I didn’t start dancing again to become a better mother. Or to get fitter. And it most certainly wasn’t to thrive at work. But once dance was a regular part of my life, it is also true that my job sapped my soul a little bit less.
It was a subconscious longing for joy that led me back to the dance floor. I’d loved dancing as a girl, but as my responsibilities grew, it slipped out of my life. Like a good friend who’d moved away.
Until the magic of that first adult dance class, the “J” word wasn’t really on my map—as a woman and in particular, as a mother. The women who raised me were loving, hardworking, over-givers. I could write a dissertation on what they did well, but making their own joy a priority wouldn’t feature.
I was five months into being a newly-single mom. Once the kids were in bed, my evenings were spent in the same spot on the sofa: Joggers on. Glass of wine in hand. Box set at the ready.
That was after I’d logged into my inbox to clear what I’d missed by leaving the office on time. When Holly and James were with their Dad, I worked late, batch-cooked meals for the week ahead, and caught up on the laundry.
Sofa time was me-time. As I drove home from collecting the kids from their daycare, flopping in front of the T.V. was all I could think about. But as soon as my butt hit the cushion, the guilt arrived. For not being more patient when they squabbled. For dunking them in and out of the bath in fewer than five minutes. For insisting on one bedtime story, not the two they had asked for.
The night I decided to go dancing was like any other. I saw a Facebook post I’d seen hundreds of times before, advertising a free taster lesson. But instead of scrolling past it, I clicked.
Perhaps it was the title music of Sex and the City with its Latin vibe that made me do it. Perhaps I was done with feeling sorry for myself. Whatever it was, rather than watch those four women dress up and go out, I decided to have some fun of my own.
The beginners’ class was in a small hall above a dingy social club in my hometown in the UK. Not exactly Manhattan but just walking in felt like a small victory.
The walls were thin, and the advanced classes’ music was much faster than ours. But the repetition of the steps slowed my mind down.
Every few minutes, we changed partners. I realized that most people were here on their own like me, not in couples as I had imagined.
“Guys—it’s down to you to lead. You’re in charge!” the teacher smiled.
She wasn’t going to hear any argument from me. This was perfect. A place where I could let someone else do the work.
After class, the social dancing began in the room next door. I found a chair and settled in to watch the experienced dancers strut their stuff. But it wasn’t to be. Almost immediately a man approached—his hand outstretched.
He was at least ten years younger than me. He might have even been a student based on the band t-shirt he was wearing.
“It’s my first week,” I said, putting my drink down. “I don’t have a clue.”
“It’s okay—I’ll be gentle with you,” he laughed, taking my hand.
I don’t know about you, but occasionally I have dreams that I can fly. I soar above the fields and towns. Completely free and able to go anywhere. And dancing with that fine-looking man was as close as I’d been in real life to that feeling.
I had exactly 40 minutes experience of Salsa, but that made it all the more liberating. There was zero expectation from my partner. All I had to do was follow. The frame of his arms made it easy to know when to stop and when to move. His hand on my back showed me which direction to turn.
When the track ended, he leaned me back and took the full weight of my body. I felt like a movie star.
I danced with five or six other partners after that and got home at 11 p.m.
At 2 a.m., I was still wide awake. I felt like a girl again. My body was flooded with something unfamiliar. Something I hadn’t felt for a long time.
Joy.
All the excuses—all the practical reasons I could not have this every week—evaporated. I knew I would be in that dance class, and on that dance floor afterward, as often as I possibly could.
That was a decade ago, and I’m still dancing today.
Salsa most weeks and at home every morning. Five minutes is all it takes. Shut away in my bedroom, just me and my playlist. It infuses my day.
These small acts shouldn’t feel radical, but they do. On Salsa night, saying goodbye to my now-teenaged children sometimes feels selfish. Though once the music starts, I’m always glad I went. It casts a spell on my week.
I’m not sure there is ever a good time to prioritize our own joy as mothers. There is no shortage of other things we could be doing, and my social media feed is a ceaseless reminder of all the ways I could do better.
And while dancing was never about self-improvement for me, it has made me a calmer, happier person. More able to enjoy the simple things in life. Like chatting with my family over breakfast. Or hearing about their day as we gather around the dinner table.
I’m more able to dance with what life throws at me. More able to enjoy life, just as it is.
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