Because I’m dramatic and somehow seem to always feel the need to express myself in some theatrical form, I decided I would write this as a story, my own self-reflection book you might even say. I find that I am not the best at simply putting my feelings onto paper. But to be fair, I also pretend as though I am living in a movie reel in my head. For most of my life I have felt as though I had been living a lie. I know, what a vague sentence. But let me explain. 

My parents are divorced. They have been since I was two. Growing up I learned pretty fast that if you did not do as you were told, there would be consequences. I never questioned any advice that was given to me. I assumed my parents were my role models and like most kids, tried to follow in their footsteps.

Both my parents had this philosophy of: ‘do not express or show your feelings,’ but by the time I was a teenager, I started to ‘emotionally rebel’. I fought back on what my parents told me, what my friends told me, and what society told me; like most teenagers do. This was when I started to discover my opinions, my inner voice. My teenage years sparked a revolution within me for the years to come.

My mother struggled with emotional conflict and because of that, it was difficult to have supportive discussions on what was going through my head. Both my parents worked a lot so I spent most of my days with friends, other families, or on my own. I wasn’t a very social kid, so when I did get free time I always chose to spend it by myself. This led to an emotional distance with both of my parents.

During my last years in high school, things had spiraled down even more because my sister started getting herself into trouble. This was difficult for me because my sister was my best friend. She was the first person I really cared about and loved. So when things went sideways, I felt helpless, powerless. The person I had known for so long was gone. I couldn’t see her in her eyes anymore, I couldn’t hear her in her voice, I didn’t recognize the person standing in front of me. I made a decision to move away from my sister and my dad to live permanently with my mom for my last year of high school. I felt like I lost someone I loved. Not physically, but emotionally. 

College was a new chapter for me. I had traveled away from California to Colorado.  My first year was a year of learning and growth. It was an important step, a moment where I got to taste ‘freedom’. Learning how to live away from my family. Learning how to live in a space that I got to call my own. Creating decisions that were mine. But most importantly, it was the year I learned, as Dorthy from the Wizard of Oz would say, I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. 

About two months into college, I decided to make my first step as a solo woman and put myself out there to attract a man. This may seem like a simple act, but for most of my life I had always felt insecure about myself and about my body. Growing up I was told a lot about how great I looked. I was pushed by family members to become a model, use my body and my physical appearance for work. To have others see me in a magazine, with a thin body covered in clothes they wanted to buy and become the person they wanted to be.

So from the age of ten until twenty-two, I became obsessed with my body image. I became obsessed with how much I weighed or what I looked like on the outside. My whole life during those years was to become the woman that men wanted. To become the woman that other women wanted me to be. To play this part in society where I was just that pretty blonde girl that everyone wanted. I played that part well and for many years.

This is why I felt like a fraud, like I was lying. I was living a life based upon my mother's standards on who she wanted me to be and look the part that everyone else told me I should. For all those years, my main focus was to please everyone around me, but myself. I doubted every move I decided to make and questioned everything I did and would only feel satisfied if someone else told me it was right or guided me in that direction. It was like all my own thoughts were placed into a box and locked tightly away in the back of my mind, so far I didn’t even realize they were there.

The first guy I ever slept with in college was one of trauma. After ending a three year relationship with my high school boyfriend, I decided to make moves and learn what it meant to be a single woman in college. I came home one night, drunkingly, with this young man from a dorm across the way. We had spoken a few times before this night, but nothing had ever come from it. As we approached the door of my dorm room, I could feel in my stomach this sense, as though there was something inside of me screaming that this didn’t feel right. I quickly ignored that voice and moved into my room, the man following behind me. After dropping off my stuff and settling down, I decided that I felt tired and that I wanted to go to bed. At this point, I made the move to get into my bed, still fully clothed and waited, hoping this man would make his exit. But instead, he hopped in right next to me, face toward my back. 

I could feel his breath against my neck. I didn’t know what to do. “What if I said no?”. “What would he say to his friends?”. “Everyone is going to think less of me if I don’t sleep with this man”. So I turned over and at this point I had realized that his face was on mine, trying to make out with my mouth that felt like it could hardly move. I felt suffocated, I felt trapped. I knew in my head I could say something, but I was afraid of saying, ‘no’, I was afraid of being seen as less than. 

Because of my mother’s constant lack of approval during my teenage years, I needed the validation from others. I needed him to want me; I was almost begging him. But I hated every moment. I hated the way his mouth felt against mine. I hated the way he touched my body. I hated that he wanted to put his penis inside of me. By the end of the night, I gave him a blowjob just to get him off and out of my room. It worked. He was gone.

I remember getting dressed and just sitting down on the floor and crying. I didn’t understand it then, but all I do remember is feeling this immense pain inside of my chest. I felt so empty. But as my parents taught me, I quickly moved past the feeling and shoved it away. Convincing myself this was what sex was, this was what I needed to do to survive in college. For the next three years, I continued to choose partners who used me as a way to fulfill their needs. I was just a body. Lying there and convincing myself that this pain, this feeling, was how I needed to get through, was how I needed to survive; to be accepted, to be loved.

I remember the last time I had sex with a man. It was early in the morning from a night out drinking and without a moment for me to think, he was on top of me. He quickly pulled down his pants and then mine and stuck his penis inside of me. He fucked me until he came and then once his pants were zipped up, he told me it was time to take me home. That one moment still haunts me. I remember the total and complete feeling of disgust within myself. Like I had just been covered in grease. That moment was when I started to feel shame and guilt. That was when I completely lost myself.

My junior year of college, I met a woman. This woman was fierce, dangerous, exciting, but had incredibly kind eyes. She was the first woman I ever loved, the first woman I was ever with and the person who, in a way,  gave me permission to be who I am today. She was the person who helped me uncover my shame. I had felt so much shame for most of my life for being this person that I did not want to be. 

Meeting this woman marked such a big moment for me in my life because it was the first real moment that I felt like I was making a decision for myself. A decision that no one else had told me about. A decision that came from within. 

While our relationship was messy and toxic, it taught me a lot of things about this world and about myself. She was the one who helped me uncover the anxiety I had for most of my life. She was the one to help me work through love and loss. Those early moments in my life felt like a spinning wheel I couldn't get out of. But this person showed me that I didn’t have to break myself to break free, I simply had to stop pushing the pedal.

I met anxiety at the age of twenty-two. She looked like me, only different. Her eyes filled with darkness, her heart covered in sadness and pain, her body full of bruises from those who had touched her. This woman I saw in the mirror, she didn’t look like me. I didn’t recognize her. I hated myself and everything that I was. So when I shook anxiety’s hand for the first time, I knew we were beginning for war. I made the conscious decision to work through my body dysmorphia and accept myself as more than the woman I saw before me. 

Twenty-two was a year of many battles. I fought every day through my remaining year at college to get through all the things that were in my head. I lost many friends. My relationship broke with my mother. And every day I would wake up with this sense of complete sadness and anger within me, that I couldn’t understand and that I struggled to work through. I felt like every thought was real. I believed in realities that didn’t exist. Every move I made was fueled by my insecurities and anxieties. 

When I turned twenty-three that’s when I met depression. I had just graduated from college and was on my way to making the move to Vietnam, I had six months to prepare. 

I felt lost during these six months. Unsure of who I was, unsure of where I was going, unsure of what I wanted to do with my life. Everything had always been done for me (yes, this would be the definition of white privilege folks). Every decision had always been made for me. I didn’t know who or what to trust except the dark and anxious thoughts that would roll through my head every day. 

I convinced myself I was a terrible person who was unworthy of love, even though my actions contradicted those feelings. Again, I felt like I was lying. So when I made that move to Vietnam, I knew I would have to face those thoughts, those feelings. Moving across the globe to a foreign country with no money, no resources, no friends, no backup plan, is honestly a recipe for disaster. But that was my plan. To face every single fear I had all at once and to not look back.

What did I learn? More than I ever could imagine. I learned first, how to love and accept myself. That was a big step. At twenty four years of age, I shaved off all my hair. A final act to end the movement of self-hate, of self-shame. For the first time ever I felt truly free. It was as though my entire identity had been taken away from me. As though I could start from scratch, begin on a new canvas. 

Being a female in a society that is driven by men can have many effects on those around them, especially for women. To not feel shame in showing my body and letting others see me for who I am, completely naked at my rawest form, without the sexualization or judgement from others.

I’ve learned how to love my body for what it is and how it moves. Dancing, for me, has turned into this movement where I feel as though I can be whoever I want. There are so many moments in my life where I am so caught up in my own head and my own thoughts, that I forget about the world around me. But when I dance, I begin to feel present. I begin to feel alive. I begin to feel what it means to be truly free. 

I remember when I first discovered dancing on my own. I was nineteen years old. This was around the time my high school boyfriend and I were going through our break-up. It was during christmas and about three in the morning. I remembered I had watched an episode on Grey’s Anatomy where three of the main characters sat under their christmas tree and watched the lights from below. So on this day at three AM, I laid under the Christmas tree at my dad’s house and watched the lights glitter through the green of the tree. I could smell the pine and in that moment I felt the most sense of peace I had felt in a very long time. 

Another big dance moment came later. I was listening to music on my headphones when this song came on Dance the Pain Away. I got up, out of nowhere and just started dancing. Stomping my feet on the ground, so sure I would wake everyone up in the house. I danced for thirty minutes or so, until my lungs couldn’t take it anymore and my body felt like it was going to collapse. I felt so free at that moment. So free from my emotions and my feelings. Over time, I used that as a way to get through any moments of anger, sadness or anxiety. I would put on my favorite tunes, go outside and just sing and dance along the streets.  

Dancing on the streets, that’s Dork Dancing. There I can dance safely, free from judgement. But Dork Dancing is more than just free dancing by the beach at 5 PM. It has brought me so much more.

More than anything, it has brought me a community of people who care about me just by being there. A community that allows me to show up as I am, helping make me feel completely safe. 

It has offered new creative opportunities too. I had the amazing privilege of co-editing a workbook with my fellow dorks and even creating my own platform, Dork Art, to create and lead space for others. Even on my worst days, I know I have someone who will be there for me, even if we barely know each other.

“Dork Dancing is a community, a family, your best friend, your biggest fan, the one who helps you back up when you’ve fallen down, forgives you for your mistakes and the one who pushes you to be your best self.”