I can’t dance. Not even a little bit. But the terrible moves my friends mock are an antidote to the racing heart and quivering breath that arrive in my more anxious moments
T
he first time I started dancing at home was a happy accident. I’d just had a terse conversation with an ex, and my body was reacting in its usual way: racing heart, quivering breath and trembling fingers. I needed to calm down. Looking around for quick fixes in my flat – my bed, some stale chocolate digestives and a packet of cigarettes – I settled on the kitchen radio, which had been humming faintly in the background all morning.
Tuned to BBC Radio 6 Music, it was playing a disco track I didn’t recognise. But the beat was steady and intermingled with the sounds of tambourines, synths and drums. I turned up the volume, and then my body was moving: limbs swinging, feet tapping, hips wiggling. I continued into the next song, leaning into the feeling and becoming more animated to the sounds of another upbeat 70s track, imagining myself on a crowded, sweaty dancefloor. It was all very silly. But by the third song, my anxiety had melted away. I was smiling. And I felt more like myself again.
To be clear, I cannot dance. Not even a little bit. It’s a running joke among my friends, who have been ruthlessly mocking my moves for years. Unfortunately, the derision is deserved: I have no rhythm and my hips are so wooden that they cannot help but tell this very sad truth. Still, I’ve always enjoyed dancing and have persisted at weddings, festivals and parties. And since that day in my kitchen, I’ve realised it also calms me down.
