I’ve had my fair share of attempted and abandoned hobbies. Some filled a temporary gap, a craving I didn’t know I had, while others fell flat, miserable failures from the start. Each one taught me the importance of balancing the demands of motherhood with my need for personal fulfillment. But one stands out about the rest. One has stood the test of time. And that hobby is the circus.
The turning point came when I took my kids to a free outdoor performance organized by our local circus school. It was a casual event, with a mix of amateur and semi-professional performers. A small stage was set up in the park, framed by colorful banners and hula hoops scattered on the grass. Families gathered on blankets and lawn chairs as performers wandered through the crowd, handing out spongy red clown noses.
The show left us in awe. People of all sizes, ages, and backgrounds showcased unbelievable strength and balance, from defying gravity on trapezes to performing elegant routines on silks.. I thought these types of stunts were strictly for professionals, like Cirque du Soleil performers and Pink. Could normal, everyday people do this?
Imagine my shock when I learned I could just stroll into a circus school — which actually exists, and there’s likely one near you — and sign up for classes. I kept thinking about it: Could finding balance in the air translate to finding balance in my life as a mom of three?
So, I took the plunge and signed up for an introductory aerial arts class, where I was introduced to different setups like the steel lyra, silks, and trapeze, along with the fundamentals of the practice. Aerial arts was the most random, wild hobby I ever pursued. And I still can’t believe I do it, really. My early attempts were anything but graceful — I barely made it halfway up the fabric, constantly confused my left from right, and ended each evening after class with a long bath to recover. But I was hooked.
I wasn’t instantly good, though. When I returned for my second session the following season — we had graduated to more complex sequences and were going to learn our first drop — I sauntered in with overconfidence, only to be swiftly humbled. With my hands caked in rosin, I grasped the fabric and began to ascend, wrapping it around my ankles to create a nook to step into and invert in the air. I failed. I failed over and over, struggling to lift my hips high enough and nail the angle necessary for rotation. That first year, I was the only one in my class who couldn’t conquer it. I’ll never be the best — I’m not flexible enough to look impressive or make my sequences flow smoothly, and I keep mixing up my left and my right while trying to navigate complex movements — but it turns out I don’t mind. I’m having fun.
Despite my incompetence, I still love it. That’s what circus school has done for me — broken through my discomfort with failure and pain, distracting me from the beast of body dysmorphia long enough to use my limbs and muscles as tools, not as sources of disgust and obsession.
I’ve been at war with my body for decades, not due to illness or injury, but consumed by a relentless need to “fix it.” I’ve immersed myself in body positivity, body neutrality, and the deconstruction of diet culture. I’ve sought guidance from registered dietitians and read widely the works of fat activists. But nothing has silenced the incessant critical voices in my head
Parenting has helped, to some degree. It has reshaped my relationship with my body in ways I never anticipated, helping me find a new sense of purpose and strength. As mom, my body serves those I love: my belly soft and welcoming for a toddler seeking deep cuddles; legs gently toned from playing chase and countless walks to the library.
But my time in the circus has helped, too. I may not glide through the air with grace or fluidity. Instead, I approach aerial arts with a determined, sometimes robotic persistence, muttering curses at the silks. But I’ve found a supportive community that encourages me to persevere, not in competition, and without judgment or comment.
It took repeated failures and countless bruises to finally understand that this wasn’t about immediate success. It’s about embracing the process. Circus has given me something I didn’t expect: a new appreciation for my body. A body that, for years, I felt at odds with. In aerial arts, it wasn’t about being thin or flawless, but about strength, resilience, and the joy of movement.
For my birthday early this year, I asked for one thing: a long piece of aerial silk fabric. It’s a way for me to continue conditioning, perfecting my technique, and staying connected to the sensation of it enveloping me — smooth against my sweat-soaked skin, providing both a soft touch and firm support. My children were so excited to present it to me. They’ve embraced my newfound passion: “Mom, are you going to clown school tonight?” my son teases. I laugh and scoop him into a hug. “Yep, buddy. Want to see the video of the cool things I did when I get home?”
If there’s one takeaway from all of this, it’s to never stop trying new things. Find something that moves your brain or body in a way that feels like play, not another item on your never-ending checklist. You don’t have to “achieve” anything to feel fulfilled — sometimes, you just need to hang in the air and see where it takes you.
Molly Wadzeck Kraus is a freelance writer and mother of three. Born and raised in Waco, Texas, she moved to the Finger Lakes region of New York, where she worked in animal rescue and welfare for many years. She writes essays and poems about feminism, mental health, parenting, pop culture, and politics. She is usually late because she stopped to pet a dog. She tweets at @mwadzeckkraus.
