Crying on the Dance Floor

If you asked me to list the most intimate things I could share with someone, you would find my playlists very close to the top of that list. Music has always been an integral part of my life. It has been that unwavering friend, taking me through a lifetime of highs and lows. It has been a friend who never questions, or demands. Finding dance, and marrying that passion for music with movement, has continued to heal me in ways I never could have foreseen.

I believe that music is built into the human soul. Any time I see a baby bobbing their head along with a beat, or a toddler flailing their arms, twirling and laughing with sheer abandon, I can’t help but think: that visceral response to music must be part of all of us. If I asked you if you are a dancer, what would you say? We were all dancers once, before the world told us otherwise.

Sadly it seems that so many of us are afraid to embrace that desire to move to music, especially as adults. We may fear looking silly, or that we are too old to start, or that we have to be “good” in order for trying to be worthwhile. Guess what—none of that is true. By letting those fears get to us, we are robbing ourselves of one of the most powerful forms of therapy in existence.

Dance, in its most primal form, asks for nothing. It demands neither perfection nor grace. And perhaps most beautifully of all, words are not required. We are all carrying burdens of unquantifiable weight. Some days they may feel heavier than others, but they are there nonetheless. There have been many times when I have found myself unable to process my struggles aloud. Sometimes words aren’t enough, or we feel we can’t find the right ones.

Sometimes it is just too emotionally taxing to re-hash our struggles. When we walk through the doors of a dance studio, or into a dance fitness class, our medium of communication changes. Whether we are conscious of it or not, our movement speaks for us. And, as Martha Graham said, “the body never lies”.

To take Martha’s quote a little further, dance can actually keep us honest—about our feelings, our needs, and even struggles that we have repressed or avoided addressing. Next time you move, take inventory. You may make physical observations first, like noticing that your left knee moves more easily than your right. But, if you dig a little deeper, you may notice more. Take time to notice which movements feel natural to you, and which feel a bit more foreign. If you find that an angry song fires you up more than expected, perhaps you are harboring some frustration that needs to be released. Maybe you find that if you just give yourself permission, you’ll find the more sensual songs awaken something unexpected in you.

I challenge you to just let it happen. Whatever you are carrying with you, release it with the abandon of that child who doesn’t know anything other than moving freely. I promise, you will begin to heal. Next time life feels overwhelming, and words fail to serve you, dance. And, if you ever see me crying on the dance floor, I hope you’ll consider allowing yourself to join me.