Chapter 1: The Unexpected Path to SilverSneakers®

The last time I participated in an exercise class designed for older adults, it was with my mother, who was in her mid-40s at the time. I was a troubled teenager, feeling an obligation to help her learn to swim again. Losing my mother to brain cancer was devastating, but even more jarring was the realization that I didn’t miss the person she used to be.

As I assisted her across the slippery locker room floor, I felt the eyes of the senior women around us. I wished that we didn’t stand out so much because of our age and my mother's serious health issues, but we were clearly struggling compared to those aging more gracefully around us.

In a group exercise class, I felt the tingling in my fingers and toes, and from there, everything spiraled downward—figuratively, not literally—until a persistent pain in my lower back became my new normal. Doctors dismissed my pain at eighteen, claiming I was too young for such chronic issues. After a thorough evaluation, I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia, which, unfortunately, seemed to be the best fit for my symptoms, until age was taken into account.

As the years passed, the toll of childhood trauma morphed into various chronic illnesses typically associated with older individuals. Conditions like ankylosing spondylitis, Sjogren's syndrome, and others became part of my reality. My mother, now in her early sixties, might finally find a place in a SilverSneakers® class—if only someone would take her.

But I was determined not to let anyone else drag me to the gym—especially not one where I felt out of place.

In recent times, physical therapy has occupied more of my time than traditional workouts. My last experience at a gym ended with a knee injury and an alarming spike in my heart rate that led to an emergency room visit. This was just two years ago, when I was still battling issues related to degenerative discs in my back, having poured my family's savings into a desperate stem cell transplant.

It's curious how doctors begin to take you seriously once you reach thirty. Suddenly, more conditions that have lingered on the table since my teenage years were being acknowledged. Yet, my body often reacts unpredictably, defying the expectations of healthcare professionals.

They emphasize exercise, diet, and sleep as if those alone could reverse the accelerated aging I've experienced—not just in myself, but in many around me. Through a few knowledgeable specialists, I discovered that a genetic connective tissue disorder called hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome lies at the core of many of my ailments, exacerbated by adverse childhood experiences.

Some treatments aim to slow the progression of my autoimmune diseases, hoping to stave off the feeling of being eighty while I'm still in my early thirties.

Physical therapists often push me too hard, unaware of my undiagnosed genetic condition. Others take a gentler approach, yet my body still protests at the faintest stretch. Pulmonary rehabilitation, prompted by a failed exercise tolerance test, saw me donning a neck brace to manage symptoms from cervical issues.

With no suitable physical outlets, I've resorted to more whimsical forms of exercise, like household chores and parenting my two young daughters. Unfortunately, these activities don’t elevate my heart rate or prevent my muscles and joints from fatigue due to lack of movement.

Sure, there are rare days when I manage to hike a small hill, swim with my kids, or attempt part of a prenatal yoga session. But my endurance is fleeting, often requiring days to recover from any exertion.

The last time I exercised intensely, I contracted COVID-19. Now, while I test negative, I exhibit all the symptoms. I can only hope that the elderly ladies I did chair yoga with the other day remain healthy and that I recover swiftly enough to continue exercising, despite the risks posed by a public gym.

Yes, here I am, a 31-year-old semi-disabled individual, among seniors in a modified exercise class, with my ability fluctuating from day to day. Over a decade has passed since my time in the gym with my mother, and despite estranging myself from her during my healing journey, targeted exercise programs for younger disabled individuals like us remain non-existent.

Modern gyms often feel unwelcoming, prompting me to favor community recreation centers, where a more diverse demographic may be less impatient with my slower pace. However, even these facilities label classes with terms like "low-impact" and "beginner," often suggesting an age or strength target that implicitly welcomes seniors.

As I take eye vitamins labeled for those "50+,” I seek an environment conducive to healing for individuals who feel like me, even if they don’t appear so. Still, I was uncertain about attending the SilverSneakers® classes due to the age restrictions. I called the facility to check if members of the rec center could participate.

"Can rec center members join?" I asked the receptionist. "Yes, but you need to come early to get a card. Usually, that class doesn't fill up," she explained.

Great. I had just signed up for a gym that seemed empty on the two days I visited, and now I was about to compete with a bunch of seniors for a spot in chair yoga.

As my three-year-old and I parked, I noticed a group of lively seniors heading toward the entrance. My daughter took her time, and while I wanted to hurry her, I didn’t want to disrupt her eagerness to try out the gym's childcare.

We slowly walked to the main desk, where others quickly passed us on their way to the vending machine and water fountain. I managed to grab one of the last laminated gym class cards available.

We made our way to the childcare area, but there was no one to greet us at the locked gate; the attendant was busy with the toddlers already inside. I had expected the place to be empty.

My daughter confidently approached the group of kids she would soon avoid as soon as I left the room. I turned to see our class waiting on benches, the regulars chatting more than a group of my peers would likely do.

I wasn’t ready to engage, so I sought a place to stow my belongings instead of bringing extra baggage into the room. I inquired at the front desk about locker room access, and to my relief, I learned that it was open to everyone—not just swimmers.

I stashed my canvas bag while keeping my yoga mat and water bottle with me. I selected a cushioned bench; most others sat on hard metal seats. An elderly woman asked if she could join me, and I welcomed her, surprised that she hadn’t thought about the discomfort of the other benches.

As we began our class, seated with closed eyes, we later transitioned to standing positions, using our chairs for support. The simple movements soon turned into a challenge for my hips, which deteriorated with the constant sitting and standing.

Many of my classmates mistook my deep stretches as a sign of success, adhering to the common belief that deeper stretches equate to a better workout. However, for someone with hypermobility, that can lead to premature arthritis and additional discomfort.

When the class concluded, a woman beside me suggested I might soon be ready for a regular yoga class. I appreciated her sincerity, even if I felt I was taking space from someone more deserving.

As I hobbled to return my chair, the instructor asked if I enjoyed the class. I responded honestly, "Yes, I’m just a little sore. My hips are fusing together, and I’m trying to avoid a wheelchair."

"Did your doctor approve your participation here?" she asked. "Yes," I assured her, emphasizing the collaborative nature of my medical care.

Only time will reveal if I am truly safe—physically, mentally, and emotionally—in this setting. Once I recover from this severe cold and the insecurities tied to being a thirtysomething with a transient disability, I sense I’ll return.

Whether it’s the support I feel from the seniors or simply the need to accept my journey, I’m slowly learning to embrace my situation and the lessons that come with aging gracefully.

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