Why Curiosity Is The Greatest Tool

Leslie Guerin • September 5, 2025

What training a 75-year-old client taught me about humility, observation, and the power of not having all the answers

Some stories in our teaching lives feel so layered that they circle back to where we began. This past week, I found myself in one of those full-circle moments.

I was training the parents of a friend I grew up with in the dance world. Her older brother and I did countless community theater productions together, memorizing lines in dark rehearsal halls and joking backstage between costume changes. We even share a birthday — though I’m younger, of course, and always make sure to remind him of that fact.

Their sister, the one closest to me, was my companion in hours of dance classes, rehearsals, and trips to New York City. Our moms tap danced together and were the ones corralling us on those bus rides to Broadway auditions. I have vivid memories of all of us bundled up in the cold, shuffling down city streets with excitement and nerves. Movement and performance connected us all back then, and in some ways it still does.

Fast forward to this week: I was invited to train their parents.

Meeting the Father

The mother was delightful to work with — attentive, cheerful, and open to trying new things. Then it was time to switch to the father.

He’s about 75, slim, and stands just around six feet tall. A former ER doctor, which means he spent decades standing, moving, and making decisions under pressure. No major injuries or ailments to speak of, but he did casually mention that ever since his cataract surgery, he’s been tripping more often. A small comment, but one that I tucked away in the back of my mind.

Because balance issues are so often at the root of falls — and because falls can be devastating for older adults — I started him with something simple: calf raises at the Cadillac.

The Cadillac has a solid upright bar, and with his hands lightly resting there, I asked him to lift both heels.

He did it beautifully. Smooth, controlled, no excessive sway in the spine.

So I added a small progression. I had him lift one foot off the ground and then raise up onto the ball of the other.

On his right side, it wasn’t perfect, but he managed it. A little wobble, but completely within range for someone his age.

Then we switched sides. He lifted his right foot off the ground, planted through the left, and tried to raise his right heel.

Nothing happened.

The Heel That Wouldn’t Lift

At first, I thought he had misunderstood my cue. So I explained again: “Try lifting your heel up, like you’re tiptoeing.”

He tried again. His upper body leaned forward slightly. His right knee bent. His grip on the Cadillac tightened. But that right heel stayed flat, as though glued to the floor.

He frowned, tried again, and the same thing happened.

The effort was there. The intention was clear. But the movement wasn’t.

His daughter — my childhood friend, now an occupational therapist — and I caught each other’s eyes across the room. We shared that silent professional exchange: Wait… why? Hip? Obliques? Something neurological?

The puzzle was right there in front of us. And in that moment, I felt something important rise up in me: curiosity.

The Myth of the All-Knowing Teacher

Let me pause here, because this is the heart of the story.

People sometimes assume that as a movement teacher with decades of experience, I’ve seen it all, or I have an answer for every strange quirk the body reveals. They expect I’ll be able to diagnose, explain, and fix on the spot.

The truth? I don’t know everything. And I don’t pretend to.

In fact, I think one of the most dangerous traps for any teacher — Pilates, Barre, dance, or otherwise — is to believe we should know everything. To cling so tightly to being the expert that we stop being the student.

What keeps me going after 25+ years of teaching isn’t certainty. It’s curiosity.

That man’s heel not lifting wasn’t a “failure” of either of us. It was an invitation to investigate.

Curiosity as a Teaching Tool

Curiosity changes the way we approach teaching. It shifts us from:

  • Answer-giving → to question-asking
  • Performance → to exploration
  • Control → to partnership

When his heel wouldn’t lift, I could have glossed over it. Moved him on to another exercise. Pretended it didn’t matter. But what a missed opportunity that would have been.

Instead, curiosity held me in the moment. It made me slow down, observe his strategies, ask better questions. Was it strength? Coordination? Motor control? A neurological hiccup? Something as simple as long-standing asymmetry?

I didn’t have the answer right then, but curiosity gave us something better: awareness.

What I Saw in Him

I also saw the frustration in his face. He was trying. He was used to his body responding when he told it to move.

As a former ER doctor, I imagine he spent a career being the one with the answers. In that hospital setting, not knowing wasn’t an option. You had to decide, act, fix.

Here, on the Cadillac, the roles flipped. He didn’t have control over his body in that moment, and I didn’t have a neat answer to give him.

And that’s okay.

Because movement is rarely straightforward. Our bodies are layered: muscular, neurological, structural, emotional. Something as seemingly small as a cataract surgery could shift his visual input just enough to alter his balance patterns. Decades of movement habits could have created asymmetry that only reveals itself in specific circumstances. The “why” matters, but the curiosity matters more.

Beyond the Heel: Lessons for All of Us

This session reminded me of several bigger truths:

  1. Progress isn’t always linear. Sometimes what you uncover isn’t a step forward, but a new question. That’s still progress.
  2. Clients teach us as much as we teach them. Their bodies, their challenges, their triumphs — each one sharpens our observation skills.
  3. Curiosity builds trust. Clients don’t need us to have every answer immediately. They need us to be engaged, attentive, and willing to explore alongside them.

The Power of Not Knowing

I sometimes tell new teachers I mentor: Don’t be afraid of the words “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know” doesn’t mean you’re unqualified. It doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It means you’re awake. You’re listening. You’re paying attention to what’s actually happening, not what you expected to happen.

And when “I don’t know” is paired with genuine curiosity, it becomes one of the most powerful tools we have.

It keeps us learning. It keeps us connected. It keeps us humble.

Closing the Loop

We didn’t solve the mystery of the heel that day. His daughter and I tossed around theories, made notes to watch for other patterns, and agreed it was something worth exploring further.

But the real takeaway wasn’t about whether his heel eventually lifted. It was about the process.

Because teaching — whether Pilates, Barre, or anything else — isn’t about always delivering perfect results. It’s about guiding, noticing, and wondering. It’s about creating space for discovery, even when discovery looks like a stubborn heel that won’t lift.

That’s what makes this work endlessly fascinating to me. After all these years, I’m still learning. Still asking questions. Still surprised.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

By Leslie Guerin February 22, 2026
There is a common misunderstanding about Pilates that has grown louder over the years: that it is meant to be gentle, slow, soft and easy. A “nice” workout. But that was never the intention. Pilates was not created to be performative. It was created to be effective. Effectiveness in movement does not come from looking impressive. It comes from precision. Somewhere along the way, the visual of Pilates became louder than the method itself. Long limbs moving with beautiful choreography and endless repetitions. Classes that look like Pilates. But looking like Pilates, being called Pilates and being Pilates are not the same thing. And most people, including many teachers, skip the part that actually makes it work. Pilates Was Never Meant to Be Performative Joseph Pilates did not design a system that rewarded momentum. He designed a system that required attention. Not attention to how something looks, though that is how you can tell if the exercises is executed properly. The attention should ideally be to how something is done. Modern fitness culture thrives on performance. Movement is filmed, shared, and packaged visually. The more dynamic it looks, the more engaging it appears. The more repetitions, the more it seems productive. This is where Barre and Pilates differ. This is where those lines have blurred and I quietly hope Pilates can resists this fad. A well-taught Pilates class may look almost uneventful from the outside. To someone expecting entertainment, it can seem understated. To the nervous system, it is deeply demanding. Because Pilates was never designed to entertain the eye. It was designed to reorganize the body. It is art, but not for arts sake. Precision Requires Attention Precision creates actual change. When movement becomes rushed, the body defaults to habit. Stronger muscles take over. Momentum replaces control. Alignment becomes approximate instead of intentional. Slowing down in Pilates is not about being gentle. It is about being accurate. It allows the brain to register position, and control. It gives the body time to respond instead of react. Precision is not passive. It is neurologically active. Holding a half curl with the neck long, ribs quiet, and breath organized requires far more attention than swinging through ten repetitions with momentum. Performing a leg circle without pelvic movement demands significantly more control than making the circle bigger or faster. The difficulty in Pilates is rarely about load. It is about coordination. Coordination should not be rushed for the sake of getting in more repetitions. Many Classes Look Like Pilates, But Aren’t Being Taught to Bodies This is where the disconnect becomes most visible. Exercises are demonstrated, copied and followed. Social media has taken the see and steal culture to new lengths! This leads to the body in front of the teacher is not being taught properly. Clients are becoming carbon copies of braod movements seen online and just simply being asked to replicate. There is a difference between cueing choreography and teaching movement. When classes focus primarily on what the exercise should look like, participants often compensate without realizing it. The neck grips during abdominal work. The hip flexors dominate leg movements. The lower back absorbs what the abdominals were meant to support. From the outside, everything appears correct. From the inside, the wrong muscles are doing the work. I know this to be true, because I have definitely performed Pilates.. and on an off day... I am sure I will unfortunately do this again. This has allowed me to really see though, that Pilates teaching requires observation. It requires adjusting range of motion, tempo, setup, and intention based on the individual body, not the idealized version of the exercise. Because the goal of Pilates is not uniform movement. It is intelligent movement. Real Pilates Feels Quieter, and More Demanding Neurologically One of the most surprising experiences for clients transitioning from performative classes to precise Pilates is how “quiet” it feels. There is less rushing and far less choreography for the sake of variety. Yet, thes classes often feels more challenging. Not because it is harder in the traditional fitness sense. But because it requires sustained mental engagement. You cannot mentally check out during precise Pilates. You are asked to notice: Where your ribs are How your pelvis is responding Whether your neck is assisting unnecessarily If your breath is supporting or disrupting the movement Which muscles are initiating versus compensating This level of awareness increases the neurological demand significantly. The brain is actively mapping movement rather than passively repeating it. That is why Pilates can feel deceptively demanding even when the exercises appear small or controlled. It is not about exhaustion. It is about organization. Gentle Is Often a Misinterpretation of Control When Pilates is described as gentle, it is usually because it lacks impact, heavy loading, or aggressive pacing. But low impact does not equal low intensity. Holding alignment under control. Moving without compensation and maintaining precision through fatigue. These are not gentle skills. They are refined skills. In fact, when Pilates is taught with true precision, many clients realize they have been overworking the wrong areas for years. Their hip flexors tire quickly. Their neck becomes aware. Their deep abdominals fatigue in ways they never noticed before. Not because the workout is harsher. But because it is finally specific. Specificity feels different than intensity. Why Precision Gets Skipped Skipping precision is rarely intentional. It is often the result of: Large class sizes Fast-paced programming Overemphasis on choreography Teacher insecurity around slowing things down The pressure to make classes feel “worth it” through visible effort Precision requires time. It requires observation. It requires confidence in subtlety. And subtle teaching can feel risky in a culture that equates visible sweat with value. But when precision is skipped, the method gradually becomes diluted. Exercises become shapes instead of tools. Cueing becomes generalized instead of specific. And the neurological depth of Pilates is replaced with surface-level movement. Teaching Pilates to Bodies, Not to Exercises One of the most important shifts a teacher can make is moving from teaching exercises to teaching bodies. An exercise is not the goal. It is the vehicle. Two people performing the same movement may need entirely different cueing, range, and pacing to achieve the intended outcome. Precision means recognizing that and adjusting in real time. It means allowing fewer repetitions with better execution. It means refining setup before adding progression. It means valuing stillness as much as movement. And perhaps most importantly, it means being willing to make the class feel quieter in order to make it more effective. Because when the body is truly learning, it does not need constant spectacle. It needs clarity. The Quiet Demanding Nature of True Pilates Clients who experience precise Pilates often describe it the same way: “It felt small, but I was working so hard.” “I had to concentrate the whole time.” “It was harder than it looked.” This is not accidental. When the nervous system is fully engaged, even controlled movements require significant effort. The demand shifts from gross muscular output to refined neuromuscular coordination. That is the part most people skip. And it is also the part that creates lasting change. Not bigger movements. Better ones. A Method That Rewards Thoughtfulness Pilates does not reward rushing. It does not reward performance. It does not reward spectacle. It rewards attention. It rewards consistency. It rewards intelligent progression. It rewards teachers who are willing to observe rather than simply lead. And in a fitness landscape that increasingly prioritizes how movement looks on camera, this quiet precision becomes even more valuable. Because bodies do not improve through performance. They improve through accurate, repeated, intentional movement. Reclaiming Precision in Modern Pilates Reclaiming precision does not mean making Pilates rigid or overly clinical. It means returning to its original intelligence. It means: Teaching fewer exercises more effectively Slowing down when needed Cueing for sensation, not just shape Observing compensation patterns Prioritizing neurological engagement over visual intensity When this happens, Pilates stops feeling “gentle” in the dismissive sense and starts feeling deeply effective. Subtle. Focused. Demanding in the way that truly organized movement always is. And that is where the real method lives. Not in performance. Not in speed. Not in how impressive it appears. But in the precision that most people overlook. Pilates doesn’t need to be harder.
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