What Aerial Taught Me About Being a Midlife Beginner

This week I tried something completely new.

And it turned out to teach me something I wasn't expecting.

I went to an aerial silks and hoop class. Which, on paper, sounds like not that big a deal. But by the time I cycled home (no car, cycling is my thing, and yes I'm absolutely counting the round trip as part of the achievement) I found myself thinking about all the people who don't go.

The ones who stand at the door of something unfamiliar and turn around.

So I wanted to write this, in case that person is you.

The Discomfort of Being New

Aerial silks, if you haven't come across it, is essentially acrobatics using long lengths of fabric hanging from the ceiling alongside a suspended hoop.

It is genuinely beautiful when done well, completely effortless-looking when the people doing it have years of practice behind them.

I did not look effortless. I think I may have discovered a new talent for making things look harder than they actually feel.

(This is not me in the picture but I think you might have guessed that)

Walking into that room, I immediately clocked the situation.

Most people there were around half my age, and they had eight to ten weeks of classes on me, I'd had to join a group that was slightly further along than the true beginners' course.

So there I was: oldest in the room, in a body still navigating burnout recovery, about to try something I'd never done before.

That familiar feeling landed quietly. Oh. I really am the beginner here.

Which is obvious... of course I was, it was my first class. But there's something specific about being a beginner in a physical space when you've spent years in those spaces in a completely different role.

As the coach.

The facilitator.

The person who knows what's happening.

You don't know the expectations.

You don't know how you'll perform.

You don't know how you'll be perceived.

Even in familiar territory, stepping from one role to another can feel surprisingly exposing.

When Age Becomes a Story

And then something came up that I genuinely didn't see coming.

I thought about my age.

I know. Bear with me.

I'm not someone who spends much time worrying about getting older.

I genuinely celebrate every birthday.

I love to collect my birthday candles... because I lost my mum when she was only 45, and I've had my own chapters of serious illness and mental health struggles that reminded me, pretty viscerally, that getting older is a privilege and not a problem.

Age positivity isn't a performance for me. It's something I've earned through real grief and real gratitude.

And yet. Standing in that room, about to climb a piece of fabric for the first time, some small voice said...

Are you a bit old for this?

I stood there for a second thinking: where did you come from?

Midlife can carry unspoken narratives about what we should or shouldn't be doing... even when we consciously reject them.

They show up as a passing thought. A moment of hesitation. A flicker before you decide to go in anyway.

It didn't stop me. It wasn't devastating.

But it caught me off guard, and I think that's worth saying out loud: even the most age-positive among us can have a wobble.

Even the people who know better. Noticing it, without letting it win, is the thing.

Why Vulnerability Increases in Midlife

A lot of the women I work with have spent years being reliable, capable, and self-sufficient.

The one who holds it all together.

The one who knows what she's doing, or at least looks like she does.

Stepping into a beginner role challenges that identity.

It asks you to be seen in uncertainty rather than competence. And that can feel deeply uncomfortable... not because you can't handle it, but because it's so unfamiliar.

Somewhere along the way, many of us stopped being allowed to be beginners.

We became the capable ones. And there is something quietly revolutionary about choosing to walk back into not-knowing.

About saying: I don't know how to do this yet.

And I'm going to show up anyway.

The Power of Showing Up

So what did I do with all of that? I did the class.

I wobbled. I fell on my bum (very grateful for the padded floors).

I laughed at myself. I couldn't do everything. I could do more than I expected.

The instructor and everyone in the room were wonderful.

Welcoming, encouraging, completely unbothered by my expression of pure concentration while they made it look considerably easier nearby.

By the end I felt good. Genuinely good.

Surprised by what my body could do, even in the middle of recovery. More proud of the showing up than anything I actually achieved in the session itself.

Growth doesn't require confidence.

It requires participation.

Showing up, even when you feel uncertain, creates the opportunity for something new to emerge... not just in terms of skill, but in how you relate to yourself.

Meeting Yourself Where You Are

This is what I think about a lot with Breathwork too, because I hear it all the time from people considering coming for the first time:

I don't know what to expect. I'm a bit nervous. What if I do it wrong?

Here's what I want to say back to that: you cannot do Breathwork wrong.

You have been breathing your whole life. Your body already knows how to do this.

What we're doing in a session is simply bringing more awareness to something you already do naturally, every day.

There is no good at it or bad at it. There's just your breath, and what it wants to show you today.

And in terms of not knowing what to expect; this is something I take seriously.

Before every session at Still Space Hull, I make sure people know what's involved, what might come up, what the guidelines are.

Because the not-knowing is vulnerable enough on its own. The least I can do is make sure you're not also navigating the logistics in your head.

Whether it's a fitness class, a Breathwork session, or something else entirely, the invitation is the same.

Meet yourself where you are, without judgement, without expectation.

A good space will meet you there too.

Final Reflection

Being a beginner in midlife is not a step backwards. It's a continuation. A willingness to keep exploring, learning, and expanding... even when it feels uncomfortable.

Perhaps especially then.

The nervous feeling doesn't mean you're not ready. It often means you're right on the edge of something good.

If you've been curious about Still Space Hull, the Breathwork sessions, the community we're building...and you've been hovering at the door a little, this is me saying: that's normal.

The door is open. You don't have to know what you're doing. You just have to show up.

If you enjoy a listen, tune in to episode 127 of Rooted in Presence wherever you get your podcasts.