Braving Imposter Syndrome at Hula-Hoop Camp
Venturing outside her comfort zone in midlife helped Abby Alten Schwartz put a new spin on her old insecurities.
We stood in a clearing surrounded by towering redwoods, waiting for the opening ceremony to begin. There were maybe 100 of us. As I looked around our circle, panic rose in my throat. It was 2011 and I was a 44-year-old mom from the Philly suburbs. What on earth made me think I’d fit in with these pierced, tattooed, bare-midriffed Millennials? I’d just traveled 3,000 miles to Santa Cruz, California, for Hoopcamp—a four-day, outdoor retreat for hoopers. The hula kind.
Two years earlier, I’d read an article in Shape magazine about Marisa Tomei’s favorite workout and was thrilled to discover the toy I’d loved as a kid was having a resurgence. I ordered my first adult-sized hoop, both heavier and larger in circumference than the Wham-O version from childhood, and promptly became obsessed. Giant bruises bloomed on my torso—a newbie rite of passage. They matched the teal and magenta scuffs on my ceiling from practicing off-body tricks.
I dove down a rabbit hole of hooping subculture, mesmerized by music videos of women whose hoop performances were as tantalizing as burlesque, as acrobatic as Cirque du Soleil. I learned to make my own colorful hoops out of poly irrigation tubing, connectors, and gaffer tape, and began gifting them to friends who graciously ignored the dog hairs stuck to the tape.
Then Hooping.org, the hub of the global hooping community and source of my daily fix, put out a call for bloggers. I was a freelance copywriter for hospital systems and itching to expand my personal writing. I volunteered and Philo, the site’s founder and editor—a gregarious 46-year-old man who reminded me of Fred Schneider of the B-52s—offered me a column. I’d represent the casual hooper—happy to rock a hoop in front of my TV, but mortified at the thought of posting a video of myself online.
It was 2011 and I was a 44-year-old mom from the Philly suburbs. What on earth made me think I’d fit in with these pierced, tattooed, bare-midriffed Millennials? I’d just traveled 3,000 miles to Santa Cruz, California, for Hoopcamp—a four-day, outdoor retreat for hoopers. The hula kind.
Months later, with a handful of blog posts under my belt, I flew across the country with my snap-together travel hoop and laptop to report on the largest annual gathering of hoopers from around the world. I’d signed up on a whim, thinking it would be a fun getaway and a chance to improve my skills. Philo suggested I write about it for the blog.
Right away, milling around the registration area, I saw what a mistake I’d made. I was neither a festival person nor a performer. The people around me had arrived with their own arsenals of hoops, and were spinning them from every body part as they greeted each other with shrieks of recognition—shimmering hummingbirds in perpetual motion. I felt myself shrinking with shyness.
I recognized Philo, who was there to emcee the event and lead several workshops, and I walked over to finally meet him in person.
“I feel so out of place,” I blurted.
“Don’t compare others’ outsides to your insides,” he said, hugging me before moving on to mingle with friends. Quick as our interaction was, his words did help.
I looked around and realized I blended in enough on the outside—dressed in Athleta leggings with an attached miniskirt, a yoga top knotted at the waist, and knee-high boots. Still, my insides screamed IMPOSTER.
Right away, milling around the registration area, I saw what a mistake I’d made. I was neither a festival person nor a performer. The people around me had arrived with their own arsenals of hoops, and were spinning them from every body part as they greeted each other with shrieks of recognition—shimmering hummingbirds in perpetual motion. I felt myself shrinking with shyness.
It wasn’t just about age. There were some other middle-aged hoopers there, including Philo. It was that the other hoopers had an ease about them, a way of moving their bodies without a hint of self-consciousness. They gave off a sense of belonging and an inherent coolness I’d never possessed.
Soon it was time for the opening activities, including welcoming speeches and a group workshop to kick things off. Baxter, the instructor, guided us to hoop with our eyes closed, but instead of losing myself in the meditative flow state hooping usually induced, I was distracted by intrusive thoughts. My long-buried middle-school insecurities resurfaced and whispered in my ear: You’re uncoordinated. You’re awkward. You don’t fit in with the popular crowd.
In my Gen X adolescence, I exchanged long, handwritten letters with my girlfriends that captured the minutiae of our days. We vented about strict teachers and too much homework. We admitted which boys we had crushes on and dissected every nuance of our interactions. We claimed which celebrities from Tiger Beat were “ours” (Parker Stevenson, Paul Michael Glaser). And we professed our undying best friendship.
But our generation was raised to be stoic in the face of anxiety. We tamped down our feelings, rarely divulging or examining the shame and worry we carried.
Some things I couldn’t hide. I didn’t own designer jeans, instead wearing my sister’s hand-me-down dungarees. I couldn’t run fast or climb a rope in gym class. When I reenacted SNL sketches with my friends, I was really just imitating my friends—worrying I might say the wrong thing and be exposed as the loser who wasn’t allowed up past Fantasy Island. And I confessed to no one the stomach-churning fear and humiliation I felt in sixth grade, when Susie down the block turned some kids on my street against me and bullied me mercilessly for months.
At Hoopcamp, all my healthy relationships and professional accomplishments of the prior 30 plus years receded to the background, leaving me with this thought: Who do you think you are? What made me presume to be the blogging voice of Hoopcamp when I didn’t come close to the others’ advanced skills? Until that day, I’d never even hooped in public. Sure, Philo had suggested I write about my novice adventure at Hoopcamp, but would anyone really care?
After the opening events, we headed to the dining area for happy hour and a communal meal. I breathed in the fresh air and made polite conversation with friendly people—a little more relaxed, but still wondering if I should cut my losses and leave the next day. As the sun set, we were invited to wander through the camp’s marketplace, a maze of booths where vendors displayed a glittering rainbow of clothing, specialty hoops, and accessories.
I blended in enough on the outside. Still, my insides screamed IMPOSTER. It wasn’t just about age. There were some other middle-aged hoopers there, including Philo. It was that the other hoopers had an ease about them, a way of moving their bodies without a hint of self-consciousness. They gave off a sense of belonging and an inherent coolness I’d never possessed.
I’d noticed a bunch of the female hoopers walking around camp wearing handmade leather utility belts around their hips, each a unique combination of zippers, studs, and pockets that snapped shut. These weren’t for hooping, but for carrying stuff. A sexy fanny pack—a perfect oxymoron.
“Did you buy that here?” I asked someone, and she pointed me toward a booth. I walked over and met Kit, the artist, a dark-haired young woman with strong cool-chick vibes. I introduced myself as I tried on a belt and added, “I’m here to write about Hoopcamp for Hooping.org.”
Kit looked at me for a beat, then said, “Wait, I know your column. I love it!”
The curly-haired blonde standing next to us chimed in. “You’re Abby? I love your writing!”
Two more women joined the conversation and something inside me shifted, a subtle realignment that made me stand a little taller in my boots. We chatted a few minutes longer, then I paid for the belt, adjusted it on my hips, and walked away. I might even have sashayed. I was definitely grinning.
Later that night, I thought about the feedback I’d just gotten about my column. It was my voice they’d responded to—my admissions of awkwardness and embarrassment, and the self-deprecating humor I sprinkled throughout, without calculation or forethought. I opened my laptop to report on day one. After describing the campsite and opening ceremony, I wrote:
“And since I have always made it my goal to be open and honest in this column, I will confess my first thoughts: Wow, I can’t believe we are here. There are a lot of good hoopers here. I am in completely over my head. Holy crap, what was I thinking?”
The next morning, at my first workshop, I felt less self-conscious. I’m here as a journalist, I told myself. If I feel out of place, I’ll own it. It was okay if I wasn’t great at off-body hooping, or if the afternoon workshop on sexuality and hoop movement made me blush. I just had to try, to feel, to experience, and to share those moments with the people who couldn’t be here in person.
In another blog entry I wrote:
“Philo is a gifted teacher, bringing warmth and humor to a topic that touches hoopers of all levels: finding your own hoop expression…My takeaway from his workshop was this: All of the great hoopers whose style we emulate spent hours, days, months, even years practicing their moves, exploring with the hoop, and finding their own hoop voice, which is why, when they emerged on the scene, they stood out with their own unique style.
Each of us can do the same if we put in the practice time, experiment with movements and styles, and let go of the idea that there are rules about hooping that we have to follow if we are to become “good” hoopers.”
Though I didn’t recognize it at the time, those words were just as relevant to the craft of writing.
I continued my hooping column until early 2013, but it wasn’t until 2020 that I fully embraced my identity as a writer and, at last, found a community with whom I truly feel at home.
Hooping may have been a niche topic, but writing about it allowed me to explore themes of belonging, identity, the mind-body connection, mental health, and play. After all, I’m a writer. Metaphor is my weapon of choice, and I can connect any dots I choose—an ancient astronomer charting constellations in the sky.
As for Hoopcamp, once I stopped worrying about fitting in, I was able to receive its lessons: Ground yourself in nature. Find your own form of expression. Release any preconceived ideas about how you should be hooping (or living, I thought, determined to mine the experience for a spiritual message).
Hooping may have been a niche topic, but writing about it allowed me to explore themes of belonging, identity, the mind-body connection, mental health, and play. After all, I’m a writer. Metaphor is my weapon of choice, and I can connect any dots I choose—an ancient astronomer charting constellations in the sky.
Almost 14 years later, now at 58, it’s clear to me how pivotal Hoopcamp was in developing my self-confidence. I learned that by leaning into my vulnerability, I could transform it into relatability. That forcing myself beyond my comfort zone allowed me to grow. That, as a writer, I belonged anywhere my curiosity led me.
Most importantly, I discovered that authenticity is its own form of coolness—both on the page and off.
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This Abby: "I learned that by leaning into my vulnerability, I could transform it into relatability. That forcing myself beyond my comfort zone allowed me to grow. That, as a writer, I belonged anywhere my curiosity led me." Such a great post!
This was such a sweet read on a Monday morning, Abby. I love your voice and prescribe to your gutsy entry into the unknown.