I was maybe six or seven. It was Christmas time. My mum asked us to dance for her, something she used to do often. I was excited—I remember wanting to make her smile, to do something fun. But when I started dancing, she burst out laughing.
She told me I couldn’t dance. That I was terrible.
I remember freezing. The shame came so fast, like a slap. I felt stupid, small… like something inside me just folded in on itself. From that day on, I stopped dancing. I’d say “I don’t dance” to anyone who asked. But the truth is—I wanted to. I always wanted to. I just never wanted to feel that embarrassed again.
Years later, I told my child’s dad about that moment. I told him why I don’t dance. My mum happened to be around, and she laughed again. Said I was terrible, that none of her kids can dance, that we take after our dad—no rhythm. It stung. Again. Like that little girl who just wanted to be seen for trying was being laughed at all over again. And the worst part? She still thought it was funny.
My mum? She’s not a great dancer either. But she dances. Freely. She dances to express herself. Meanwhile, she robbed me of that very thing—expression. Joy. Freedom. I watched people dance and have fun growing up, but I couldn’t join. Not without thinking of that day.
I’ve always wanted to take a dance class, to reclaim it. But I’m scared. Scared the teacher will say I’m so bad they can’t help me. That I’m too far gone. That I don’t belong there either.
The only place I ever felt free dancing was at clubs with my queer friends. There was no pressure to be perfect—just vibes, laughter, freedom. No one cared if you were good or not. It felt safe. It felt like joy for joy’s sake. But around other Black people, I go still. I get too self-conscious. I worry about how I look, if I’m doing it right, if they’ll laugh.
That one moment… it silenced something in me. Something I still haven’t fully gotten back.
Adulting & Motherhood 