09/27/2026
When I first started moving, I think there was a deep desire to be seen.
To take up space.
To say something without having to find the words.
To feel like a part of me that had been quiet could finally exist out loud.
Dance became that place for me.
But when you first learn a language, you borrow other people’s words.
You copy.
You learn the vocabulary.
You learn what is beautiful, impressive, sensual, strong.
And sometimes, without even realizing it, you begin to perform.
Especially when someone is watching.
I think it can take years to soften out of that.
To stop asking, How does this look?
and begin asking, How does this feel?
To realize that being witnessed doesn’t require you to perform.
And slowly, movement starts becoming yours.
Maybe your language is theatrical.
Maybe it’s sensual.
Maybe it’s athletic, strange, soft, messy, powerful.
There are no rules.
In a world that so often tells us how we should exist, movement can become one of the rare places where we get to discover how we want to exist.
And maybe that’s why dance has always felt like the language of the soul.
First, we learn the steps.
Then, somewhere along the way,
we find our voice and write our own poetry 🤍
