Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

When I moved to San Francisco, everything was new—my job, my neighborhood, my son’s school. I poured my energy into getting us both settled, navigating unfamiliar streets and school pick-ups, figuring out the rhythm of this next chapter. And then, just as life began to take shape, COVID hit.

Suddenly, the possibility of connection shrank. I had wonderful friends—but they were all in L.A. Though we spoke often, it wasn’t the same. I was lonely in a city full of strangers, craving community but unsure of where or how to begin.

Eventually, when the world began to open again, I tried joining a local women’s group, hoping to meet people. But the conversations felt forced, the connections thin. I left each gathering feeling more isolated than when I arrived.

Then I found dance.

At first, it was just lessons. I’d slip quietly into the studio, taking the closest seat by the door. I never quite felt I belonged. The regulars gathered in the back seating area, laughing and chatting between lessons—I watched from a distance. I’d finish my session, thank my instructor, and leave. It was easier that way. Safe.

But something kept pulling me back.

One evening, the studio hosted a “Dance Movie Night”—a short choreography project that paired each student with their instructor to tell a story through dance. I decided to participate. It was fun, low-pressure, creative. It felt like play. That night, for the first time, I lingered.

Later, in an effort to save money for an upcoming event, another student and I decided to share a hotel room and carpool. That decision changed everything. On the road, we talked—not just about dance, but about life. It was easy, natural. And at the event, we met another student who radiated kindness and openness. We laughed, danced, and supported one another through the nerves of competition and the chaos of ballroom hair.

That weekend was a turning point. For the first time since moving, I felt like I was part of something. I wasn’t just a student taking private lessons—I was part of a community.

Making friends has always been hard for me. Emotional abuse had long whispered that I had nothing to offer, that I was too much or not enough. But here, in this unlikely space filled with sequins and stretch warmups, I was accepted. No performance, no pretense. Just presence.

We grew from two to three to five, and then more. Now, we are a circle of women who show up for each other. We hike together. We carpool to events. We cheer each other on from the sidelines. We share bottles of wine and secrets on quiet nights. We merge our phone calls into late-night group chats where the conversation meanders from dress fittings to heartbreak, from choreography to parenting struggles. When one of us is sick or going through a rough patch, someone always shows up—with soup, with a ride, with a shoulder.

We talk about dance, of course—but what we’re really doing is reminding each other that we matter.

What a gift dance has given me—not just the healing that comes from moving through vulnerability, but the gift of friendship. A kind of friendship I didn’t believe I deserved, and now can’t imagine living without.

These women have enriched my life in ways they’ll never fully know. They’ve become my chosen family—bound not by history, but by rhythm, resilience, and a shared journey toward joy.