Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

As the lessons progressed, I found myself improving in rhythm dances—though my heart remained tethered to the smooth ones. Rhythm dances pulled me out of my comfort zone, forcing me into a space of deep vulnerability. It felt as though all eyes were on me, and with that came the judgment and critique I feared most.

There was a part of me, hidden deep inside, that longed to be released—to let the music move through me without hesitation. But fear held me in place. The fear of looking foolish. The fear of feeling exposed. The fear of not being enough. These were chains I didn’t know how to break.

Simple movements—like rolling my hips or using my body in expressive ways—seemed so natural in others, yet filled me with dread. I wanted to surrender to the joy and freedom of the moment. But I couldn’t. Not yet.

And still, through dance, something began to shift.

I started to reclaim pieces of myself. I could walk into a room, meet someone’s gaze, smile without shrinking. I no longer instinctively tried to disappear. But the insecurities—those persistent whispers—still lingered.

Smooth dances gave me a sense of grounding. Held in frame, a firm hand at my back and another cradling mine, I felt supported. Protected. The physical connection created emotional safety, a reminder that I wasn’t alone. But once that frame dissolved, I was left to hold myself—and that was when the doubts returned. Was I really good enough? Did I belong here?

Rhythm dances presented an even greater challenge. I felt naked in the spotlight, my movements disjointed, my confidence brittle. I couldn’t feel the music, let alone express myself through it. But he saw something in me. Something I couldn’t yet see in myself.

With each lesson, he met me where I was—and gently asked me to step forward.

At first, it was simply learning to relax into his lead. Then, mirroring his rhythm. One day, he asked me to move like a lioness—powerful, intentional, unapologetic. I balked at first. Me? A lioness? I felt anything but fierce. But I trusted him not to mock my efforts. And slowly, I began to feel into the idea. The strength. The ownership.

Another time, he asked me to close my eyes and just follow. No overthinking. No bracing. Just trust. My body tensed immediately. What if I tripped? What if others laughed? But his steady presence and quiet voice reassured me. Little by little, I found the courage to let go.

Then came a moment when he asked me to take ownership—to truly dance on my own while he moved alongside me. We were no longer connected physically, but somehow still in sync. It terrified me. But he stayed right there, offering encouragement, giving me the space to rise.

Then came another lesson.

He had just seen me do a shimmy during one of the steps—an impulsive, fleeting movement that surprised even me. He smiled, gently pointing it out. “If you’re going to shimmy,” he said, “you have to commit. No half-hearted attempts.”

His words were kind, but they landed with unexpected weight. He wanted me to try again, to give it my all—and this time, he wanted to watch. Just watch.

That’s when I froze.

I could take the step. I could try. But not alone, not under a spotlight. Not yet. The idea of being observed—fully seen—felt unbearable. I needed him to dance the step with me, not because I didn’t know how to do it, but because I didn’t yet know how to do it while standing completely on my own.

So he danced with me. And I tried. It was better than before—but still restrained, still holding back.

What he didn’t know is that this moment wasn’t just about a shimmy. This was part of something much deeper. This was my journey to let my voice be heard, to allow myself to take up space. To be seen. And not just as a dancer—but as a whole person.

It won’t happen overnight. But that was a first step.

Reflection:

There is still fear in me—fear of judgment, of being too much, or not enough. But with each lesson, he chips away at the walls I built long ago, not by force, but with patience and presence. He offers safety, not just in his frame, but in his consistency. And slowly, I am learning to show up not just in the steps, but in spirit. This is no longer just about dance—it’s about becoming. And though I’m still finding my way, one brave movement at a time, I know I won’t have to do it alone.