Dance, when you’re broken open.
Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of the fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance when you’re perfectly free.
At first it was simply a fun distraction, but it grew to be a passion that helped me love being in my body again and view relationships through a new lens.
It was a month after my husband moved out, and I was visiting New Orleans for a painfully dull convention. During the evenings, some colleagues and I did as NOLA tourists do: drank Sazeracs, ate crawfish, and visited the jazz bars on Decatur Street. At one of them, a small band was playing 1930s jazz, and a clutch of dancers caught my attention.
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