Pointes and Perspective #43 Hard Times Require Furious Dancing

Hard Times Require Furious Dancing

I remember the morning of September 11th vividly. I was pregnant with my first child and, like so many others, sat in shock before the television as our world seemed to crumble before our eyes. It was one of those moments when time stopped, and everything felt uncertain and fragile.

That day, I didn’t know what to do. Should I open the studio? Should I hold class? Should I cancel? It felt strange to think of dancing while the world was in such pain. But then one of my adult students messaged me and pleaded, “Please don’t close the studio tonight. We need class. We need something to feel safe and steady. Whoever our enemies are, we need to show them we’re strong and cannot be stopped.”

So I opened the studio that night.

I’ll never forget what it felt like, stepping into that familiar space, surrounded by music and movement, and the simple ritual of pliés and tendus. We didn’t know it then, but what we were doing was healing. The classroom became a refuge. A place to gather strength, to breathe again, to reclaim a tiny piece of normalcy in a world that suddenly wasn’t.

Five years ago, I was teaching at a school when I received a call from the director. One of our young students had just lost her mother suddenly, that very day. My heart broke as I listened, assuming of course that she wouldn’t be coming to class. But the director said, “She’ll be here tonight.”

And she was.

That strong eleven year old walked into class quietly, took her place at the barre, and began her warm-up like she always did. She didn’t want attention. She just wanted to dance. I taught the class as usual. Upbeat, joyful, and full of music and laughter. And afterward, I slipped a small note into her bag with my phone number, telling her she could call me anytime, even in the middle of the night.

That night reminded me once again that dance is where we go when worlds fail us. It is where we can still be whole, even when everything else is breaking.

A year ago, a dance friend of mine posted that she was battling cancer. She did not want to tell us. But she wanted to apologize for her fatigue, her forgetfulness, and her less than thrilled reaction to the compliments on her new short haircut. She said she didn’t want anyone to treat her differently. She didn’t want sympathy, nor did she want to discuss her battle. She just wanted to remain positive, keep moving, and to keep dancing. Dance was her steady ground. It was her escape, her comfort, and her joy.

And just this week, at the university where I teach, we learned that one of our students had suddenly lost a family member. My heart sank all over again. I wondered, Do I cancel class? Do I give everyone the night off? But I remembered 9/11. I remembered that brave 11-year-old. I remembered all the dancers who have turned to movement when worlds fall apart.

So I held class.

Before we began, the department head and I gathered the students to pray. A small act of faith, connection, and compassion. I told them I’d keep class quiet and meditative, without my usual humor. But the students immediately interrupted me, “Please keep your humor. We need your usual joyful class.”

By the end of class, there was laughter again. Smiles. Shoulders lighter. Spirits lifted.

On my ride home, I couldn’t help but think of my student who had gone home to be with her family. I hoped that she, too, might find some comfort in movement when the time is right. Whether it’s stepping back into class, quietly choreographing, or simply feeling the rhythm of breath again. I hope she can feel the steadiness of dance waiting for her, always here, ready to embrace her when she returns.

As educators, we spend our days in the company of these dancers day in and day out, through triumphs and tears, through the thin and, sometimes, some very heavy thick. We celebrate their wins, we steady them through their losses, and we hold space for all that they bring with them into the studio. And though dance is physical, it is also deeply human. A woven tapestry of movement and the narrative of life.

That’s the magic of this art form we love.

In a world that often feels uncertain, dance gives us something constant. It’s not just about performance, nor is it about competition. At its heart, dance is a celebration of resilience, of connection, of being alive. It’s a way to steady ourselves in unsteady times.

Alice Walker once wrote, “Hard times require furious dancing.” And I think she was right.

Because sometimes, when life shakes us to our core, we don’t need to sit still in our grief. We need to move through it. We need to feel our hearts beat, to feel our lungs expand, to know that we are still here.

We never truly know what someone beside us in class is carrying. What losses or worries or quiet heartbreaks they’ve tucked behind their smiles. But we do know this - Dance lightens the burden. It gives us space to breathe, to heal, to keep going.

In the hardest of times, we return to the barre, to the floor, to the movement, and in doing so, we return to ourselves.