Shortly before my mother died last year, I joined the YMCA. This ended my decade-long cold war with that institution, a battle of which it was unaware. I’d taught classes there for years, swam in its pool, and lifted weights. But toward the end, an older man would follow me in the weight room. By “follow me,” I really mean that he would trap me on machines, stand too closely, maneuver to stare down my shirt, and watch my butt. He’d ask my name and whether I was married. This made me say things to him like: You are really bothering me. And: You are giving me the creeps. And: Leave me alone.

When these things didn’t work, I tried to enlist the Y staff, who assured me that he wasn’t bothering anyone. What about me? I replied. The response, delivered with a shrug and upturned palms, was that he was old. The implicit assurance that I could outrun him or fend him off in a fight was not particularly comforting, so I voted with my feet and vowed not to return. When he passed away a few years ago, several Y friends emailed me his obituary and told me to come home.

While the emails were kind, it was dance that brought me back. I am a sucker for dance. Even fifty years later, I remember that I could not stand still the first time I heard “Delta Dawn.” At age four, I had music, moves, and the distinct feeling that if I could combine music and moves for the rest of my life, I would be happy.

But dance at that time required enlisting my mother, who was not nearly as enthusiastic about a Broadway career as I’d hoped. She was not swayed by my dream of a square pink vinyl ballet box that had a separate space for shoes. Tap was out of the question; shuffle-ball-changing would ruin the hardwood floors. Yet I persisted. In the summer of 1976, I won a nearly Pyrrhic victory: I joined a pom-pom squad, which would appear in our small town’s July 4 parade. Since the parade was only a few days before my family’s move to Moultrie, my mother balked at buying the required orange sequined leotard, the Holy Grail of the entire endeavor. Someone who just happened to have an extra size 6x leotard saved the day. And there I am, with the unfortunate haircut, the pompoms in motion, and the biggest smile of anyone in the photograph.

The fates were not so kind that Christmas, when Santa delivered a piano and a life sentence of piano lessons. (To say that I was indifferent insults indifferent pianists everywhere.) I was left to dance when and where I could — usually in my room, sometimes at PE, at “To the Max!,” a short-lived Moultrie nightclub for teens started by a well-meaning doctor’s wife, and for four years in saddle shoes, which my arthritic knees curse every cold morning.

Then I left home. I took tap, ballet, and ballroom for college PE credits and even as an adult. I adore tap, although my mom was right about the floors. I can pretend to shag, enjoy anything that includes a twirl, and usually remember that I have to follow, not lead. When I rejoined the Y in September 2021 for its dance fitness offerings, I thought that it would be a good opportunity to dance, clueless about the year ahead.

If you know me, you know it’s been a difficult year. I have seriously considered quitting the practice of law. I have found myself crying at odd times and in odd places. I have retreated inward and often felt paralyzed by fear and indecision. My doctor has suggested anti-anxiety medication. As I have navigated this tense time, I have wondered: Who is this person? And: Why is she so scared and so overwhelmed? And: Why am I struggling?

But through it all, I showed up. I showed up at least twice a week in hip hop and Zumba classes, usually in shorts, a cut up T-shirt, a bandana, knee socks, and high-top dunks. At some point I decided that I simply did not care. And then I really danced. It’s hard to remember pain, uncertainty, and feeling overwhelmed when the music is loud and you’re working to remember an eight-count. Just like it was 50 years ago, I had music, and moves, and the distinct realization that if I could combine the two, I would be happy.

I have worked to bring that feeling into the rest of my life. The freedom, the expression, the normalization of strange clothes. That you can’t dance while you’re holding heavy things. That you feed off the energy and presence of others. That when you miss a step, the only solution is to improvise and keep going. Am I a good dancer? I think so, even though I really have no idea. But that’s beside the point. It is something I love to do, something I make time to do, and something that I have sought out, in my own way and in my own time, for as long as I can remember.

So I show up. I have done it faithfully. This evening, with bright clothes and all smiles, I will join my fellow dancers, and we will throw down.

ALC