Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

The first time I stepped onto the ballroom floor with him, it felt like slipping into a sanctuary I hadn’t known I was missing. The music started, his hand found mine, and suddenly the world outside faded. For the first time in a long time, I felt safe.

It surprised me how quickly that sense of safety took root. Dance had always been vulnerable for me, but with him, I began to loosen. I tried new steps, laughed when I stumbled, let myself be playful. He seemed to see me without judgment. He gave me space to risk, to explore, to be imperfect. He didn’t make me feel like I was too much. He simply met me where I was, and for the first time in years, I felt I had found someone I could trust with that fragile part of me.

“To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved.” — George MacDonald

For years, I had been carrying the heavy shadow of those words — too much. Too much for my husband, who could never quite celebrate my accomplishments without resenting them. Too much for colleagues, who turned my successes into their own and left me invisible. Too much for the men I dated after divorce, who glazed over the moment they learned what I did for a living. Again and again, I was reminded: you’re too much, and somehow still not enough.

But here, in dance, I began to hope. With him, I thought maybe I could leave those voices behind. He seemed bright, engaging, emotionally intelligent. He made the ballroom feel like a place I could be vulnerable without being punished for it. And for a while, it worked.

Then, suddenly, it didn’t.

I had just returned from a competition abroad. His students had been warm, supportive, complimentary — admiring my dresses, my hair, the elegance of how I presented myself. I came home flattered, grateful. When he mentioned how much they’d gone on about my outfits, I thought it was sweet, almost playful.

But soon after, in a quiet conversation about what we each expected in competition, the ground beneath me shifted.

I explained that I wanted us to look and feel like a team — to step onto the floor unified, elegant, intentional. That presentation mattered, not as vanity, but as a reflection of respect for the craft and for each other. I wanted a partner who would match my energy, who would bring his own playfulness and confidence to the floor, who would challenge me to grow while keeping me safe enough to be vulnerable.

But his vision was different.

He wanted to remain in the background, the frame to my picture, subtle and unassuming. More Robin than Batman. A quiet shadow who would never risk being noticed. His loyalty, he explained, was not to our partnership but to his studio. He was hesitant to lead too strongly, worried about stepping on toes or crossing boundaries.

And then, with no warning, he labeled me.

Flamboyant.

The word struck like a slap.

No one had ever described me that way. Elegant? Yes. Tailored? Yes. Understated? Always. But flamboyant? Never.

“Simplicity is the keynote of all true elegance,” Coco Chanel once said. That is the principle I have always carried with me — a quiet, refined sophistication that values grace over noise. For him to so quickly believe otherwise — to see me through a distorted lens — broke something deep inside me.

The safe space I had trusted was gone.

“The moment someone tells you that you’re too much is the moment you know you’ve given them more than they can handle.” — Unknown

I felt the old walls slam shut. My heart sank, heavy and familiar. Once again, I was “too much.”

The rest of the lesson only deepened the rupture. He had me practice a shimmy — something I had only ever dared to try because, before, he had made it safe. But instead of protecting that moment of vulnerability, he called out to the other instructors in the room, drawing their eyes to me. Perhaps he thought he was celebrating my progress. Instead, he stripped away my safety and turned me into a spectacle. I shrank inside myself, embarrassed, exposed.

And just like that, the trust dissolved.

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” — Rumi

It reminded me so sharply of my marriage that it stole my breath. With my husband, every success of mine had been a threat. If I shined too brightly, I was punished. If I dimmed my light, I was dismissed. At work, it was the same — my achievements were claimed by others, my presence minimized. Even dating had repeated the cycle: men who found me interesting until they learned too much, until my education, my career, my strength made me “too much to handle.”

Now here it was again, on the dance floor. I had thought this time was different.

But maybe the hardest part wasn’t his words. It was how quickly I believed them. How easily I fell back into the old narrative: You are too much. You are not enough.

The truth is, I don’t want a partner who hides in the background, who plays Robin to my Batman. I need Batman. I need someone strong and confident, someone who can lead me with gentleness but also challenge me. Someone who will meet me in elegance and presentation, not dismiss it. Someone who will coax out the silly and expressive parts of me, not leave me alone in the spotlight to shrink. Someone who will create a space safe enough that I can bring my whole self forward, unafraid.

But this isn’t just about dance. It’s about life.

For years, I’ve asked myself what kind of man I want by my side. I’ve always gravitated toward the strong, the highly educated, the confident. Yet too often, those men proved narcissistic, dismissive, unsafe. So I tried the opposite — softer, gentler men. But without strength, without confidence, without the ability to stand tall and still cherish me, they left me feeling unseen.

So I keep wondering: is it my history that drives this pattern? Is it the old wound whispering that I’m never enough, always too much, that pulls me toward men who confirm that story? Or is there truly someone out there who embodies both — strength and kindness, confidence and humility, challenge and cherishing?

“Owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing we’ll ever do.” — Brené Brown

I don’t know yet. But here’s what I do know: I am learning to quiet the voices that tell me I am too much. I am refusing the lie that I am not enough. I am practicing acceptance — not just acceptance, but celebration — of who I am.

Because I am not too much. I am not not enough.

I am exactly who I am meant to be.

“And one day she discovered that she was fierce, and strong, and full of fire,
and that not even she could hold herself back because her passion burned brighter than her fears.” — Mark Anthony