Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

Somewhere between the weight of the past and the rhythm of the present,
I’m beginning to dance in step with my own truth.

It seems like a simple decision—heels or flats. But for me, it’s never just been about shoes. It’s about how I’ve walked through life. Who I’ve walked toward. And who I’ve had to walk away from.

For years, I chose heels. Sleek, elegant, undeniably beautiful. They turned heads. They made me feel powerful—even when I was crumbling inside. Much like the men I used to be drawn to: sharply dressed, confident, charming on the surface. The kind who wore suits like armor, polished down to their cufflinks. I used to say I was just attracted to a good suit. But if I’m honest, I was drawn to the familiar.

And what was familiar was the ache of emotional abuse.

It’s subtle at first—this kind of pain. It doesn’t scream. It whispers. It questions. It makes you doubt your worth in the most invisible ways. You find yourself second-guessing your thoughts, apologizing for your feelings, shrinking so someone else can feel big. It’s a slow erosion of self.

One of my first ballroom dance partners reminded me of that dynamic. Elegant. Coordinated. We looked beautiful together. He wore black tailored suits and jeweled ties to match my dress. People complimented us all the time. But after the music stopped, I’d walk away feeling off. Small. Uncertain. Like I had said something wrong. Like I was something wrong.

That pit in my stomach—I knew it too well. A hollow twist of anxiety that had once been the soundtrack to my everyday life. He didn’t have to say much. It was in the pauses, the tone, the way I always left wondering if I mattered. And yet, I kept dancing with him. Because discomfort, to me, felt like home.

Then I met a new teacher.

He doesn’t wear suits. He doesn’t coordinate his outfit with mine. His style is casual—long vests, simple shirts, an unadorned tie. Nothing that turns heads. But when I dance with him, everything in me exhales. I feel safe. I feel seen. I feel… good. It’s a strange kind of good. A quiet kind. The kind I wasn’t used to.

At first, I didn’t trust it.

I kept waiting for the catch—for the moment he’d pull the rug out from under me, for the sharp edge hiding behind the softness. Because nothing good had ever lasted before. I had learned to look for cracks, to find the flaw before it found me. I scanned him for signs. Waited for the story to turn.

But it didn’t.

Time and again, he stayed steady. Kind. Respectful. Encouraging. He gave me space to breathe, to falter, to be vulnerable. And slowly, I began to believe him. To believe in this strange new possibility: that goodness could be real. That I could be safe in the arms of someone who didn’t need to diminish me to feel powerful. That I could choose peace, even if it didn’t shimmer under the lights.

I started thinking about those women I’d seen dancing in flats. Some had injuries—physical ones that made heels unbearable. But instead of quitting, they chose comfort. They chose to keep dancing in shoes that didn’t flatter but fit. They chose what felt good over what looked good. And now, I understand.

Growth is not glamorous. It is raw and uncomfortable. It requires letting go of what we’ve been taught to crave. It demands grief—the loss of old patterns, old illusions, the fantasy that we can fix what was never whole to begin with. But in the ashes of those losses, something softer grows. Something real.

So now, I choose flats. I choose the partner who doesn’t sparkle but grounds me. Who makes my spirit feel held, not my ego flattered. I choose the path that feels like home—not the home I ran from, but the one I’m finally building within myself.

Maybe, in the end, healing isn’t about walking away in heels—head high, eyes dry.
Maybe it’s about staying. Trusting.
And finally moving in rhythm with a life that feels like mine.