To Dance

I’ve been in a strange, functional freeze for months now—moving through life only when I had to be on, to perform, to lead, to problem-solve, to figure it the fuck out.

My nervous system was so dysregulated that I only had two modes:

hyper-on or hyper-off.

Nothing in between.

Just the extremes.

And operating inside those extremes—while my brain fought to rewire itself for safety and metabolize the grief and heartbreak of this year—has been its own kind of exhaustion.

I haven’t had much mental or emotional bandwidth for anything beyond what was required of me.

(To be fair, what was required of me was a lot.)

But today… something shifted.

With the quiet hum of the recall finally behind me, my brain and body registered the empty space where fear and vigilance had lived. And suddenly, I felt it: the void. The drop. The aftermath.

I spent part of the day feeling like I was searching for dopamine like a woman starving for air—hit after hit after hit. Anything to recreate the chaos I had become so accustomed to.

I ate.

I smoked.

I watched the news and TikTok until my eyes blurred.

But the need didn’t stop. If anything, it sharpened.

And before I knew it, I was creating little mental scenarios—accidental run-ins, imagined encounters, weird storylines—anything to spark the high.

And then… finally… not too long ago, I realized what I was actually craving.

I need something new to learn.

Something that moves my body, softens my edges, and reminds me I’m still alive.

Something that makes me feel beautiful, sensual, feminine—present in my skin.

Dance.

Not just any dance.

The kind that wakes the hips.

That stirs the belly.

That lets the arms speak.

The kind woven with rhythm and ancient memory—

belly dance, hula, movement and music and breath.

So that’s what I’m going to do.

I start tomorrow.