Earlier this year, my friend asked me if I wanted to take a pole dancing class with her. I laughed it off at first, but she was serious–she was really inviting me to go pole dancing with her. And nobody was more surprised than myself when I said yes. Don’t get me wrong, I had no problem with the idea of pole dancing. I was a feminist, firm in my belief that every woman should be able to do whatever she wants with her body. But firmly believing something and carrying out that belief in your own life are two very different things.

I’ve never been a dancer. There was a time in middle school when I had to dance in front of people for a group project in a required drama class. I hated every moment of it and cringed when I watched the video played back on Facebook. I went to dances in high school, but unless I was with my group of close and trusted friends, I avoided the dance floor like it was the plague. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to dance. I envied the girls who always looked so free and full of laughter as they moved their bodies and quiet literally danced as if nobody was watching. But I could never do that. I saw dancing as an opportunity to show off your body, but I’d always been taught that my body was something to hide.

Can you blame me? The only people like me, as in not thin, I’d ever seen dancing had been Fat Amy from "Pitch Perfect" and Fat Monica from "Friends." Two women literally defined by their bodies. They were hilarious. Whenever they danced the laugh track turned up on high while the camera would focus in on the looks of comical disgust on everyone’s faces. A few years ago a viral video entitled Fat Girl Dancing showed up on my newsfeed. I was inspired by the woman’s confidence and obvious skills, but terrified of the comments. People didn’t just not like her dancing, they hated her. They were truly disgusted by her. Fictional fat characters dancing are jokes and real fat people dancing are disgusting. I didn’t want to be either of those things. Can you blame me for not dancing?

The day of our first class, my friend relayed the instructions given to her by the instructor: Bring a yoga mat, wear shorts, no long sleeves, knee pads wouldn’t hurt. Later that evening I walked out of my room wearing running shorts and a tank top, this was probably the most revealing outfit I’d worn post-puberty, I felt totally exposed. Me and two friends got in my car and drove to a warehouse on the outskirts of town. I took one look at it, and then looked back at my friend who had set this up. “If our organs get stolen,” I said, “I’m blaming you.”

But our organs didn’t get stolen and the inside of the warehouse wasn’t nearly as sketchy as the outside. There was music blasting, a singular metal pole in the center of the room, and a woman greeting us who struck me as the polar opposite of the hardcore PE teachers and Taekwondo instructors I had grown up with.

The next few Monday nights were just as much philosophical lessons as they were physical ones. We learned how to grip the pole and twirl our bodies around it, all the while being reminded that we were in a “body positive space” and to only encourage each other and ourselves, never the opposite. We cheered each other on for even the smallest accomplishments while listening to our instructor rant about feminism and the objectification of female bodies.

Pole dancing became the highlight of my week, the most fun I’d ever had on a Monday night. But as fun as it was and as good as it made me feel, self consciousness is a tough feeling to shake. Sometimes, after learning a new set of moves or particularly difficult section of floor work, we’d film each other so we could watch ourselves back afterwards. And just like when I watched that video of myself dancing in eighth grade drama class, I cringed. Nothing was more painful than seeing myself dancing around in a body that was so unworthy of dancing.

But despite my own internal battles, my size was never mentioned. In fact, weight and size in general were never mentioned. It was all about dancing and learning to move our bodies, and nothing about individual looks and sizes. Little by little, I began to feel confident.

As with every skill I’ve ever developed, I feared the dreaded learning curve. The point where a new move or technique would be introduced, and everyone would get it except for me. After that, I told myself, it was only a matter of time before I fell behind and would be forced to drop the class. About a month in, when the ‘pole sit’ was introduced, I feared we had finally reached that curve. My friends and classmates failed the first few times, before finally getting both of their legs off the ground and sitting on the pole. I tried and tried, but my second leg wouldn’t budge. As if it knew something I didn’t, no matter how hard I tried to convince it otherwise, it was terrified that the moment it came up, the rest of my body would come crashing down.

I was embarrassed that it was so hard for me and ashamed that everyone was witnessing my struggles. But nobody seemed to care. Nobody talked to me patronizingly or told me try harder. All I got from the women around me was motivation. Every sign of progress was met with encouragement, and not the condescending encouragement of people who thought they were better than me, but the true and genuine cheers of friends who wanted me to succeed. And last week, I did. I sat on the pole for a full five seconds before yelping in pain and jumping back down. My friends and instructor all cheered and congratulated me, and for the first time, I felt grateful towards my body.

People always talk about pole dancing as something for women with no brains and low self-esteem. One year ago, I probably would have thought the same thing. Now I understand that the truth is quiet the opposite. This stereotype is the product of a world which tells women to keep our bodies hidden and that those who do otherwise are disturbed and should be ashamed, especially if their bodies aren't what society deems acceptable.

Why should I hate my body? What good has self-hatred ever done for me? It kept me away from swim parties and embarrassed to go shopping. It made it impossible to stand up to insults and bullies because deep down I agreed with them. I detested shorts and never wore bright colors, I avoided any sport or activity that I worried would call attention to the way I looked. So much of energy has been focused on covering myself up and hiding, I shudder to think of all the opportunities I missed out on along the way.

This is a work in progress, and I'm okay with that. Confidence is a muscle and just like any other muscle, you have to push it outside it’s comfort zone in order to help it grow. Every time I get on that pole and dance, I can feel it getting just a little bit stronger.