Every morning at 6 a.m., I lace up my sneakers, wave goodbye to my wife, and “go for a run.”
I even come back sweaty, like I actually ran. Sometimes I do a couple sprints around the block to sell it. But I’m not out there pounding pavement or chasing fitness goals.
I’m in a dingy studio downtown, learning ballet.
Yes, ballet.
It started as a fluke. I was walking by this arts building and saw a sign for an “Adult Beginner Ballet” class. I laughed, took a picture to send to a friend, and something just… stuck with me. That night I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Next morning, I showed up. I was the only guy. The instructor raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask questions.
I was terrible. Like, embarrassingly bad. But there was something about it — the discipline, the music, the way I had to be fully present in my body. I left that class feeling more alive than I had in years.
I kept going. Signed up for private lessons. I bought the shoes. I started stretching in secret. My hamstrings hate me, but my soul? It sings.
So why the lie?
Because my wife — amazing, funny, type-A — wouldn’t understand. She’s always seen me as her “rugged” guy. Ex-football, good with tools, hates musicals. We have a routine, an image. And I’m scared that if I say, “Hey, I’ve been pirouetting in a leotard while you think I’m jogging,” she’ll laugh. Or worse — think less of me.
I know how dumb that sounds. But masculinity is a tight costume, stitched with fear and pride. I’m just now starting to unzip it.
Next month is the class showcase. My instructor asked if I wanted to perform. I said no.
But maybe I will. Maybe I’ll invite her. Maybe I’ll finally stop pretending and let her see this other version of me — the one that dances when no one’s watching.
And if she walks out? At least I’ll know I did something honest, finally.