Movement Healed Me Before Therapy Could

Before I could articulate my pain, movement spoke for me. This personal story explains how dance, running, and reconnecting with the body became a path to healing long before words or therapy

I experienced things by the age of six that I shouldn’t have. I saw things only adults should witness. And I didn’t speak about any of it. As I was writing this, I tried to put myself back into my 6-year-old mind and ask—why didn’t I share? Why didn’t I say anything?

To intentionally put yourself back into traumatizing experiences—just to write about them? At first, I thought, This is crazy. But now I realize: it’s healing. I’m not that little girl anymore. I’m not powerless. I’m safe. I can sit with these memories because if I can’t speak something out loud or write it down, then to me that means something inside is still blocked. And if there’s one thing I refuse to be, it’s blocked.

So I closed my eyes, sat in a chair, crossed my legs, and placed my mind back into my world at age six. I pictured a moment where I felt safe—dinner with my dad and brothers. We were eating rice and beans, but I didn’t have an appetite. I remember looking down, playing with my food. And in that moment, I felt my throat dry up, my chest tighten, my shoulders get heavy. Is this what I felt back then? I asked my 6-year-old self if she was okay, and what came back was just... silence. Like it was too much for her mind to even go there. She didn’t have the words yet. She couldn’t talk to her best friend—her dad. She just wanted to forget.

But my mind didn’t let me. I remember the dreams. I remember the moments when the floor beneath my bunk bed felt safer than the bed itself. Not because I wasn’t safe in my dad’s home, I finally was – but a soft bed reminded me of too much. Even now I only purchase firm mattresses. I also remember the very first time my mind and body felt relief: when my dad took me to a professional ballet school. I had no idea what to expect. I just went along with it. I didn’t want him to leave me in that studio. Since the day my dad came into my life, I felt safe. I felt loved and protected by a man. And now he was going to leave me—alone—with two men?

Little did I know, one of those men would become the next male figure I trusted unconditionally. I remember my dad telling me he’d be by the door, looking through the window.

Then the music started.

And suddenly—I felt it. For the first time, the pain and tightness lifted from my body. I still get that feeling today when I hear classical music. I lose myself in it. In those moments, I escape. My mind goes free. And as I grew in my ballet training, that release only deepened. Through movement, I learned to speak. I could express what my mouth still couldn’t.

When I was introduced to Graham Modern at Alvin Ailey, that sense of release became even more powerful. People who watched me dance told me they could feel what I was feeling. But for me, it was—and still is—an out-of-body experience. The difference is, now it’s intentional. It’s my choice. My mind isn’t escaping my body because the moment is too painful to endure; my mind is choosing to step aside so my body can fully experience what it means to let go. To surrender control—but this time, in an environment where it feels safe to do so.

For me, giving control to anyone or anything—even to God—is a radical, deeply intentional act.

I remember performing at Lincoln Center and watching myself as if I were in the audience, floating above the stage. The music moved through me. It was liberating not to think—just to move. I could see the emotion on my face, the way my fingers twitched and shook, the way my body responded to the music without ever needing to count.

My body was free. My mind was light.
Classical music calls to me. It always has. It whispers safety. It whispers, You can speak.

But then—I lost it again at the age of sixteen. I blamed ballet. I blamed the way it made me look. I blamed my ballerina-like figure, my thin tights, my spaghetti strap leotard. I blamed my curves, my cleavage. I blamed myself—for feeling safe.

And once again, I didn’t speak. I ran. I left ballet. I left home. I moved as far away as I could. And in doing that, I fractured one of the most important relationships in my life—my dad, my best friend. I became the six-year-old all over again. Unable to speak. But now, it wasn’t just pain keeping me quiet—it was fear. I had something to lose. If I spoke up, I was afraid I’d lose my dad. He would see red, act on anger, and maybe do something that would take him away from me. I chose silence. I chose distance. Because I’d rather him be free and hurt by me for leaving than be behind bars and gone … taken from me forever.

Movement didn’t heal me anymore. I could still feel its pull, but I refused it. I hated my ballerina body. So, I changed it. I gained weight. I told myself: If I’m not pretty, no one will look at me. If I’m hidden, I’ll be safe.

But that didn’t keep me safe either.
Three for three. By the age of twenty-one.
What was wrong with me? Why was I a magnet?

Then, I found therapy.
And finally—I started to heal.
I worked hard. I fought for myself in those sessions. And I’m proud to say I blossomed. I stopped fearing beauty. I stopped hiding. My relationship with food healed. I learned to speak—with words. That’s when someone introduced me to journaling and writing. It stuck. The pen gives me the same feeling that classical music does.

I thought I didn’t have any more healing to do.
But I was wrong.

Recently, I started running. And through that, I’ve lost weight—including muscle. I still believe I’m beautiful—without a doubt. But I’ve been struggling with how feminine I’m starting to look again. I didn’t understand why at first. So, I picked up my pen and wrote about it a few weeks ago. And then it hit me.

I’ve been associating femininity with ballet.
And ballet with what happened when I was 16.
I loved having muscle because I felt powerful. Safe. Untouchable.
The stronger I looked, the less likely someone was to try me.

But now my arms are slimming. My thighs are thinning. My shoulders are losing muscle mass. And there’s a part of me that wants to go back. To lift heavy again. To put my armor back on. To show the man next to me in the gym that I can lift what he lifts—or more.

But if I did that, I’d be choosing to hide again.
Doing something for the wrong reason—even if it’s praised—it’s still hiding.
We admire people who are “disciplined,” but we don’t always see the fear or pain driving that discipline.

So, I won’t stop that activity, I won’t stop running.
And I will learn to fall deeply in-love this version of my body.
Because she’s adapting. She’s keeping up with me. And most importantly, she’s never let me down.

Running has reconnected me to classical and contemporary music. Movement is healing me again. With every run, I feel more present. I feel lighter. Lifting weights once helped me relieve stress—but running? Running lets me dance. My feet hit the ground in rhythm. I adapt. I respond. I stay in sync. And for the first time in years, when I’m alone – I let my body go free. I move to the music. I lose myself again in movement, running has pushed me back towards what first healed me. And yes—it’s uncomfortable to feel these changes. But I face it, every day, on purpose. Because this body has carried me through it all.

I am thankful for her perseverance. I’m grateful for how she’s adapted through everything I’ve put her through. I’m in awe of how in sync she is with my emotions, with my intuition. I’m grateful that she can experience the healing attributes of touch again, she didn’t allow that to be taken from her forever. She tells me what I need. And I listen.

She is my voice. My protection. My expression. She is my home.

This is a story that I want my son to hear from me.