I never danced in the open. Maybe it was because I was rarely invited to parties, balls, or bars—or perhaps because I often declined when invited. I simply never had the confidence to make dance moves beyond basic marching steps that I could keep in sync with the music's tempo. I was the perennial wallflower: bobbing my head up and down, shifting my weight from one leg to another, beer in hand, all the while silently hoping, "Please, I hope nobody I know sees me."
But time has a way of softening the self-conscious edges of one's psyche. I’ve come to realize that, in the grand scheme of things, nobody really cares what you do. Especially here in the U.S., where you can pretty much do whatever brings you joy—so long as you’re not harming people, property, or corrupting the minds of the young.
To be honest, I’ve always entertained the idea of dancing—but only in private. In those sacred, quiet hours, when everyone’s asleep and the world is hushed, I sometimes sneak in a little groove. In the dark solitude of my room, with the radio volume turned low, I let go. I might twist, shake, kick, or twirl—sometimes imagining I’m Michael Jackson or a hula dancer from the Pacific, radiant and free. When the night ends, I quietly resume my prim and proper demeanor, secretly treasuring those fleeting moments of make-believe: the fantasy that, perhaps in another life, I could have been a background dancer for a famous entertainer.
Of course, even those dreams were eventually buried beneath the demands of daily life—crushed by the weight of earning a living, making ends meet, and maintaining a fragile sense of normalcy, all in the hope of reaching retirement relatively intact and able-bodied.
I thank the Lord that I’ve made it this far. But there’s a caveat: I'm no longer as flexible or fast as I once was. I move carefully now, especially when turning or shifting direction, because I know that a moment of imbalance could send me to the ground. Just last week, I had a fall. It wasn’t because of a health condition or loss of consciousness—it was simply a misstep. I was distracted by the weekend crowd in my usual hangout spot and didn’t see a tree root sticking out of the ground, arched like a mischievous foot waiting to trip someone. I took a step and down I went. I tried desperately to break the fall, but it was no use. My reflexes didn’t kick in fast enough. The muscle memory I once relied on failed me. I ended up with scrapes on my right knee and palms. Thankfully, I landed on soft soil instead of concrete. It could have been worse.
What startled me most wasn’t the external cause of the fall—it was the realization that my internal systems had failed me. I always thought I’d be the last person to take a spill like that. I used to be the one advising others on fall prevention, balance training, and neuromuscular conditioning. But in that moment, I broke every rule I preached. Distraction was the primary culprit—but it was my lack of quick muscle response and ineffective balance correction that truly frightened me.
The experience hit me hard. It reminded me of the harsh gap between my self-perception and my current physical reality.
The Value of Movement — Especially Dancing
This brings me back to the value of dancing. Dance is more than art or expression; it’s medicine for the body and mind. Dancing challenges the body to move in dynamic, unpredictable ways. This “muscle confusion” stimulates balance, coordination, and neuromuscular responsiveness. Unlike repetitive exercise routines, dance requires quick adjustments—forward, backward, sideways, with different tempos and rhythms. These variables activate stabilizing muscles, enhance proprioception, and promote cognitive focus.
In fact, dancing can be one of the most holistic forms of movement for older adults. It builds strength, boosts mood, and—most importantly—sharpens the reflexes needed to prevent falls. It trains the body to respond when balance is threatened, helping us recalibrate our center of gravity in real time.
So maybe I don’t need a ballroom or flashing lights. Maybe my quiet, dark room is stage enough. Every twist, shuffle, or hip sway is an act of reclaiming agility—and joy.
And I’ll keep dancing in the dark. Not just for the music, but for life itself.