In August 2021, I became a certified barre instructor for a major boutique fitness company. In October 2023, I quit.
Boutique fitness is marked by its exclusivity: small spaces, group classes, one-to-two modalities, and memberships upwards of $150 per month are standard for these studios. In recent decades, barre studios in particular have bloomed with a cultish fervor across the United States. Barre is a strength-building and muscle-defining workout. Think: little pulses, long holds, deep breaths.
I took my first barre class in 2016, in my hometown of St. Louis. After years of struggling with food fear and body dysmorphia, the workout changed the way I viewed this vessel of mine. I learned how to slow down, how to feel in control of what my mind was telling my body to do. I learned that food equals energy, and I felt good when I was energized.
I loved it so much that I started teaching in 2021 at a studio in North Scottsdale, AZ. I was attending graduate school and was eager for a place that resembled home after moving to the desert.
My love for barre became a familiarity I clung to in Scottsdale, because Scottsdale is majority white – 83% white, per the 2023 Census. And with such a high price tag on classes, our studio – like so many other boutique fitness spaces – was no exception. Still, I thought I’d find community. As a diasporic South Asian, I quickly realized that I was the only instructor of color in the space.
I could count the number of BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and people of color) members we had on my hands at the Arizona studio. Other non-BIPOC staff members would ask me how to pronounce those members’ names and white clients would ask me where to find the best lamb curry or compare me to Princess Jasmine or show me pictures of their grandson’s girlfriend’s brown cousin who “looked just like me,” they’d swear.
Two years into teaching, I asked my studio owner if we could host a BIPOC-centered class. She said yes, but in the weeks after the first class I was told a BIPOC class would never happen again. The decision was made in efforts to “serve all equally,” according to an email the studio owner sent to the entire staff. I – along with several other staffers – quit.
That’s when I reached out to other BIPOC instructors across the country; friends who would understand the immensity of my grief. From miles away, they gave me relief. Together, we held each other in our shared experiences and collective rage.
What Does Support Actually Look Like in the Boutique Fitness Space?
For starters, support is a verb – it requires action and a willingness to evolve. It means being unafraid to center the needs of the marginalized without worrying about not serving the majority. This means creating a studio environment where everyone feels comfortable.
“When I walk into a room full of people who look exactly like each other but nothing like me, it’s hard to feel comfortable,” says Instructor A. who asked to remain anonymous. “One of the biggest draws to boutique fitness for me is community, but that quickly backfires when I don’t feel like I belong.”
That’s why intentionally putting these studios in diverse locations can be so important. “Take a serious look at where boutique fitness spaces are located,” suggests Intructor A. “Are they placed in predominantly white neighborhoods? How can you be accessible to the BIPOC community if the BIPOC community is nowhere to be found?”
To cultivate more diverse studios, Hailey Davis, an Asian American trainer in St. Louis, proposes programming community classes outside of the studio. “Don’t wait for the community to come to you,” she said. On the other hand, when clients do come to the studio, the space must be ready. For example, “not all BIPOC have curves, but a lot do. We need props like resistance bands that fit more than just XS-Medium.”
Or let’s say a new client walks in, and her name isn’t Sarah or Mary or Ashley. Supporting her doesn’t mean avoiding addressing her directly or asking BIPOC staff how to say her name. For Davis, the answer is simple. “Bosses and managers should train their staff to politely ask a client how to pronounce their name if they can’t,” she tells PS. “I’ve met a client who told me and another instructor that we were the only two that knew how to pronounce her name.”
Support also requires a sense of introspection. The boutique fitness industry must ask itself how much money diversity is worth to them. How many memberships and class packages would justify time enough to create room for clients that aren’t white, that aren’t straight, that aren’t thin?
A studio reflects its staff, and vice versa. Without asking questions or de-centering the self, a truly diverse, connected, and welcoming community is not possible. Instead, an echo chamber is created; a space that’s only safe for some, and willfully oblivious to the rest.
My Hope For the Future
Changing the game can only happen if you’re in it; if you’re dedicated to learning about what you love and finding the best ways for it to love you back. I still love and believe in group fitness. I know I’ll teach barre again one day, and I know it’ll be in space where inclusivity is radically fought for. I owe it to myself – and to everyone who left my former studio with me – to never settle for less again.
My fellow ex-instructors and I have found a new home to work out – where our names are known and they’re not only growing their community but evolving it. The owners have helped organize donation-based classes to raise money for local LGBTQ+ organizations. They don’t just invite BIPOC for photoshoots or promo; they’ve made room for BIPOC individuals to take up space.
As for my old studio, Instructor B. who also asked to remain anonymous, said that our parent company did evolve, even though it was at my expense. “We started BIPOC classes on a monthly basis to create a safe space for our clients of color,” she says. After my story became known, an implementation guide was written for franchise studios to roll these classes out fleet wide.
Evolution is a signal of hope, and there is so much to be hopeful for. So the only place to move is on, into a bigger and braver and safer space. I hope we can all meet there one day, with more willing hearts and open minds, and I hope we face the changes in the middle without fear. I know we will all find ourselves better for it.
Arya Naidu is a writer, editor, and fitness instructor based in Philadelphia. She has an MFA from Arizona State University, where she earned a Swarthout Award in Writing. Her work can be found in PS, Vestal Review, Wig-Wag, and elsewhere.
