Ankles speak first — small, circular truths. My spine follows, unlearning stillness one vertebra at a time. I don’t choreograph this. I allow it. I let gravity negotiate with me until we agree on a rhythm.
The music doesn’t play — it settles. It slides under my skin and taps gently, like it’s checking if I’m home. I answer by swaying. By bending. By letting my weight fall where it wants to fall.
Movement becomes memory.
Memory becomes release.
I feel energy travel — not upward, not downward, but outward. Into the room. Into the air that holds me. Every motion redraws the shape of my presence. Every step rewrites where I’ve been storing myself.
I am not graceful for anyone else.
I am precise for me.
In motion, I don’t question my body. I trust it. I let it lead me back to something I forgot I knew — that I am allowed to take up space without explaining why.
Leave a Reply