It was grinding, slinking, bouncing, jumping and breathing unapologetically loud. We would “hmm” and “hahh” together in synchronicity. I liked when my students would be loud and raucous and free, emerging after an hour of getting their butts kicked looking like they’d been “rode hard and put away wet.” There was a relief in that, and there aren’t a lot of spaces where adults, or anyone for that matter, can let themselves fall apart and slap themselves back together in a group setting. This class felt like group therapy. And because of that, I finally felt like I was teaching something that was unique and my own even though other teachers were teaching the exact format that I was.

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I am also not “clean” while others are “dirty.” I am not “better” while others are “worse.” I am me. A flawed individual asking myself to unapologetically be myself the second I wake-up. I have molded my work to confirm this request and help others to do the same. I wouldn’t not call it hard work, but it’s definitely heart work.

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Listen, nothing is more uncomfortable that joining your first dance class as an adult. It brought me right back to the middle-school-esque terror of not being good enough, not cool enough. I felt like an old dinner sausage stuffed in pasty-pink tights, limited by the audacity of my parents not putting me in dance class before I could form sentences.

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