Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

By the time I met him, I had already been dancing for a few years. I had a primary instructor who had ignited my love for dance, opening up a world of movement, rhythm, and creative growth. Along the way, I’d worked with many teachers—each offering something unique, each shaping different parts of my journey. But none had touched me in the way he did.

My main instructor had given me room to grow, and I am forever grateful. But he was young, and whether he realized it or not, there were days I left feeling unseen. That familiar ache of unworthiness—the one I had carried for years—would creep back in. He never intended to hurt me, but old wounds don’t need new harm to bleed. All it takes is silence, a missed glance, or a forgotten word.

It was during this chapter of quiet questioning that I first noticed him.

A Glimpse Across the Floor

My friends pointed him out, but I wasn’t paying much attention. I never was, not really. I kept my gaze low, still unsure of my place in the world, still battling whispers that I was too much or not enough. But then I looked up.

There he was.

He moved with grace and a quiet confidence that drew me in. There was nothing performative about him—just grounded strength and kindness that radiated through every step, every lead. His partner followed with ease, as though guided not just by technique but by trust.

I watched him for a long time. I couldn’t explain why, but something about him made me feel safe from afar. I found myself wanting to dance with him—something I almost never dared to want.

“I Want to Dance With You”

I almost didn’t ask. Fear had kept me quiet for so long. But something inside pushed me forward before doubt could take hold.

“I want to dance with you,” I said, surprising even myself.

He smiled. “Of course. Where are you sitting?” he asked, promising to find me later.

He kept that promise.

Our first dance was like stepping into a different world. I was stiff, guarded—my body conditioned by years of shrinking and bracing for harm. But he didn’t try to change me. He simply offered presence.

His embrace was firm, not forceful. His lead was clear, not controlling. I didn’t have to explain my hesitations. He read them, respected them, and danced with them anyway. In his arms, trust wasn’t something demanded. It was invited.

We moved slowly, fluidly. I began to breathe. To listen. To let go. His kindness asked nothing of me, and yet I gave more of myself in that one dance than I had in years.

A Lesson in Feeling Safe

When I stumbled and apologized, he smiled gently and said, “No worries. It’s all good.” And just like that, the shame didn’t stick. He kept dancing, and so did I.

In that moment, I wasn’t a woman piecing herself back together—I was a dancer. Present. Whole. Free.

It took months before I had the courage to reach out to his studio. When I did, they hesitated. “We have other instructors available,” they said. But I waited. For two months, I waited—because something in me knew he was worth it.

He was.

A Teacher Unlike Any Other

From our very first lesson, he greeted me with warmth that was real. A hug that felt like home. He saw me—not just as a student, but as a human being. Slowly, over time, we began to share more—little stories, life moments, quiet laughs between steps.

His teaching was a perfect fit. He understood how I learned and adjusted without judgment or frustration. His patience allowed me to begin to stretch beyond the limits fear had placed around me. He showed me a path I did not know existed.

A Permanent Imprint

He didn’t just teach me how to dance better. He helped me feel at home in my own body again. He reminded me, without ever saying a word, that there are people in this world who hold space for others not to impress, but simply to invite healing.

There have been many instructors in my dance journey, each with their own importance. But this one? He met me at a crossroads of fear and possibility—and helped me choose possibility.

And somewhere in those lessons, something shifted.

I still have the need to prove myself, to strive for perfection—but he sees that and is able to safely open the space to be other than perfect. A space where I can fail and that becomes an opportunity to grow, not a catastrophe. He is gently helping that voice inside of me begin to speak up and speak out. He is giving me a place to express many of the emotions I have held in tightly for so long, out of fear of being judged or shut down.

I dance because I have found something that is taking me further than any therapist ever could on my journey to heal and find myself. Nothing has allowed me to begin reclaiming my self-esteem and self-confidence like this. In dance, I am beginning to see myself not through the lens of brokenness, but through movement, strength, and grace.

Still, trust does not come easily. He has created something rare—a safe space just for me. A space I often find myself standing at the threshold of, unsure if I’m allowed to step fully inside. Some days, I still hesitate, caught between the longing to be seen and the fear of being known too well.

But he never rushes me. He never pulls or pushes too hard. Instead, he waits—offering presence, not pressure. With each lesson, he gently invites me closer, reminding me that I don’t have to earn my place on the floor.

In his quiet way, he’s teaching me not just how to follow, but how to trust. How to soften. How to receive.

And though I’m still learning how to walk fully into that space, I know this is only the beginning.

A new chapter in my dance journey has begun—and I look forward to sharing the rest.