I was immobilized. I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed by nothing objectively dangerous. The plastic knife didn’t paralyze me. My mind did. In that moment I learned fear’s power. It put me in the hospital, placed me in bed, and lastly left me motionless to try it’s best to keep me alive.

I wanted to move, but couldn’t, consumed by inability & trapped in the face of an incoming attack. I could only observe my powerlessness. No claim, no allowance to control. I only had permission to witness my present & pending pain.

There was something primal & instinctive going on. I hadn’t experienced anything like this before. I was in danger. I wanted to fight. I wanted to flee. But I could only freeze. My body’s chosen, or choiceless, way of surrendering. It’s fight was decided in staying still.

My mind perceived incredible danger. False danger. This was self-designed, self-inflicted psychological trauma. That plastic knife, next to my tray of food, was the beginning of my end. 

Months after my hospitalization, I came to terms with what happened. I had fallen psychotic. I lived in a state of extreme paranoia for nearly 2 months, believing I was the target of a conspiracy theory (you can read more about this episode here). I was tricked by delusional thinking: thinking rooted outside of reality.

I fell into this thinking without drugs. My brain naturally produced a “chemical imbalance” that brought me here. I was high on dopamine & serotonin, riding a wave of mania before crashing down. It was a psychological emergency, after which, I came away with a diagnosis as bipolar (type 1). With one manic episode (a state of extreme high) and professional psychiatric evaluation, you are given this label.

My episode and new diagnosis depressed me, a natural response to something so destabilizing. Depression typically follows mania. Never did I know what mental illness was, what it could do, or most importantly...that it could happen to me. 

My relationship to the world, and myself, was entirely shaken. If I couldn’t trust my mind, what could I trust, should I trust, and why? Maybe my feet? That could ground me. 

As a young kid I learned how to walk. One foot in front of the other. I learned to trust that ability. That trust grew as I advanced from walking to jogging, to running, to biking, to playing sports. As a kid, I learned how to move well. I could believe in this version of me: my younger self. I could trust in what had already worked. 

Battling depression wasn’t easy, but by moving around doing things, as I did when I was a kid, I was able to feel a bit better. In my recovery, I found the most power in what fear stripped away from me in that hospital: the ability to move freely. 

I never felt as capable to move freely as a young adult until I rediscovered dancing. I was only 7 or 8 when I first danced freely & happily. I was in a zone of safety, within the privacy of my room. I gained initial encouragement from my parents. But I lost that learned courage, to social anxiety, as I grew older. From 12-22 I became uncomfortable dancing in traditional social settings. 

With incredible fortune, this changed. Again I was in the comfort & privacy of my room, but this time in the presence of a close friend. I turned on the music and danced freely for the first time in a decade. It was something special for me. I was reconnecting with my 7-year old self. My friend, unknowingly, provided the kind of safety my parents gave me as a kid.

It was lighthearted and fun so my friend joined. And later other friends too. Soon our small room was filled with 10. Dancing in my room with them was pure joy. There, I discovered dance as something powerful. A kind of therapy even. I learned that accepting myself helps others accept themselves too. It was a beautiful process to experience & witness.

After a second psychiatric hospitalization in Thailand (you can read about that here), I returned to dancing once again as a safe place. My feet do not fail to reconnect me with the confidence I grew as a kid. 

Over time, I progressively challenged myself too. It started with dancing in my room, then recording, then sharing that on social media. Eventually I tried dancing out in the open public too. 

I did this because I don’t want to be paralyzed by fear ever again. Excessive fear holds me back. I want to choose love and practice it as a kind of sport. I can move out of what’s bad and into what’s good with the trust I have in my feet. If my mind can fail me, surely I can dance my way into something better. 

Upon sharing on social media, a follower called me a dork, and that stuck with me. I identified with that. I am a dork. That’s how I dance. And that’s how the name Dork Dancing began.  

Dork Dancing started in privacy but in recent months, in response to lockdown from COVID19, I have taken it to the streets of Da Nang. The world is going through a mental health crisis, and I know Dork Dancing can help. That’s why I dance with conviction.  

For the first time I am inviting strangers to join me to advocate openly for mental health. Since that first day on June 14th, when I met Thai, my life has changed. Thai was just a stranger but through Dork Dancing we grew a sibling-like bond. When Thai joined, Dork Dancing was no longer about me. It was about we. I was doing this for me and for him. I found something to fight for, something outside myself. From “I” to “we,” illness becomes wellness.

Dork Dancing has changed my life. I have found tremendous purpose in it. It inspires incredible joy, within me, and connects me, deeply, with some awesome people. It’s given me a creative way to express myself and allow others to see me more clearly. It gives me permission to lighten up while building a platform to advocate for what I believe in. Dork Dancing is creating space to share stories too. Now I am finding more space to have the kind of conversations and connections I seek most. 

Dork Dancing reminds me of my humanity and my silliness. It gives me a consistent exercise to practice and inspires me to be a better person. Since starting, I am listening better and caring more. It has challenged me and inspired me to do and be my best. The energy it connects me with is healing. 

Dork Dancing gives me courage and confidence, helping me see the beauty in things more readily. It’s something new for me to improve and grow with intention. Dork Dancing builds community too. It reveals strength in everyday people and creates beautiful moments. 

I am grateful for fear and my episodes of mental illness for everything it has taught me. Without fear, love would be unrecognizable. It’s OK to have a Monkey Mind that gives space for Fear, but it might be helpful too to let loose and share some space for Joy as well. 

Moving freely. It’s something I took for granted. I will never do that again.

Sometimes we need to lose something to gain something. Sometimes we experience pain to find our way to purpose.

“Just Dance. It can change your life”