I dance in my office sometimes, with the window shades drawn, the door closed, and the music down low. I dance to electronic music with absurd lyrics, pop beats and ridiculous riffs.
I dance in ways I wouldn’t show to my friends or family, awfully silly and over-the-top, arms flailing and legs in the air.
I dance when someone cancels a session, or simply doesn’t show up at all, because the cancels and the no-shows stress me out and hit at my inferiority complex / imposter syndrome / why-don’t-they-like-me-itis.
I dance between sessions where all I can do to protect my fragile energy is boost it up and shake off whatever emotional weight the last client dumped on me.
I dance to feel silly, which I don’t like feeling, and I dance to pretend there isn’t a world of shit and trauma and loss and heartache waiting for me on the other side of my door.
Sometimes I’m afraid the other therapists will hear the music and come wandering, see the shadow of my feet behind the door and press a curious ear to the wood that separates us.
And I often wonder what my clients would think if I stopped them mid-sentence, turned to my computer, and invited them to dance with me.
What an odd person. What a strange thing to do—to dance in a therapists office between revelations of deep-seated fears, rejection, anger, and infidelity.
What a weird way to work it out. And yet, it helps to melt the pain fro my shoulders and neck, it loosens my spine, it brings me back to myself.
Sometimes I feel more human when my body is all lit up with movement, and sometimes I feel less so.
Either way, I know I’m burning calories and working toward my step goal for the day.
So that has to count for something, right?