Learning to Dance Alone
A few months into therapy, I sat there complaining that I wanted to try new things, but all my friends were married and busy. They had their own lives and families, and no one was looking for anything new to do. Meanwhile, I sat home most nights—watching Netflix, sipping wine, and wishing I could do something.
My therapist looked at me and said gently, “You need to start doing things on your own.” She told me to get on Meetup, find groups, and learn what I like. If I wanted peace, she said, I had to find my passions, get comfortable being alone, and stop waiting for someone else to be able to enjoy my life.
At first, it sounded terrifying—I am terribly shy in new crowds. What she meant was simple: go find yourself again.
For years, I’d built my world around everyone else—schedules, caregiving, pleasing. I’d adjusted my likes and even my personality so I wouldn’t upset anyone or stand out too much. When life cracked open, I didn’t know how to fill a Saturday when the kids were gone.
Single parenting opens an aloneness most people only meet when they empty-nest. Your time becomes split, and your reason for going on feels divided between homes. You go from being consumed by other people’s needs and endless busyness to a deafening quiet—a stillness that’s both terrifying and revealing. I didn’t even know who I was or what I loved anymore.
So, I started dancing.
Not as a grand gesture—more like a dare to myself.
I had always loved dancing. But I’d been told to “settle down and be quiet.” I signed up for a Latin dance class, walked in shaking and nearly left before it began. But something in me stayed. I trusted my therapist—and I knew if I wanted change, I had to take the first step.
It was awkward. I apologized when I missed a step. I laughed too loudly to hide my nerves. But my body—tired from years of bracing—began to feel alive. The rhythm didn’t ask for perfection. It asked me to show up.
For three months, I went to classes. Then I took the next leap—social dancing. The first few months, panic rose in my chest until I felt like I might throw up. Every instinct told me to leave, but I made myself stay.
That’s where the real lessons came. I stumbled over myself, embarrassed by my newness. I watched others move easily while I stood off to the side, trying to look occupied.
I made a deal with myself: if I went three songs without dancing, I could leave. Or I’d set a time and promise myself to stay until then. Funny thing is, almost every time I made that deal, someone asked me to dance right after.
I went for months like that—nervous, awkward, fighting the urge to run—and somewhere along the way, the fear softened. The music started to feel like home.
Now, three years in, I have the time of my life.
I’ve made friends, found community, met my partner, and—most importantly—learned that I’m capable of building joy from scratch. There are still nights I don’t want to go because I’m down, but I make myself go anyway. And I always leave lighter than when I came.
Recently, I mentioned all of this in therapy—how much dancing has helped. My therapist smiled and said, “You deserve a lot of credit. Most people don’t actually do the things I suggest.”
I was taken aback. What do you mean? Why would people come to therapy and not try?
She just shrugged and said softly, “Because doing the work is the hard part.”
That stopped me, because she’s right. We talk a lot about healing, but the hardest part is actually doing it. Talking about your life in therapy is easy—venting about who hurt you, who doesn’t get you, or how things would be better if everyone else just changed.
But that kind of talking becomes a trap.
It keeps you circling the same pain, stuck in a quiet victim mindset that convinces you you’re powerless. Until you decide to own your life, take the steps, and heal, you’ll stay stuck and frustrated, replaying the same story, waiting for someone else to make your world better.
In a way, that’s what dancing became for me—the place I practiced the work. Each time I stayed when I wanted to leave, each time I showed up anyway, I was teaching myself how to heal in real time. When I was depressed, movement felt impossible. Even getting out of bed some days took everything I had. But making myself go when I didn’t feel like it became a quiet act of defiance. It was doing what I knew, not what I felt. And somewhere between the rhythm and the repetition, something shifted. My body started to remember joy before my mind could. That’s when I began to understand—healing doesn’t always start with thought; sometimes it starts with motion.
💡 The Science Behind It
Research shows dance can reduce symptoms of depression and anxiety across many styles and can sometimes perform as well as or even better than other forms of exercise for emotional well-being and motivation.
When you’re social dancing, you don’t just get a mood lift from the music and movement—you also get it from the connection. You’re learning something new, pushing through discomfort, and proving to yourself that you can. It’s scary at first, but it’s also deeply energizing. Add to that the warmth of community and the simple human comfort of physical touch, and it’s easy to see why the benefits reach far beyond the dance floor.
Dance/movement therapy—a structured, therapeutic form of this practice—has growing evidence for adults with depression. In fact, meta-analyses show meaningful improvements in mood, especially in studies that use stronger research methods like randomized trials and standardized depression scales. The better the study design, the more clearly the benefits appear. And even beyond dance, broader research continues to show that moving your body in any form offers a moderate but real effect on reducing symptoms of depression.
Reading the research later only confirmed what I’d already lived—when depression consumes you, movement feels impossible. You have to make yourself do it, step by step, until the feeling follows. Healing doesn’t wait for motivation; it builds it.
🕊️ Becoming
Dancing became more than movement; it was permission.
Permission to take up space.
Permission to feel joy again—without guilt, without waiting for approval.
To reconnect with a body I’d spent years criticizing and silencing.
Through dance, I didn’t find instant confidence. I found curiosity. I found me. The girl who had been silenced, been told she was “too much,” found life.
That’s the real work of healing—not waiting for someone else to rescue you or fix what’s broken, but being willing to look at yourself honestly, take one small step, and keep moving forward through your becoming—back to you.
💬 Author’s Note
If you’re in that quiet place where everything feels heavy and even small steps seem pointless, I see you. I’ve been there. Start smaller than you think you should. Take a walk. Turn on one song. Move a little. You don’t have to feel ready—you just have to begin. Sometimes healing starts with motion, not motivation.
When my therapist first suggested Meetup, it helped me start exploring—but if that platform isn’t as active where you live, there are other safe, low-pressure ways to find community and try new things. You might start by checking local libraries or community centers for free workshops or adult classes. Eventbrite often lists local events by interest—art, wellness, dance, journaling—and Facebook Groups can connect you with nearby hiking, volunteer, or creative meetups. VolunteerMatch.org is another great place to find one-time or short-term ways to help, especially if you want connection that feels meaningful. And Meetup.com still has active groups in many areas under “Arts & Culture,” “Outdoor Adventure,” or “Mindfulness.”
These aren’t romantic spaces; they’re places to rebuild belonging. If one doesn’t fit, keep looking. Sometimes finding your people starts with just showing up once. Connection doesn’t have to be loud or big—it just has to be real.
If you’re curious about the research behind dance and mood, studies like “Effectiveness of Dance Movement Therapy in the Treatment of Adults With Depression” and “Effects of Dance Movement Therapy and Dance on Health-Related Psychological Outcomes” show that dance and movement therapies can significantly improve emotional well-being and reduce symptoms of depression and anxiety.
You’re not just taking a class or showing up to volunteer. You’re choosing yourself—making a choice that quietly changes everything.
