at least parts of that dialogue. They hear some of that revealing of whatever health challenges, injuries, or other problems that student is facing.

I acknowledge that this well-meaning question is good information for an instructor to have. But it can also be a trigger for some. 

Maybe it’s a health issue rooted in personal challenges. 

Or an incident that is embarrassing to admit.

Or a problem that someone just doesn’t know how to share with others quite yet. 

Or a disability that someone doesn’t want to talk about. 

Maybe a pregnancy that someone isn’t ready to announce yet in public.

Or connected to a traumatic event that is just too overwhelming to bring up in a public space like a gym or yoga studio. 

I never thought much of this question through my 20s….and 30s…and 40s in the thousands of fitness classes I took. I never really shared anything. My mindset was that I did not want to talk about whatever health of physical thing I had going on in this public setting. And, since fitness was such a significant part of my life, I knew how to adapt exercises appropriately. And, with my background as an athlete, no one ever really noticed if I was adapting anything for any minor issue or limitation. 

When I started teaching flying trapeze, acrobatic partner balancing, and strength conditioning at the circus school I worked at, I didn’t ask this question.

In one trapeze class, a student appeared as if she might be pregnant. My co-instructor and I wanted to be thoughtful without drawing attention to her or asking something personal in front of the group. Instead, we addressed the class as a whole — explaining the demands of flying trapeze and noting that certain conditions might make participation unsafe.

Occasionally, students would approach us privately. No one had to raise their hand or signal to the entire class that something was wrong.

While trapeze offered little room for adaptation, my strength classes did. I demonstrated a base exercise, then offered options to increase or decrease intensity. Very rarely were those options not enough.

I liked that approach of not bringing attention to any one individual – especially to a physical ailment or health issue. But, this was still a statement that started every fitness class I took.

I continued to brush it off until I faced my own health challenges I didn’t want to talk about. 

When I got Thoracic Outlet Syndrome, I initially lost the entire use of my left arm and hand, in addition to it being numb, swollen, and ice cold from the lack of blood and nerve signals. This condition caused such severe nerve damage that even after surgery to remove a rib and two muscles to allow blood and nerve signals to flow to my arm again, that limb is severely limited.

Even with this restrictive impairment, I didn’t want to raise my one good arm and wave it, declaring “hey, I’ve got this really weird, rare disorder that’s caused a disability in my left arm. Please look at me while the instructor singles me out!” 

I continued taking fitness classes, as I had for decades. I adapted and kept moving. 

But not using my entire left arm and hand was obvious.

Instructors would ask me why I hadn’t mentioned an injury.

“I don’t have any injuries,” I’d reply.

Confused, they’d ask, “well, what did you do?”

I hadn’t done anything. There was no single incident. This rare disorder developed slowly, cutting off blood and nerve signals to my arm.

Some instructors assumed a shoulder injury. 

“I have no problem with my shoulder,” I’d repeat.

Others assumed it was my hand or wrist. 

“Try plank on your forearms or fists,” they’d suggest. 

 “I can’t use my fist. I can’t go on my forearms. I can’t put weight on my left arm at all.”

Often, the suggestions and diagnoses would cycle back again. 

At first, I stayed patient. But over time, the pattern became frustrating – the lack of listening, the need to label, the insistence on fixing something I hadn’t asked to be fixed. 

I didn’t want attention. I didn’t want a diagnosis. I didn’t want to be fixed. For the same reason I didn’t wave my arm like one of those inflatable figures – I just wanted to take my class.

I shared this with a close friend. My frustration with these instructors wanting to always fix me. Put me in a contained box of shoulder injury or wrist problem. I shared how I wasn’t sure how to address this or respond. That my calm responses only brought more questions and therapies I didn’t need. And that my eye-rolling approach only made me feel worse about myself.

I remember my friend asking me how I wanted to be treated. What did I want these instructors to say to me. 

I hadn’t thought about that yet. But, I didn’t know.

I reflected for a while with her. I reflected for months after that.

I didn’t know what I needed. I didn’t know what words I needed to hear. 

I just knew I didn’t want to be “fixed.” I knew I didn’t want to be “diagnosed.” I knew I didn’t want to declare to a class of strangers that I have a disability. I didn’t want all that attention on me as I tried to describe the very strange collection of symptoms and limitations I had, taking up precious class time.

A couple years went by as I lived in this space. The tension in all areas of my life grew. I was bitter with my drastically changed life, all the things I was forced to give up, the job that was unfulfilling, and these instructors constantly bringing attention to how I was the one “not like the others.”

And, like the Sesame Song, it made me feel like I didn’t belong. 

I took a leave of absence from work, spent thousands of dollars to volunteer, and lived in Bali for a few months while I taught English at an elementary school. 

It was exactly the respite I needed – in many ways.

I was living in a remote village. Rice paddies surrounded our villa in every direction. I found a yoga shala just down the dirt path from the volunteer program house, where I was living. 

I would end up taking many classes there each week during my time I lived in Bali.

But it is the very first class I took there that stands out.

We were only 15 minutes in to class and just starting the surya namaskars. It is obvious that I wasn’t using my left arm – in my downward facing dogs, in my plank, in my tabletop. 

This instructor calmly walked over and said, “I see you’re adapting some of your movements. Everything is fine. Just let me know if there’s anything you’re not sure of adapting and we’ll figure it out.” She nodded, smiled, and walked back to the front of class.

That was it. Exactly what I needed. Exactly how I wanted to be treated. Exactly how adaptation should be approached.

That moment and that instructor so resonated with me, I returned the following year to Bali to complete her 200-hour Yoga Teacher Training.

I’ve been doing 1-arm yoga for five years now. 1-arm downward facing dogs. 1-arm planks that I can hold for a minute. I strap light weights to my left wrist, since I can’t hold them. When I do cardio, I have to minimize the level of jump, as too much bouncing lead the damaged nerves to send “danger, danger” signals to my left hand, causing to get numb and cold. 

My perspective on declaring my disability has changed.

As a yoga instructor, I now frequently will make a brief statement at the start of class about how my left arm won’t move like the other arm. I mention I have a disability and that “she” just doesn’t work like she used to.

I finish with a statement that emphasizes “yoga really is for every body” – and each person can move and exist in that space without explanation.