This post is by Pam Harris, an avid boxer, 3x marathoner, and aspiring hip hop dancer. Pam is an AI research manager who lives with her family in the Atlanta area. She’s written for us about battling imposter syndrome and taking up boxing post-cancer.
Dressed in my favorite boxing attire, I walk apprehensively into the lobby of my daughter’s dance studio. I stand rigidly in the back corner, clutching a water bottle. The scene unfolding around me reminds me of the check-in at one of the AMR retreats I’ve attended: middle-aged women of all shapes and sizes wearing an array of workout clothes; some standing nervously alone like myself; others in twos or threes; still others exclaiming exuberant greetings to long-lost friends.
I’d been enthralled by a routine at the studio’s spring recital, performed by an adult hip hop class. I wanted to dance with that kind of joy, that kind of freedom. And so, despite never having successfully learned a dance routine in my life, I registered for the 2024-25 season. I alternated between nerves and excitement as the August 6 start-date neared.
A woman approaches me in the corner, asking if we know each other from the Decatur Moms Run This Town. I acknowledge I used to run with the group but hadn’t in years. She immediately states she’s part of the Another Mother Runner community—and asks if I write for them sometimes.
A BAMR in my dance class?! The situation immediately becomes 90% less terrifying, and she introduces me to several other women. This gives me the courage to chat up some other gals, including fellow newbie Keisha, who like myself has zero dance experience.
The class of about 30 women files into the studio and greet Cakes, the founder and artistic director of Project SLIDE. I know Cakes from the perspective of a dance parent, so I knew her signature enthusiasm and joie de vivre would be out in full force in her instruction. Cakes leads us through some warm-up dance moves, demonstrating the basics of each move, then brings in some swagger, transforming each from a rudimentary step into hip hop: fierce, fluid, and far cooler than I could ever imagine myself being.
“You have to add some stank,” Cakes explains as she moves into the choreography to Megan Thee Stallion’s Where Them Girls At. “And bring it in whatever way works for your body. It might not look like mine.”
I follow along the best I can, making my awkwardness in the lobby seem very demure, very mindful in comparison. Nobody would ever accuse me of being a natural: My butt just doesn’t move that way, and my arms never seem to quite get the memo. Disjointed, apparently, is what works for my body today!
“Don’t think; just go!” Dimity urges in my brain, followed by boxing trainer Biggs quoting Sugar Ray Robinson: ““If you stop to think, you’re gone.” When I miss a step, or get confused, I mentally shrug, shake it off, remind myself not to think, and step back out of my own way.
“Now don’t be thinking about what you’re cooking for dinner.” Cakes moved through the room. “Don’t be thinking about macaroni. Think about your girls and where they’re at.”
I take myself back to my 20s, adult-beverage in hand, grinding in glory on a sticky dance floor in a dark club with my girlfriends. While occasionally we may have been looking for someone to head home with, mostly we were there for us. To dance away our cares, to connect with one another and to the pieces of ourselves we’d had to subvert to get through the day.
Now, instead of rum and Coke, I’m drinking water, and I’m dancing in a clean, brightly lit studio full of middle-aged women. Yet it presents the same opportunity for connection. I want to dance my tail off every Wednesday, to add some stank, to get to know these women, and to share in their smiles, their sweat, and their struggles.
Over the years, I’ve learned I am most content when my comfort zone is beyond the horizon. I cannot wait to see where dancing leads me.
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