Dancing Through Life: Remembering Why I Move

"Dance, dance, otherwise we are lost." — Pina Bausch

Sometimes it’s so easy to forget why we started. And it’s even easier to get swept up in the whirlwind of competition — the pressure, the comparisons, the constant chase for perfection. I can relate to this; I’ve felt myself slip into that current more times than I can count. But then there are moments — rare and powerful — when everything becomes clear again. Like the time I spent six straight hours in the studio, running the same choreography over and over for an upcoming show. My body ached, my muscles trembled with exhaustion, but somewhere in that repetition, in the sweat and the strain, I found it — the love, the fire, the very reason I started dancing in the first place. In that moment, it wasn’t about perfection or competition; it was about passion, pure and undiluted. Or the night I shot up from bed at 12:30 a.m., my mind suddenly alight with inspiration. I couldn’t wait — I had to move.

Barefoot and half-asleep, I found myself recording a small section of choreography right there in the quiet darkness of my room. It wasn’t polished or planned, but it was real — driven by that irresistible pull, that creative spark that refuses to be ignored. Or the days when everything else felt heavy — when the world seemed to press down on me — and the only thing that could lift me up was the familiar embrace of the studio. My love for dance isn’t new; it’s been with me for 14 years. But the depth of that love — the intensity of the connection I feel — is something I’ve only come to fully understand now. Dance has been my constant, my safe haven.

And recently, I’ve also felt the sharp pain of being unable to train due to injury — a pain far deeper than I ever expected. Walking into the studio after days away feels like coming up for air after drowning. The air smells different, the world feels lighter. And when the music starts — when I finally let my body take over and silence my mind — something inside me ignites. There’s a fire, a purpose, a sense of belonging that nothing else in my life quite matches. It takes a lot to give one thing so much power over your life. It’s a risky game to play, to pour so much of your heart into something that could slip away- one misstep, one injury can take you from the stage to the audience. But that’s the reality of being a dancer — and it’s why the quote “A dancer dies twice — once when they stop dancing, and this first death is the more painful one” resonates so deeply with me. Because I know that pain.

And I know the joy, the freedom, the life that dance brings.

And for that — for every step, every beat, every breath — I am endlessly grateful.