I Dance Because I Can: A Love Letter To My Body

I dance because I can.

Because my legs hold me, my arms reach, my spine lifts, my heart beats, my lungs expand, my feet press, my hands float, and I am alive.

I dance because others cannot.

Because there are bodies that no longer bend, hearts that no longer beat, breaths that no longer rise, moments that will never come, voices that will never laugh, toes that will never point. I am here. I move. I am alive. And that alone is holy.

Every plié, every tendu, every pirouette is a sigh, a tremor, a bow: thank you, thank you, thank you. My muscles stretch and tighten, my feet grip the floor, my back arches just so.

Movement itself is sacred. I lift, extend, falter, recover, and every motion is a silent hymn performed with my whole body.

Every barre, every stretch, every tendu is a conversation with the sacredness of this body.

And I answer in full presence: I hear you. I honour you. We move together. Sometimes it hums. Sometimes it soars. This dialogue, this communion, is prayer in motion.

I dance with grief, bowing to the memory of bodies that no longer move, hearts that no longer beat, breaths that no longer rise.

I dance with gratitude, lifting arms in silent thanks for joints that bend, for lungs that expand, for muscles that respond, for a spine that lifts, for a heart that endures.

Grief and gratitude entwine, living in the tremor of a balance held too long, in the stretch of a reluctant muscle, in the hum of a lifted spine. They are the altar upon which I place my breath, my body, my devotion.

No one sees it. No one notices the hours spent quietly coaxing the body to remember its grace. Every trembling balance, every controlled tendu, every careful plié is sacred.

The invisible work is intimate, patient, persistent, sacred. This hidden devotion is a testament to the miracle of embodiment, the miracle of life itself.

To dance is to worship life. To stretch, lift, balance, and reach is to say, without words: I am here. I am alive. I am grateful. It is not exercise. It is not art. Every tremor, every sigh, every creak, every quiver, every heartbeat, every breath is a hymn.

It is a reminder that I can still move when so many cannot. That I can inhabit a body that responds. That every motion is a whispered thank-you to the miracle of being.

I dance because I can. I dance because I am alive. I dance because movement is a gift, a love letter to the miracle of presence. Every barre, every plié, every tendu, every lift, every tremor, every breath is sacred. I dance because life is fragile, fleeting, and miraculous—and in this body, on this floor, I am here to honour it.