Movement as Home
Movement has always been my anchor. Since I was six, I’ve been dancing like my body had secrets it needed to spill. By eight, I was leading my school’s dance team in Nairobi, bossing around kids taller than me, carrying the weight of representing us at county festivals at Bomas of Kenya.
But once the clapping stopped, I was still me: the autistic Black girl who never fit the mold. Later in France, that truth only sharpened. Too Black, too loud, too strange. Always too much and somehow never enough.
At eleven, yoga found me. Not studio mats and candles, just me, in my bedroom, locking the door, stripping down, and practicing nude, just instinct. My skin needed to breathe, my body needed to move unhidden. Society wanted me ashamed, hypersexualized, reduced. But alone and naked, I built my own mirror. My body wasn’t dirty, it was divine. Voodoo layered into that truth later: flesh as sacred, wombs as drums, hips as spirit carriers. Nude movement became ritual, altar, revolution. And then, in 2023, the universe pulled a plot twist: Zurich. Stripping.
Stripper Diaries in Zurich & Prague
My first night in Zurich felt like I’d crashed a European Barbie convention. Tall, pale, ruler-straight bodies in platinum wigs. And then me: short, dark, afro puff bouncing, fade sharp enough to slice bread, curves announcing every sentence before I spoke it.
Backstage was sweeter. Makeup shared, heels swapped, secrets whispered. The white girls marvelled at my rhythm, asking, dead serious, how I made my ass move like that. So I became the unofficial twerk professor in the locker rooms. In between sets, I gave crash courses: “Hands on knees. Bend. Arch the back. Let your womb lead, not your shoulders. Don’t clench. Relax. Let it jiggle.”
Watching them try was comedy: like a row of malfunctioning washing machines. Still, I hyped them like they were shaking stadiums. “Yesss babe, you’re giving IKEA furniture, but make it sexy!”
The clients told another story. Zurich men: silent, oil and pharma money, watching us like performance art. Prague? Opposite. Drunk stag parties, rowdy chants, one man tipping me in coins like I was a parking meter. I laughed so I wouldn’t throw them at his forehead.
Two months of latex lingerie, vodka breath, and fake smiles. It paid bills, but drained me. My nude yoga, the one that made me feel sacred, was missing. This wasn’t liberation. This was survival. So I quit. And I swore: the next time I touched a pole, it would be in my own sweat, (and to perform on big stages duh, i gots to make that big coin!)
Amsterdam: Pole Bruises & Barefoot Gospel
A year later, I reclaimed the pole. In Amsterdam, I signed up for classes. No smoke machines, no sleazy men, no champagne props, just women, mirrors, music, sweat.
And baby, pole hurts. Nobody tells you this. Latex boots had been cushioning me in the club. Bare skin on steel? That’s another story. My first fireman spin felt like thighs pinched by Satan himself. My sit? Medieval torture device. By the end, I walked like I’d been jousting invisible knights.
But I loved it.
For the first time, I wasn’t dancing for men who barely had appreciation of the black feminine norm. I was dancing for myself.
The Dutch girls floated like willows. I thudded like thunder. Where they twirled pretty, I spun messy, powerful. And I realized: pole isn’t about being pretty. It’s about survival, surrender, and strength. A fight and a prayer, at the same time. And once I tasted that power? There was no going back.
What Pole Gave Me
Growing up autistic in a small white French village? Baby, it was survival of the fakest. Let me paint it: sensory overload 24/7, fluorescent lights in classrooms buzzing like angry bees, kids spraying Axe body spray like it was Florida water, teachers slamming rulers on desks. My brain would short-circuit from the noise, smells, stares. And every time I reacted, every time I flinched, shut down, or lashed out, I was the “problem.” Not the environment, not the racism, not the bullies calling me “monkey”. Me.
So I masked. Smile at disrespect or risk expulsion. Laugh at racist jokes or risk the “angry Black girl” label. Even silence was policed. Mask or be punished.
That mask followed me everywhere, even in Zurich clubs, where I could switch personas like costumes: exotic, mysterious, whatever kept me safe and paid. But it wasn’t living.
Pole didn’t let me mask. Your body tells the truth on a pole. Overwhelmed? Your grip slips, your spin flops. Tuned in? Flow emerges. The pole caught me exactly as I was.
For the first time, my stimming had a home: spins, repetition, rhythm. My sensory cravings for deep pressure found peace in steel against thighs and ribs. Even bruises grounded me, visual stims I could trace with my fingers.
And the community? They didn’t punish me. Blurting mid-class was met with laughter, not discipline. Hyperfocus on a trick was cheered, not shamed. Silence after a tough climb was respected. No side-eyes. No racist punishments. Just space.
Pole made my neurodivergence an asset. Hyperfocus helped me learn faster. Sensory seeking made me love the burn, the squeeze. Blunt honesty made me the class hype woman. For once, I wasn’t too much, I was just right.
And the pole humbled me. One second I was Beyoncé, thighs gripping like honey, hair wild. Next second? Sliding down like a dying koala, squealing, dignity on the floor. But instead of shame, I laughed. Joy lived in the messiness.
That’s what pole gave me: freedom to be autistic, Black, feminine, sensual, goofy, all at once. No masks, no apologies. Just me and my body, talking again. And that conversation? That’s liberation.
Want to find out more about Goddess Mwenesi Head to her page at @goddessmwenesi to keep up with her journey and explore more of her world.
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