Each day, thousands of women, myself included, engage in a ritual. We flail our arms like orchestra conductors. We wiggle our rib cages. We get down on all fours and raise our knees to our ears. We ...

I am dripping in sweat. My pink activewear is at least two shades darker, the salt is stinging my eyes, and my butt is burning. I’m at Tracy Anderson’s inaugural London studio, and there are two ...