This Is How Lessons I Learned In Dance Saved Me

In life we can often look back and see how our past shapes our ability, or lack thereof, to handle our current circumstances. Here is the story of how lessons I learned in dance saved me when life became nearly too difficult to handle.

When I was 24 years old, I was a professional modern dancer touring Eastern Europe and France as a temporary member of the José Limón company. After finishing the tour with performances in New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania, I failed to secure a permanent place in the company.

Heartbroken, I abandoned dance completely. It was a decision I would come to regret. Consumed with the feeling of failure, I searched for a new passion and found it as a preschool special education teacher. Then I had two children.

My first son was born with a life-limiting brain malformation. My second son was diagnosed with autism. I found my experience as a special educator wasn’t enough to help me navigate this version of parenthood.

I never expected that the lessons I learned in dance would save me from utter despair, but they did.

How Lessons I Learned In Dance Saved Me

Here are 6 valuable life lessons I learned as a dancer that brought me solace, strength, and enlightenment.

1. Live in the Movement

When I was in college, my dance teacher would stand in front of the room and glide his hands across the space in front of his body, as if he were touching the surface of water. This was his way of showing us to slow down and take the time to feel the space, to stay present, and to enjoy the now.

Worrying about the next movement, or the one after that, would prevent you from experiencing the movement you were currently performing. In dance, every movement needs a clear and focused intent. As a parent, I gained a new appreciation for this lesson I learned in dance.

I have always been a planner, a scheduler, someone who thinks too far ahead. After my first son was diagnosed with cerebral palsy, my therapist would say, “Life is a one-day-at-a-time event.” I didn’t know how to stay in the present after my son’s neurologist announced that Benjamin would “…probably never walk or talk or use his hands, but more importantly, I have no idea what his cognitive functioning will be.”

I didn’t want to be in the present as I watched him have hundreds of seizures each day. Unknowing strangers would look at my baby boy and say, “Enjoy him now. They grow up so quickly.” I loved my son. I loved the way he could stare into my eyes for long periods of time.

And I loved his ability to laugh at me, even when I cried. And I didn’t want to wish it all away. At that time, children with lissencephaly had an average life span of two years. I had to accept that being present in the moment is not exclusive to positive experiences. 

2. Don’t Try to Change Anything

In dance class, my teacher would have us lie on our backs and close our eyes. He’d say, “Just notice. Don’t try to change anything.” I would notice how much contact each body part made with the floor.

Then, I would struggle to release the urge to fix the position of my hand, or head. I was challenged to surrender any preconceived notions I had of what is correct or acceptable. Through this lesson I learned in dance, I was encouraged to embrace a state of imperfection without judgment. 

In the first few months of my son’s life, my husband would ask Benjamin, “Why did you have to be broken?” The doctors could easily list his abnormalities: small head, thin upper lip, high palate, small chin, stiff limbs, wide-spread nipples, seizures.

I was challenged to look beyond this list of broken parts. When I looked into his eyes, I saw peace. He didn’t need to be fixed. He didn’t need to be changed. He was who he was. It was not for me to judge his simple, beautiful imperfection. 

3. It’s Not About the Height of the Leg

As a performer, I learned that a quality performance does not depend on perfect technique. It’s not about how high you can lift your leg.

The goal is to relay the message and emotions the choreographer intended to share. The individual dancer should not be the focus. It’s not about them.

This lesson I learned in dance is particularly helpful when I’m confronted with medical decisions for my son Benjamin. It’s easy to get caught up worrying about how a decision will affect me and my ability to care for my son. When Benjamin needed a feeding tube, I was overwhelmed thinking about managing new equipment and how the basic act of feeding my son would turn into a medical routine.

When these type of conflicts arise, I remember that it’s not about me. I have to take myself out of the equation and focus on what Benjamin needs to have a good quality of life.

4. Don’t Break the Circle

In college, I performed José Limón’s There Is a Time, based on Chapter 3 in the book of Ecclesiastes. My teacher explained: “Circles are Time’s choreographic motif. Without them, we lose a belief in community and the ability to share life’s joys and struggles. Whatever you do, don’t break the circle.”

Connection, physical or otherwise, is essential to managing the joys and challenges we face. Grief and conflict have a way of luring us away from our connections and convincing us that we are all alone.

In dance, I learned how to move organically, making connections through space and time, and how to embrace the intangible. For me, turning my grief, regrets, and presumed failures into successes was a matter of consciously reaching.

I was consciously reaching through my past, linking my experiences, and using my collective knowledge to move forward with purpose. I no longer regret abandoning dance. It is still with me. It is still teaching me.

5. Drop the Weight

In the Limón technique, it is essential to learn how to use weight and gravity to drive movement. Releasing your weight into the movement makes everything much easier, stressless, but it’s so common to hold back.

In order to learn how to use weight to your advantage, you must first acknowledge the weight you have. In class, my teacher would use a simple exercise. “Stand on two feet. Take a hold of one leg with both hands under the knee. Allow it to hang limply. Lift the leg up and down a bit. Ask yourself, how heavy is this leg? What would happen if I dropped it?”

I can hear the collective thump of an entire class of dancers dropping their legs and allowing their feet to land hard on the wooden floor. And this lead to another lesson I learned in dance which saved me.

I’ve come to appreciate that acknowledging the weight of grief and allowing myself to fall into the depths of emotion does not permanently take me away from joy. Riding grief is not a downward spiral. It’s more like a swing; you fall and recover. It can create a momentum that will bring you up to the next suspension if you let it.

6. Pain is the Messenger

Often, as a dancer, I would have to perform when I had an injury. It was easy to be distracted by the one body part that was hurting.

If you focus solely on an injury, it devours your ability to live in the movement, to fulfill the choreographer’s intent, and restricts your freedom to connect with others, but pain is not an enemy. Pain is a messenger, so you can’t ignore it.

You need to give it the attention it deserves, but you also have to put your energy towards appreciating all the other parts of your body that are working well. In life, I’ve learned to attend to the pain grief provides and appreciate the things that simultaneously bring me joy.

In Summary: How Lessons I Learned In Dance Saved Me

It’s truly astonishing the impact seemingly irrelevant parts of our past can impact and shape how we handle problems now. These lessons I learned in dance saved me by bringing me solace, strength, and enlightenment.

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By Joanne De Simone