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.

– Rumi


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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