Yup. It’s true. I did something that made me more uncomfortable than I have been in as long as I can remember.
I like to dance and frequently go to clubs solely to shake my tail feathers and get lost in the music and the movement and the whole environment. However, that only means I can find the beat and have some rhythm. I’ve never taken dance classes of ANY kind in my life, not even when I was a kid. Well, there was a year of roller-dance in 5th grade, but that’s a story for another time. The point is, I have no formal dance education. I just like to move to the music.
I am a social dynamics coach. I teach people that in order to get the results they want to achieve, they have to step out of their comfort zone. At boot camps and during our live-in programs, I am right there with these guys who are doing just that, watching some freeze up, stutter, sweat, shake and sometimes RUN out of the venue due to feeling very, very uncomfortable. Now it’s my turn. Easy! I think to myself. I’m used to this.
So I drive up to the studio and park, in a great mood, excited and energized to be doing something new. I love “new” and “change” and “different,” they’re home for me and the way I live my life.
Then I got out of my car.
I was looking at a building that represented something I know NOTHING about, other thanwatching other people do it. I looked at the building. My heart started to race and I could feel my blood pressure go up a bit. I have a very light complexion, so I knew my cheeks must be bright pink and I felt hot.
But it was different than my usual excitement at doing something new. I stood there, taking deep slow breaths, controlling my – fear? Wait, was that fear? As I breathed in an out, still standing there looking at the building, I realized that I was SCARED. My mind went on a instantaneous, harsh journey and started spewing all sorts of crap into my consciousness. The building is going to be full of people who already KNOW how to dance, it told me. It’s full of women who have long, lithe graceful bodies, who can twist and bend in ways I can only imagine. The people who go to dance studios are DANCERS, my mind reminded me. Not people like me. Poser, my head called me. You’re not some inner city kid with soul. You’re from New England. You ain’t got moves! What do you think, you’re Britney Spears? You ain’t Britney, kid! Just because you like the way Beyonce dances and sings doesn’t mean you can DO it. And you’re too old, my brain decided for me. Dancers start training as kids. You’re not a kid. People don’t take hip hop lessons unless they’re teenagers.
And only COOL people can dance, my high school self, added. Remember when Coach told you that you were the slowest runner on the basketball team? Remember all those extra laps you had to run after practice because you came in last all the time? You’re also not very coordinated, my mind remembered. Think about all the floor burns you used to get from tripping over your own feet. Dancers don’t trip over their own feet, so by basic deduction, you are NOT a dancer. And what about all that jumping? You have a bad knee! Are you trying to never walk again? Dancing involves turning and twisting and jumping around! That’s not good for your knee, my mind said disapprovingly.
My heart was still racing. I felt warm all over and I couldn’t swallow very well. What WAS I thinking? I can’t do this! My knee! My lack of balance and grace! My age! My inexperience!
Wait… this was sounding familiar. I’d heard excuses like that before.
Approach anxiety!
Luckily, I knew what to do. I went back through all the excuses my mind was trying to use to keep me in my comfort zone and keep me from growing. Time to start applying some logic to my emotional responses.
Nope, I said to myself. I’m NOT a kid, so all you excuses that come from my childhood, I reject you. You don’t count. Not trained? Well duh – that’s why I’m here, to get training. Dump that excuse, too. Not coordinated? Well, that’s true, but there’s a good chance that dance lessons will help me BECOME more coordinated. That becomes and excuse to DO IT. My knee? Well, that’s a legitimate concern, but I can easily be careful with any moves that involve torquing the joint. It’s been a long time since my surgery, I’m quite used to protecting it.
That leaves lack of experience as the only legitimate reason for this anxiety. I smiled. No other way to combat lack of experience than with going and getting some, and the only way to do that is to walk in those doors and go to class. I was still nervous, I was still hot-faced and unsure, having NO idea what to expect. What seemed like a great idea from the comfort of my innocuous Google list of dance classes was still scary, but the concept was solid. I took a couple more deep breaths, forced myself to smile, and walked into the building,
Now. I would love to tell you that was it, I was done with the fear and the doubt. Nope. Not even close. That first class, I had a lump in my throat the ENTIRE time because I felt so awkward. First, my mind was actually right about a couple of things. Most of the women in the class WERE dancers, and to me they had perfect, gorgeous bodies. Then, the instructor just acted like we should know what was going on, and started showing us 16 counts of choreography at a time and expected that we would pick it up. Everyone did.
I did not.
I tripped, several times, and I tweaked my knee turning improperly. I was constantly several steps behind. I walked out of the class twice, with my brain whispering, “Quit. Just quit.” I heard it, but I had come too far, even though it wasn’t far at all. I walked off the pain and embarrassment and went back into class both times. I still wanted to cry, but I also had to laugh a little. It was almost absurd how uncoordinated I felt and knew I must look.
The next class wasn’t much better. There was a different teacher who had a whole different set of moves and routines to learn. Thankfully she only went through 8 counts at a time, though, so I had a little better time picking up the basic idea. I still felt that cry lump in my throat most of the class. The third class was about the same – another new instructor, more new moves. Then, in the second week, when the first teacher returned and we started into the same routine we’d done with her the week before, somehow it was magically kind of getting in my head. And better yet, it seemed to be in my feet, too. I didn’t trip at all that class, and it was a lovely little victory for me.
Weeks later, I now have the confidence to stand in the front row. I’m still not good – adequate is probably a better word. But I am loving it, and even if I don’t look like Britney up there, I feel great now that most parts of my body work in sync with the music and with each other, as well as the other students in the class. I’m also a lot more confident with my mistakes – I know I make them, and I’m okay with it. The world doesn’t end, the class doesn’t stop, and no one even snickers if I mess up – because they’re all too busy watching themselves in the mirror, not me. And now that I’ve relaxed, I can see that even the more experienced girls mess up.
The biggest victory is how proud I am of myself. It feels really, really good to look back at how horrible the first days and weeks were and see how far I’ve come. I stuck it out, and now I’m gaining ground. I might be good one day – that’s a huge shift in my belief system! It’s a good shift, and I’m proud of it and excited to remember that for real, anything is possible.
