Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

For years, I had been told who I was. A voice—not my own—had dictated my worth, my limitations, and the edges of my world. The weight of emotional abuse had settled into my bones, making me believe I was small, undeserving, and forever bound by invisible chains. But there, in the stillness between each beat of music, I was beginning to hear another voice. My own.

My journey into dance had begun hesitantly, cautiously stepping onto the floor of a local studio. Argentine tango was my first love—its intimacy both terrifying and thrilling. It demanded vulnerability, something I had long since abandoned. I learned to follow, but not as an act of submission. It was trust—an exchange, a silent conversation in motion. I was learning to listen, not to the cruel echoes of my past, but to the unspoken rhythm of connection.

And just when I thought I had found all I needed, something else opened. Tango had brought me back to myself, but it was Rome—yes, Rome—that nudged me forward. A ballroom competition. A world I never imagined entering. And yet, there I was, sequined and smiling, stepping onto a competition floor—not as a wallflower, but as a woman in full bloom.

What began as a whisper in Argentina became a roar across the ballroom floor.

I had seen the posters on the studio walls, whispers of an event in Rome, a DOR, though I barely knew what that meant. My instructor, new enough to never have attended one himself, could not explain it either. When the owner of the studio casually suggested I go, I laughed—until, in a moment of uncharacteristic spontaneity, I said, “Okay.” It was a whisper of defiance against the years of being told what I couldn’t do.

Six weeks. Fifteen dances. A whirlwind of lessons that left me breathless, my body aching, my mind doubting. The training was grueling, but I showed up. Every single time. Because I was starting to believe in something beyond my fear.

Rome greeted me with golden sunlight and the hum of a city steeped in history. The first day passed in a haze of poolside relaxation, but the next morning, anxiety tightened around my chest. I was sent on a tour of the Pope’s summer castle alone, my instructor and the studio owner delayed. On the bus, couples sat together, talking, laughing, sharing their excitement. I sat alone, the old wounds of isolation pressing against my ribs.

Then, a couple from Australia turned to me, their smiles warm, their kindness effortless. They welcomed me in, made space for me in their world. I clung to their generosity, letting it carry me through the unease. Throughout the event, they guided me, helped me navigate the intricacies of a world I did not yet understand.

But even as I danced, even as I immersed myself in the beauty of movement, old wounds whispered their presence.

But then, the music started.

I stepped onto the dance floor, and the world melted away. The polished wood beneath my feet, the soft breeze of movement, the silent command of my partner’s frame—this was real. This was mine. The doubts, the insecurities, the voices telling me I was unworthy—they did not exist here. In that moment, I was not broken. I was beauty in motion. I was free.

My first solo was unexpected, yet when the time came, I felt no fear. Another dancer trembled beside me, confessing her terror. But I? I could only marvel at the absurd, breathtaking reality that I was about to perform a dance solo in Rome. The girl who had once been too afraid to take up space, who had been made to feel small, now stood in the spotlight. It felt like a dream, a fantasy spun from the ashes of my past.

The final night arrived in a crescendo of celebration—an extravagant gala, a chariot, even a staged gladiator fight where my partner was pulled into the spectacle. Laughter, warmth, and an overwhelming sense of belonging filled the air. And then, as if the universe wanted to prove something to me, I heard my name.

Spoken with the soft cadence of an Italian accent, it almost did not register. I turned to my partner, confused. “I think they’re calling my name.”

He dismissed it. “Nah.”

Then, the studio owner appeared, her face alight. “Laura, that’s you! Go up there!”

I walked forward, dazed, my heart hammering in my chest. They placed a statue in my hands—an elegant figure of a female dancer. I had won Top Student in my category. I, the woman who had never won anything. The woman who had spent years believing she was never good enough.

Tears burned my eyes. For the first time in my life, I had silenced the voices of doubt. Dance had shown me that I was more than my pain. More than the scars of my past. More than the fear that had ruled me.

It was just a moment—a crack in the door of possibility. But through that crack, light spilled in, warm and promising. I wasn’t fully healed. The weight of the past still lingered. But now, I knew. I could be more. I was more.

And I would keep dancing until I became everything I was always meant to be.