Dancing Was a Sin, But Beating Me Wasn’t

He called me childish, foolish, delusional. Turns out I was just too alive for his tiny, angry world

I used to beg my ex-husband to dance with me.

Not even in public, just a simple twirl in the kitchen would’ve sent me soaring.

But he was too proud. Said it was pathetic. Silly. Stupid.

My head was always “in the clouds,” according to him.

He’d bark at me to come back to reality.

And in his reality, dancing didn’t exist.

Not even in the kitchen.

We came from a world where dancing was forbidden.

Where movement equalled temptation,

And joy was a sin if it made men “stumble.”

But I didn’t want to be obscene.

I wanted connection.

To be playful with my partner.

To laugh, barefoot on hardwood floors, spinning in clumsy circles.

It never happened.

He sat at his computer while I sat in loneliness.

He danced with keyboards while I clung to hope.

I kept trying. God, I kept trying.

If anyone could fix him, I thought, it’d be me.

But the only dancing I ever did…

Was dodging his fists.

And then, there was you.

I didn’t have to beg.

I didn’t even have to ask.

Where there’s music, you’re already there,

hand outstretched, eyes sparkling, spinning me around.

And the best part? You’re adorable about it.

You ask me every time like it’s the first time.

And every time, I blush like a teenager.

You’ve twirled me in the kitchen,

the living room,

the bedroom,

in the rain, in the sunshine

and yes, in front of strangers.

You don’t just dance with me in public

you celebrate me.

You point at me under disco lights,

laugh when I flail around with my chaotic, untrained, very-white-girl moves.

I snort. We sweat. We live.

We are having the time of our lives.

Next up?

The Dirty Dancing lift. 😉