I Worked Out In Just A Sports Bra And It Changed Everything

Courtesy of Marissa Gold

I’m not the type to show up to a workout in just a sports bra. “But, you wear leggings as pants,” you might counter. Absolutely. And I’ll gladly testify before congress to defend leggings’ rights to count as pants. But something about wearing just a sports bra—leaving so much of my bare skin completely exposed—always felt too scandalous to me. The greater the surface area of my body I can slip into the safe, opaque embrace of spandex, the better.

As a pre-teen in the nineties, I spent most of my evenings in ballet class where the clothing was—by any standard—minimal. But at that age, still blissfully indifferent to my own body, leotards felt as comfortable and modest to me as one of Kyle Richards’ muumuus. It wasn’t until I grew up—and grew breasts—that I started to feel self-conscious.

It wasn’t until I grew up—and grew breasts—that I started to feel self-conscious.

During my early teenage years, I’d accompany my mom to her local aerobics class. She preferred to hang toward the back and always wore loose-fitting clothes to blend into the chorus of moms that made up most of the room. As we grapevined left and right, I couldn’t help but notice the small pride of women in the front row who boldly went sports bra-only. I hypothesized that maybe they did not have the inevitable-for-everyone stomach pudge when they bent forward into a runner’s lunge, so shirts were really superfluous. Maybe their nipples somehow never got hard. What was it that made these women feel totally comfortable showing so much skin? It would be years until I’d finally have the balls to find out.

Flash forward to the present day, and my adult life is still filled with dance and workout classes (though sadly no aerobics). My usual class uniform is spandex. Lots of spandex. Typically a sports bra layered under a tank, and cute leggings. But it was a recent visit to one of my favorite cardio classes, 305 Fitness, that inspired me to peel my shirt off and let go of my sports bra hangup once and for all.

This was the place to let go of that kind of self-talk and shake what your mama gave ya. Even if what your mama gave ya was a mild complex about baring your body in public.

Let me set the scene for you: This is a cardio dance class where you booty pop to Beyoncé in a room lit up with disco balls and neon signs with a live DJ spinning. Teachers scream and crawl on the floor. The wall has “Unleash the beast” written on it. The instructors pretty much never wear full shirts. If you’re going to let your freak flag fly in any workout class, this is it.

Toward the end of class, the lights go off and a black light goes on, illuminating only our teeth and the day-glo Nike swooshes on our feet. You immediately feel a level of anonymity in the darkness that makes you want to hit the ten-minute hip-hop choreography extra hard. On that day, even though I couldn’t see myself in the mirror, I knew I was killing the moves in the dark. I felt confident. I felt sexy. And as I glanced into the mirror, all I could see was my white sports bra glowing out from underneath my tank top, as if to say, you’re ready.

As the lights came back on and the class ended, I gave a high-five to a newbie in the back who had been super reserved and could barely even bring herself to twerk just yet. She reminded me of myself back in the day in my mom’s aerobics class, trying to figure out the women in the front row. As I left class that day, I vowed to come back next time without a shirt. All of my previous fears—from “What if people look at my boobs?” to “What if my stomach looks fat in that position?”—suddenly seemed ridiculous. This is type of place where that kind of self-talk ends.

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