Dancing with Myself

How I found joy in daily solo dance sessions

I’m not, nor have I ever been, a “dancer.” Not by society’s standards, or even by my own. Believe me when I tell you that I’ve tried. From the time I was 3 until I was in my late 20s, I’d periodically enroll in dance classes that I’d quit after I was reminded of my complete lack of coordination.

To me, to be a “dancer” implies a comfort and intimacy with one’s own body that I’ve never had. It suggests, too, the sort of coordination that enables a person’s brain to send calm, authoritative orders to one’s body and have them obeyed without backtalk and spastic sass. That, too, is not my forte. I’ve always been clumsy and uncoordinated, and the more I try to follow choreography, the more discombobulated and frustrated I get. It was long a source of shame for me, as I wanted so badly to be graceful and lithe — a woman who moved lightly through the world, enchanting all who saw her with her embodied musicality. Alas, that’s not my birthright.

Ew, Incarnation

My “big brain” has always been my calling card, though it seemed a lot bigger when I was a child and the world was very, very small. Today it seems kind of average, with more than its share of quirks. I honor it now for what it is; an organ dedicated to keeping me alive in the prehistoric age, not to making me happy or “well-adjusted” in the digital age. Poor little gray beast. It tries.

My body, on the other hand, has always been a source of trouble and shame for me. I was born with a host of nervous disorders that, in addition to the standard-issue anxiety, cause my hands, feet, armpits, and face to sweat almost constantly (it’s called hyperhidrosis). As if that wasn’t enough, I also have severe, chronic, hereditary depression that has kept me in a near-suicidal zone most of my life. Finally, I developed absurdly early. I got my period at nine, and by the time I was 11, I looked like a buxom college girl. Grown men hit on me all the time before I was even a teenager, and my father let me know in no uncertain terms that I was disgusting, simply because of my body.

So yes, I’ve been in a sort of cold war with my body for decades, punishing it with bad food and too much alcohol. I treated it like contemptible junk, judging it eternally lacking and deeming it my prison rather than the home gifted to my soul for this lifetime.

Make Peace with the Material, Girl

I was very sick physically, mentally, and spiritually when grace intervened in 2020 and saved my life at the literal 11th hour. Since then I’ve built myself back up, and my life now is about becoming a better version of me. With all the horrible things going on in the world, why would I put so much focus on improving myself? Because I believe that’s the best thing I can do for myself, the people I love, and the planet at large. Showing up as my highest self is the most I can do for us all.

As part of my second chance at life, I realized that I needed to come to terms with my physical being and its glories as well as its faults. I determined that I must treat my body better and figure out a way to feel at home in it. I sensed that I needed to get grounded and rooted in myself and the earth in order to find my joy. I trusted the advice I read from teachers I believed in; happiness was not only not outside of me, it was not even inside my brain. I would have to get embodied, even though my body had brought me nothing but shame as far as I could see. I set habits that I knew the “better version of me” would have and I trusted the process of getting better, even when it didn’t seem to be working at all.

Get Down, Stay Up

The daily habit that I’ve added most recently, and the one that’s had the most surprising results, is dancing. I’m not taking classes or memorizing choreography. I’m not even mimicking an instructor on a video. And for me, that’s key. I’m not good at those things and that makes me uncomfortable with myself, which undermines the entire effort. I’m simply spending time with my body and letting it express itself in ways that it’s never been allowed to do before. And it’s paying me back in ways I never dreamed possible. I have more energy, but I expected that. What I didn’t expect is how much happier I am, and how much more at home in the world. I have more patience, more humor, and I feel more clarity than I ever have before.

I could give myself grief for not starting this practice years ago. It would be easy to do — such a simple thing, such a small commitment of time, has made such a profound change in the way I relate to the world. But I won’t beat myself up about it. Things come when they come. We can choose to roll with them or not.

But because I can’t go back and make this change earlier in my own life, I’m hoping that this realization (and others like it) might help someone else who finds themselves in a dark place. To that end, I’ve begun recording “Messages to Myself” like this one.

So my advice to you, Reader, unlikely as it may be coming from a klutz like me, is to dance every day. Set a timer, put on whatever music calls you at the moment, and dance all by yourself. You may be delightfully surprised at the results.