Making time to hold space (and planks) with Mum

The invitation came indirectly. Last September, my aunt invited my mother and me to join her for what she described lightly as an exercise class. 

We thought, why not? Mum had recently retired from her job as a chief human resources manager at the age of 59, and after decades of full schedules and constant responsibilities, her days had opened up in ways she wasn’t used to. 

She was game for the idea of trying something new and challenging. 

We assumed it would be like Pilates, gentle and low intensity. It would be a nice way to move our bodies together, we thought optimistically. 

We were wrong.

The class turned out to be Lagree, a high-intensity workout performed on a machine called a Megaformer. It borrows from Pilates principles but layers on slow, muscle-burning strength work with minimal breaks between moves. 

It’s not exactly beginner-friendly, and neither of us is naturally sporty. Besides a few long walks here and there, we were starting from zero. 

The first class floored us. Even holding a plank felt like a feat on the machine. Our muscles were trembling, and we wondered what we had got ourselves into. 

But despite that, my mother and I kept going. It was strangely addictive seeing ourselves get stronger. 

Two weeks after our trial ended, I asked if she would sign up for a four-month membership with me. 

Partly because having the company made showing up easier. Partly because it was rare to find something challenging we could ease into together. And partly because I simply wanted her there with me. 

Mum paused. I could sense her hesitation. And yet, a moment later, she said yes.

I think part of it was curiosity. And maybe, somewhere under that familiar “I will try anything once” attitude, she liked the idea of doing it together.

Today, we’ve finished the four months and are both enrolled in a 12-month membership.

What experience knows about effort

What surprises me most isn’t that Mum agreed to go, but how game she’s been about sticking with it. There’s a 32-year age gap between us, and it has become more noticeable when she talks about stiffness that lingers or aches that suddenly appear. 

I used to wonder if she’d feel self-conscious, or worry she was “too old for this”. But she just keeps showing up.

In class, I see a side of Mum I hadn’t fully appreciated before. 

I am impatient. I want to nail each move immediately and get frustrated when my body refuses to cooperate. I want to push myself to my limits, sometimes attending class four or five times a week. Mum, by contrast, is steady. She listens to her body, knows when to push and when to skip a class, and accepts defeat gracefully when she cannot keep up.

Somehow, in those moments, we balance each other.

It has been months since our first class, but our eyes still dart around the room to see if we are doing it right. Some days, we wobble more than we hold. Other days, when we finally get it, it feels like a small, personal victory.

There is a delight in watching what the classes do for Mum. It’s not a dramatic transformation, but tiny shifts, like when she tells me her back feels looser. When she holds a pose she could not manage weeks ago. When she laughs at herself for toppling over and tries again anyway.

Watching her, I feel the satisfaction I usually reserve for my own progress, but this time, it lands differently. Because this time, it is someone I love.

Advice flows both ways now

Our time together doesn’t stop when class ends. 

We usually end up wandering to a nearby cafe for coffee or a small bite – a natural extension of routine before we go our separate ways. 

Our conversation typically starts off the same way: the workout, what hurt, and what felt surprisingly easy. Then, it drifts into work, and inevitably, everything else.

Mum’s advice on people, careers and office dynamics is as sharp as ever. But the roles are changing. 

Growing up, my parents guided me through school, life admin, and the basics of how to exist in the world. Now, Mum seeks guidance from me. I help her navigate technology, show her new tools, explain how artificial intelligence might change the way she now works as a freelance HR consultant, and offer little shortcuts that make life easier.

We often end up going into informal brainstorms: what she’s exploring, what I’m experimenting with, and what feels meaningful enough to pursue. Sometimes, we even consider working together. 

We live together, but it can sometimes feel like Mum and I pass each other by on busy days. Building this intentional routine has made a real difference, especially as I plan to move out in 2027. 

It has become a steady space to connect, reminiscent of old routines, like her sending me off to school.

I used to tie joy to milestones, achievements, or exciting plans. That still matters, but now, I see there’s more to it than just that. I’ve realised that showing up for small, intentional moments like mid-morning classes and coffee conversations – and being present for the people who matter, like Mum – brings a joy that lingers far longer than the big ones ever did. 

It’s also not just about me or Mum individually. It’s about the relationship itself, nurtured in these small gestures like inviting her to class, encouraging her to try something new, and our regular coffee chats after. 

By the time we leave class and go our separate ways, I feel lighter. Not because the workout was easy (it never is) but because we showed up – and made time – for each other.