Once when we ran into each other while filling our water bottles, my heart skipped a beat. I smiled briefly in her direction and she smiled back. I turned around and made a beeline for my stationary bike. It was like being a child seeing a teacher outside the classroom, going about everyday life. Seeing her participate in a basic activity was, somehow, disappointing. She had no weight to lose. She shouldn’t have to spin. She was better than that.

I’d been seeing her for a year to help keep my anxiety in check, and I knew that she had the mental skills to cope with all of life’s tribulations. In other words, she was beyond spinning.

In the months that followed, she never mentioned our new-shared bond. Had she forgotten that we had climbed that same outrageously long hill with Tina Turner’s help? Because I hadn’t. Mornings, when I searched for a parking space outside the spin studio, I instinctively looked around for her white Toyota. On the days when I spotted it, my jaw tightened while my hands gripped the steering wheel. Stop overreacting, I told myself. She’s riding a bike in the same room with you. Who cares?

But I did care. I wanted to tell her, “Get out of my class! How dare you. You are making me uncomfortable and you should know that!”

Was it possible she didn’t know what spin class meant to me? It was an excuse to ignore my phone, let go of my anxieties and allow the music to whisk me back to my glory days. I purposely went to a gym outside of my town so I didn’t have to chitchat with other mothers and feign concern about our kids’ upcoming social studies project or the latest changes to the soccer schedule. I wanted anonymity and a way to burn off the cupcake or wine I indulged in the previous night.

At spin class I could pedal away my fear that my career was stagnating as well as my perpetual worry that I wasn’t a happy enough mother. I wanted to spin in peace.

It was not a place that I wanted to share with my shrink, who reminded me of my anxiety — the reason I was in therapy.