I thought that I was a bad dancer for most of my life.

I came from a family of bad dancers, so it was inevitable that, as the baby of 5 kids, I would not have some hidden talent. Why would I even question this?

But I always loved dancing. One of my earliest memories is dancing on the coffee table to my mom’s 50’s music, in a fancy dress, on any given Tuesday afternoon. I was the gymnast who was scared of everything except her floor choreography. The young woman who went to the bar because she just wanted to dance. Every Thursday, Friday, Saturday… (Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday…) night I would be on the sticky dance floor of some club, throwing my body around, sure that I was making a fool of myself, but not caring one little bit. I would start the dance floor. I would bring other people into my world.

But I would begin with the caveat “I’m not a good dancer, though…”

As an adult, I went to drop-in dance classes. I was not always able to pick up the choreo as quickly as I would have liked, but I would always leave feeling lighter, and brighter, and more like me.

So it made sense that when I went through some intense, painful heartbreak in my late 20s, I took a dance class. Like, a real dance class. One with a performance at the end. And not just any performance, but one which included me in heels, a crop top, underwear, and fishnets, on a stage at a popular club in Vancouver — just, like, slightly out of my comfort zone (deep breathes).

I got through the performance — 4 shows, in fact. It was definitely uncomfortable, but also incredibly empowering. It was a good reminder for me to get the eff out of my comfort zone sometimes. And back into my body.

That class connected me to my body in a way that was unprecedented. Not only did it allow me to reclaim my sexuality outside of another human being, it also gave me my power back. It gave me my shine back. It allowed me to explore what movement meant to me, and how being in touch with my body and how it moves,  can help me get out of stuck, rigid spaces.

Dance has helped me realize that the only place I ever truly exist is in my body. I have moved so many times that I do not know how to answer the question “where is home?” other than to say “in my body.”

Fast forward a few years. I am a budding counsellor, figuring out what my next steps are. I stumble upon an article about dance therapy being offered in women’s prisons.

Intriguing.

So, I talk to my boss, and start a dance class for the women I work with — many of whom suffer from PTSD, depression, anxiety, substance use, and body image issues. I find a course on the West Coast which offers classes about dance/movement therapy. I feel like I have made it full circle.

Suddenly, I have the science and knowledge to back up what that little girl on the coffee table knew. What the 19-year-old on the sticky, club dance floor knew. What the heartbroken 20-something woman knew: Dance heals. Movement heals. Our bodies hold secrets that we do not know until we tune into them, and let them tell their stories. Until we let them release the pain, and trauma, that they are holding onto so tightly.

This week came with some particularly heavy news, and emotions. I could feel them settling in my body. I knew they needed to shift. So I went to an aerial arts class, hung upside down, and then came home to have a dance party in my kitchen.

And you know what? The sadness shifted. Things lifted up and out of my body. Without having to talk them out, or put them on anyone else.

What have I learned in all of this? That we all need dance. That dance is a healing art that no one person can ever be “bad” at. An art that is so often lost in our busy, Western world. An art that allows bodies to exist just as they are, and to be a part of their own embodied, human experience.

And to remember to never, ever tell anyone – including oneself – that they are a bad dancer.