When the Body Finally Says Yes

The music picked up, and Cyd began to step side to side, a bounce emerging in her stride. I felt it too—something loosening, something waking. The music didn’t just fill the room; it moved through my body with intention and heat. This was no longer just a yoga class. It had become a power session.

In a TYP (The Yoga Post) class, there are three phases: integration, linking breath to movement, and—last but not least—surrender. As the class unfolded, limbs softened. Shoulders dropped. The invitation was clear: dance like no one is watching.

And somehow, I did.

My parasympathetic nervous system finally won over the sympathetic one—the part of me that usually freezes, hyper-aware of eyes and judgment, keeping my body guarded and still. Not today. Today, I swayed freely, letting movements in that once felt intimidating. Movements I had only practiced behind closed doors—dancing in the kitchen with my kids, or in Dance Sculpt classes set to upbeat music: an hour of dance cardio layered with toning exercises that work the whole body and, unexpectedly, the heart.

That same openness followed me later that afternoon.

The Dance Floor at the Tea Party

I found myself reflecting on a music-filled teddy bear tea I attended with my daughter and aunt. What began a few years ago as a simple tradition—exploring afternoon teas around Chicagoland—had grown into something meaningful. This one was unlike any we’d experienced before.

Alongside the tea and treats, there was a book reading, a DJ, and a small dance floor where children were invited to move freely. Before long, the kids had finished their sweets and were dancing to Golden.

My exuberant seven-and-a-half-year-old—normally a nonstop singing, dancing machine at home—sat still. Quiet. Watching.

I gently gestured toward the dance floor. She shook her head.
“No.”

I said, “Okay.”

I didn’t want to pressure her. But I recognized that feeling immediately—the butterflies mixed with pins and needles, a hint of nausea. That familiar inner tightening. Why does the body try to protect us from the very things we love?

Of course, it wasn’t her body. It was her brain.

Scanning the room. Noticing the younger kids. Wondering, What will they think of me? I don’t know them. They can see my moves.

And just like that, I was no longer only her mother.

A Memory That Lived in My Core

I was back in South Carolina on a sweltering summer night. Patriotic songs blasted from the DJ booth, celebrating the USA. It was dark—no one could really see—but the embarrassment burned anyway, settling deep in my core.

My parents bopped behind me. My sister danced freely with her new friends from the week. I was five years older, too old to join them, and absolutely not going to dance on my own.

Fear took over.

Just like the year before, what should have been fun became something else entirely. Anxiety and frustration ate away at me. I stood frozen, wishing I could disappear.

That memory had lived quietly in my body for decades.

Dancing Together, Healing Forward

Back at the tea party, I realized something simple and powerful:

If only I had someone to dance with me.

So I took her hand.
“I’m going to head out to the dance floor,” I said—alone, with the kids under eight. “Will you come with me?”

Her face lit up. A wide, beaming smile.
“Yes.”

After that, it was nearly impossible to get her off the dance floor.

The DJ invited the adults to join: “Kids, grab the adult who brought you!” When it was time for the YMCA, I felt a wave of relief wash over me as I stepped into the center with my daughter, surrounded by kids and grown-ups alike.

I had done the work. Therapy. Acupuncture. Healing my inner child. Embracing a process of consolidation and integration—allowing change to land not just cognitively, but physically.

As we spun across the floor, I noticed something new. The butterflies were faint. There was no gut-punch of fear. No pounding discomfort. Just movement. Joy. Presence.

I held my daughter close, and in doing so, held a younger version of myself, too.

Movement as Medicine

Last year was a year of shedding. Of transformation. Of depth, intuition, and healing. Because of that work, I entered this new year able to move—truly move—feeling alive, free, and courageous enough to begin again.

In the near future, I’ll be dancing even more as I become a certified POUND instructor. I look forward to easing nervous systems, inviting people back into their bodies, and helping others move without fear or self-consciousness.

This is the heart of my work now: movement as medicine, mental health support through rhythm, and empowering communities—especially today’s youth—to redefine health and fitness as something joyful, expressive, and deeply human.

Sometimes healing doesn’t begin with words.

Sometimes it begins with a hand extended onto the dance floor.