Pole dance humbled me from day one. I still remember the first time I walked into the studio—excited, clueless, and already convinced I’d magically spin like the girls on Instagram. Reality hit fast. For three whole months I couldn’t do a single spin. Not a cute one, not a messy one—nothing. I was slipping, sliding, laughing, pretending it didn’t bother me, but deep down I felt like the most uncoordinated person in the room.

Everyone around me kept progressing. New spins, climbs, combos… and me? I was stuck repeating the same basics, over and over and over. Climbing? Zero. My feet wouldn’t grip, my hands wouldn’t hold, my body wouldn’t listen. I tried an invert way too early, mostly out of stubbornness, and ended up with the world’s most chaotic attempt. But I kept trying. I kept showing up even when I felt ridiculous. Even when I felt slow. Even when my whole body was telling me to quit.

And here’s the part I never expected: the progress came quietly. Not in a big “look at me now” moment, but in tiny pieces. A better grip. A slower slide. A spin that almost looked like a spin. A climb that wasn’t really a climb—but wasn’t a fail either. And today, watching this video of myself, I see a million mistakes. My legs aren’t where they should be, my core is late to every party, my transitions are clumsy, and my grip is still nervous.

But for the first time, I also see something else.

I see effort. I see courage. I see someone who didn’t give up. I see proof that progress doesn’t always feel like progress when you’re living it day by day. This is messy, imperfect, beginner chaos—and I’m proud of it. I’m proud of me. And I’m nowhere close to stopping.

Finding my strength, one Slip at a Time