I have also tried some hobbies and given up on them. Some filled a temporary void, a desire I didn’t know I had, while others came up empty and failed miserably from the start. Each taught me the importance of balancing the demands of motherhood with a sense of personal fulfillment. But one stands out. One person has stood the test of time. This hobby is the circus.
The turning point came when I took the kids to a free outdoor show organized by a local circus school. This is a casual event featuring amateur and semi-professional performers. A small stage was set up in the park, and the grass was strewn with colorful banners and hula hoops. Families gathered on blankets and lawn chairs as performers wandered among the crowd, sticking out their spongy red clown noses.
This show blew us away. People of all sizes, ages and backgrounds demonstrate incredible strength and balance, from defying gravity on the trapeze to performing graceful moves on silks. Circus performers and Pink. Can normal people, ordinary people, do it?
Imagine my shock when I learned that I could walk into a circus school—which actually exists, and there’s probably one near you—and sign up for lessons. I’ve been wondering: Does finding balance in the air translate to finding balance in my life as a mother of three?
So I took the plunge and signed up for an introductory aerial arts course where I learned different setups such as steel lyra, silks and swings, as well as the basics of the exercises. Aerial art is the most spontaneous and wild hobby I have ever pursued. I still can’t believe I did it, really. My early attempts were anything but elegant—I barely made it halfway, constantly confusing my left and right, and taking long recovery showers after class every night. But I was hooked.
However, I didn’t get better immediately. When I came back for my second session the next season—we had begun learning more complex sequences and would learn our first drop—I strolled in with overconfidence, but was quickly humbled. My hands, coated in rosin, grabbed the fabric and began to rise, wrapping it around my ankles to create a corner for me to step into and flip in the air. I failed. I failed again and again, struggling to lift my hips high enough and determine the angle I needed to rotate. My first year, I was the only one in my class who couldn’t get over it. I’m never going to be the best – I’m not flexible enough to look impressive or make my sequences flow, and I keep mixing my movements left and right when trying to maneuver complex movements – but it turns out I Don’t mind. I had a great time.
Despite my incompetence, I still love it. This is what circus school did for me – broke through my discomfort with failure and pain, diverting me from the beast of body dysmorphia long enough for my limbs and muscles to become tools rather than disgust and Source of obsession.
I’ve been at war with my body for decades, not because of illness or injury, but because of the constant need to “fix it.” I’m immersed in body positivity, body neutrality, and the deconstruction of diet culture. I sought guidance from a registered dietitian and read widely by fat activists. But nothing can quiet the critical voice in my head.
Parenting helps in a way. It reshaped my relationship with my body in ways I never expected and helped me find new purpose and strength. As a mother, my body serves the people I love: my belly is soft, welcoming a toddler seeking a deep embrace; Legs softened by chases and countless walks to the library.
But my experience in the circus also helped. I might not be able to glide through the air with grace or fluidity. Instead, I approached the aerial arts with a determined, sometimes mechanical persistence, muttering curses at the silk. But I found a supportive community that encouraged me to persevere without competition or judgment or comment.
After failure after failure and countless bruises, we finally understand that this is not the result of immediate success. It’s about embracing the process. The circus gave me something unexpected: a new appreciation for my body. For years I was out of tune with this body. In aerial art it is not delicacy or perfection that matters, but strength, resilience and the joy of movement.
For my birthday earlier this year, I asked for something: a long piece of aerial silk. It’s a way for me to continue to adjust, perfect my technique, and stay connected to the feeling it has around me—smooth against my sweat-soaked skin, providing a soft touch and solid support. My kids were so excited to present it to me. They embraced my newfound enthusiasm: “Mom, are you going to clown school tonight?” my son teased. I smiled and held him in my arms. “Yeah, man. Want to see a video of the cool stuff I do when I get home?
If there’s one takeaway from all of this, it’s to never stop trying new things. Find something that makes your brain or body feel like play, not another item on your never-ending list. You don’t have to “achieve” anything to feel satisfied—sometimes, you just have to hang in the air and see where it takes you.
Molly Waszek Krause is a freelance writer and mother of three. She was born and raised in Waco, Texas, and later moved to the Finger Lakes region of New York, where she worked in animal rescue and welfare for many years. She writes articles and poetry about feminism, mental health, parenting, pop culture, and politics. She’s usually late because she stops to pet the dog. She is on Twitter @mwadzeckkraus.
