Here's the thing about being a stripper with chronic pain: there are weeks, sometimes months, when I can't work. It’s the end of May and I haven't been able to dance in the strip club or the pole studio in months now. My body won't let me. In the meantime, I am forced to sit with a difficult question:

But identity isn't a performance of constant productivity. I'm still a stripper even when I'm home in bed with a migraine. I'm still a poet even when the pages in my poetry journal stay blank. I'm still a pole dancer even when I can't invert without feeling the hurt. These aren't roles I put on and take off; they're parts of who I am, whether I'm actively doing the work or not. This realization (that my identity doesn't disappear when my body can't perform) has been what’s kept me going, even when the pain was at it’s most unbearable.

When people ask why I became a stripper, I usually give them the obvious answer: money. But the real answer is much more complicated (and honestly, more interesting).

The strip club has taught me things about myself that no classroom or therapy session ever could. It taught me how to set boundaries (and keep them). How to recognize my inherent value as a person (and a woman). How to define and manifest success (on my own terms & timeline). How to hear "no" without internalizing it as personal rejection. And perhaps most importantly, that community is showing up for each other (often in ways that would put most professional networks to shame).

There's a stereotype that dancers are competitive & catty, always trying to undercut each other. That hasn't been my experience. The women I work with are some of the most generous, resourceful, & fiercely loyal people I know. We throw money on stage for each other when a customer is clearly being cheap. We share setting spray, pole grip, and tampons without a second thought. We warn each other about difficult clients and celebrate each other's wins (big and small). These women get it. They understand the weight of this work and they show up for each other in ways that feel rare & sacred.

This mirrors the community I've found at In Your Skin Studio where I usually take pole & dance classes. There's something about shared vulnerability that creates deep, fast bonds—whether it's trying and failing at a new trick on the pole or navigating patience & persistence with customers in the club.

I miss it! The dressing room banter and the studio cheers. The way we hype each other up before (yet another) stage set and praise each other during class in the moments we’re surprised by our own strength. So this summer, I'm excited to strap on the heels and get back: back to the pole, back to the floor, and back to the hustle & grind of it all (pun intended of course 😜).

The reality is that most of us are working against a system designed to extract as much from us as possible. When most people think strip club, they envision crowded party rooms with money flying everywhere and open bottles of Reposado & Ace. That experience exists on some nights, sure. But what they don't see is us having to settle up before we head home. They don’t see the house fees we pay to management just to walk through the door or the tip-outs to the DJ, house mom, and security that are set to eat into our earnings before we’ve even made a dollar.

At most clubs, we’re independent contractors, which means we're supposed to have autonomy over our schedules and how we work. But we are treated as independent contractors only when it’s convenient for the club, meaning no benefits or protections. And then, they’ll often turn around and require a minimum amount of scheduled shifts per week, charge late fees that increase by the hour, and dictate the designations for tip-out so that everyone gets a cut of what we worked our asses off to earn. Either we're employees with protections and benefits or we're independent contractors with actual independence; instead, we often get the worst of both worlds: no benefits, no protections, and a system designed to exploit us every chance it gets. Some clubs charge upwards of $100 just to walk in the door, and if you don't make that back, you've essentially worked for free or paid to work; no matter which way you see it, you’re at a loss (especially considering the Lyft fee or gas money we spend just to get there in the first place).

And then, there's social media. No, I'm not blaming OnlyFans models and cam girls for the decline in cash flow at the clubs. I'm talking about the culture shift caused by increased access to information.

In an era of influencers, where many on the internet post free content around the psychology of sales and law of attraction strategies we use to quickly build rapport with guests, a behind-the-scenes look at how we work is now widely accessible. And with the growth of B2B offerings within the sex work industry, what used to be “insider information” is out there and readily available to potential & current patrons, not just to those interested in pursuing this line of work.

Customers come in to the club already skeptical, already guarded, and the traditional enticing fantasy has eroded. It's harder to build trust when customers come in thinking they've got you figured out. This shift has forced those who’d spent years in the industry to pivot. Success for a stripper nowadays (especially for someone working in a non-metropolitan area) relies much more heavily on emotional labor, providing genuine companionship (in whatever way they see fit), and cultivating & stewarding relationships with regulars¹ all while trying to survive in a society that’s increasingly skeptical of and emboldened to stigmatize sex workers—even more so, as you can imagine, for a person of color.

It's not necessarily about one big night of “securing the bag”; it's about building relationships with clients over time. That requires a different skill set entirely: one that's even more exhausting & egregiously undervalued. So, no: stripping is not easy money. It never has been.

Unfortunately, the physical toll is what I’ve been sitting with recently. In reading & discussing POLE DANCING TO GOSPEL HYMNS for Poetry Book Club this month, I thought Andrea Gibson perfectly captured how I'd been thinking about all this: they write about love, war, embracing the dichotomies, and the way our bodies hold truths even when we can’t seem to find the words for them. Stripping taught me that autonomy isn't an abstract concept; it’s a muscle. Every shift is a practice session in boundary setting: deciding who gets my time & what my limits are while trusting my gut & listening to my body to make sure my actions are in line with my values.

That practice has begun to bleed into every other area of my life. I'm better at recognizing when someone is asking too much of me. I'm quicker to name my rates for freelance work. I'm more comfortable exploring my sexuality on my terms, not as performance for someone else's gaze, but as an act of self-discovery. The club didn't give me autonomy; it gave me the reps I needed to get through recovery, learn to really listen when my body says “stop”, & trust that my value isn't tied to my immediate productivity.

This resilience is what allows me to keep calling myself a poet when the page is blank and a dancer while I’m in physical therapy (instead of 8-inch heels). It’s the same perseverance I developed hearing a thousand maybe laters and not right nows from people at the club that allows me to feel more comfortable pitching big ideas and putting myself out there as a poet & professional without spiraling when I hear a no.

I finally started physical therapy this week (after months of just trying to get a referral) and now I’m preparing to reimmerse into the communities I hold dear. The club, the studio, the office, & the open mics are all places where I feel free to show up as my whole self (and for that, I am extremely grateful). And right now, my whole self includes physical limitations & the humility of needing help to heal.

I’m proud to say I’m building The Poetry Pour as a space where all of these identities can coexist. Where I can talk about strategic planning & the art of seduction in the same breath. Where the lessons I’ve learned in the club inform the way I navigate solopreneurship as the founder of this local media company. Where my poetry is always honest about the full scope of my life and not just the parts that are easier to read aloud.

In doing this, I'm leaning into the honesty of dichotomies. The sacred & the taboo. The professional & the performer. The poet & the stripper. Whether I am dancing to LL Cool J under the stage lights or stretching to binaural beats in my darkened bedroom, I am whole. The stage, the page, & even the pain are all parts of my story. For a long time, I thought compartmentalization was survival. But fragmentation is exhausting. Alignment, on the other hand, is powerful.