On Knowing I Can Always Find Myself On The Dance Floor
Have you ever tried to tap dance on the top of a crate that once transported a painting?
Let me be more specific.
Have you ever tried to tap dance on a wobbling piece of wood with nails lining the edges?
I have.
No, this wasn’t a game of Truth or Dare gone wrong, and no, it wasn’t a punishment.
It was the physical representation of the lengths I’d go to keep dance in my life.
I’d do it again if I had to.
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Luckily for me, once I became an adult with a credit card. and space, I bought some laminate wood flooring and created a little dance floor in my basement.
Though it’s held together by duct tape and has cracks that catch your shoe, I’m convinced it’s better than my previous option.
I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure they’d agree that a sprained ankle beats tetanus.
At this point, you’re probably wondering if I only tap on precarious surfaces.
I really want to say yes because that would make me look far more adventurous than I am, but (un)fortunately, the vast majority of my dancing has been on a regular wooden floor.
And there has been a lot of dancing.
I started when I was three, and except for a few years here and there, I haven’t stopped.
Dance has stayed in my life not because it’s a hobby. Not even because it’s a passion.
It’s stayed with me for four decades because it’s my religion—or at least that’s how I’ve been referring to it for the past several years.
One thing I’ve heard people say about why they love their religion is that no matter where they go, the prayers, the rituals, the services are the same.
It’s the consistency that makes people feel comforted.
I’m not particularly religious, but I understand the sentiment.
Every time we moved when I was a kid, I found consistency in the dance studio.
A shuffle was a shuffle in New Orleans, in Florida, and in Philadelphia.
And that feeling I got when performing choreography that hit the rhythm just so filled my chest, no matter the stage.
I’ve been wanting to write an essay about dance for a while now, but every time I’d start, I’d end up with a collection of memories and thoughts that looked more like stream-of-consciousness than coherent writing.
I’ve written about a lot of deeply personal things here, and somehow they were all easier than this.
So, of course—me being me—I had to figure out why.
Why is the topic of dance harder to write about than uncovering my inner narrative or my struggle with friends?
I don’t have a clear answer.
The best I’ve come up with is that dance is all-encompassing. It’s where I go when I feel lost.
It’s my identity’s solid ground—unchanging in its presence.
I actually remember what I think was my first performance. We wore pink-skirted leotards, pink tights, and shiny black tap shoes. And now I’m laughing because I just realized my dangerous dance surfaces started from the very beginning.
At this performance, we were dancing on tile at a nursing home. If you’re unfamiliar with tap shoes on tile, let me just say it’s a lot like dancing on ice.
I remember sliding around while singing and dancing my heart out to “I’m a boogie baby.”
From there, I was hooked.
The thing is that after about age eight, I didn’t really have a ton of dance friends. I laughed with the people in my class, but we didn’t hang out outside of it.
And my group of friends weren’t into it, even when I asked them to join me in things like a swing dance during spirit week at school.
No one in my family danced or was particularly interested in it.
For a long time, this bothered me.
I wanted to share my love with someone else who loved it as much as I did.
I think when you’re a kid, it’s hard to understand doing things for yourself and no one else—that it’s okay for it to be yours.
In college, I got a taste of making dance my life.
By senior year, I was in two dance clubs, rehearsing fifteen to twenty hours per week.
I was able to perform moves I never could before.
I was stronger and more flexible than I’d ever been.
I was even president of one of the dance clubs—my first real experience with leadership.
And I made real friends who loved dance as much as I did.
Friends who walked into a club near opening, looked around at the nearly empty space and asked, “Wanna dance on that stage over there?”
Yep. I certainly did.
Door to stage in under two minutes, and we stayed until closing. No alcohol.
No boys. Just us and the music.
As I got older, there were times when I went a few years without dance, but I always found my way back.
After a bad breakup in law school.
After moving as an adult.
After COVID.
Even after my body stopped cooperating in pretty much every other area of life.
Thanks to chronic illness, I can’t exercise anymore. The other day, I spent twenty minutes straightening up the house—no heavy cleaning—and I was dizzy, overheated, and in pain.
I used to do Pilates daily. Now, if I do even the basics, I can’t walk for a few days.
But my Tuesday night tap class? My body says, “Hell yes!”
It’s quite literally the only kind of exercise or movement my body accepts without significant repercussions.
And, even better, I’m still good. Like one-of-the-best-in-the-class good. I’m not saying that to brag. Believe me, I’m not dancing like Gene Kelly, but this matters because in almost every other area of my life, I feel incapable and limited.
On the dance floor, though, I’m helping my teacher remember the steps and answering others’ questions.
I’m not only keeping up, I’m excelling.
At something physical.
That alone feels like a miracle.
Surviving tile floors, wobbly death crates, and booby-trapped laminate flooring without serious injury is also a miracle.
I started this essay by calling dance my religion.
I think I’ve just convinced myself it’s true.
So, when life feels like it’s being held together by duct tape, I’ll just tap right over it.
This was written by our contributing writer, Lauren Reisner.
Image Source: Freepik, wavebreakmedia_micro
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