The healing effects of salsa dancing
The therapy began when I stepped into the room. The vibrant pulse of Latin music hit me sideways, sparking a fire in my belly and a pulsing in my ears. My blood swam and my heart beat quicker than it had in months, years. The gleaming polished floors squeaked to the chorus of stamping heels; a rainbow of sparkly silver, gold, black satin, snakeskin, shimmering midnight blue, fire-engine red. My eyes drank them in greedily, like a magpie, as the salsettes turned, spun and dipped to the rhythmic beat of the clave: 123, 567.
The smell of my anticipation blended with wood, minty breath and sweat was intoxicating. I saw a new me in the mirror, smiling and flushed, not the me with lilac-tinged bags, like bruises, under my eyes, carrying the weight of grief from years of fertility struggles. From the very first salsa lesson I was hooked: I went obsessively every Sunday. I was whisked away to forgotten dreams. I wanted to dance like my teacher, Pascale Dernocoure. I wanted the silver shoes. I had something to aspire to again.
My husband and I had started trying for a baby when we were 30. Almost 10 years ago. As the months and years drifted by, we realised there was a problem. All the medical investigations came back as “unexplained infertility”. There was no real reason why we weren’t falling pregnant.
Friend after friend announced their happy baby news, which I swallowed like a bitter pill. It became more difficult to see these wome with their beautiful swollen bellies and newborns; so deeply cocooned in their baby bubbles, they were oblivious of how I was feeling: jealous, inadequate, unfeminine, sad. Then guilty. It wasn’t their fault I couldn’t have a baby.
I found myself secretly pleased when they complained about sleepless nights, feeding problems and all the other baby things I couldn’t relate to. Part of me was glad they were suffering, too. Then I became intolerant of their complaining. “Just count yourself lucky to have that bundle of joy,” I’d think to myself. “You’re blessed. Now shut up, get on with it and be happy.”
I became more sad, angry, frustrated and depressed — at the injustice of a healthy woman like me not being able to fall pregnant. I was a volatile pendulum, ricocheting back and forth between these emotions. The gruelling fertility treatments undoubtedly played their part, throwing my hormones into turmoil. I tried every natural therapy under the sun — hoping, believing, this could be the one. I became so tired of well-meaning people offering advice. If one more person told me what they’d read or what had worked for their friend, or asked had I tried Chinese medicine, acupuncture, naturopathy or the latest IVF procedure …
The torture of not knowing why I couldn’t conceive has been particularly challenging. I’ve tried counselling, which helped me to develop coping strategies. I am a yoga devotee and that also helped enormously. I do lots of exercise, which helps to boost my mood and lift depression. As does chocolate! But nothing has given me the buzz quite like salsa does: the feeling of being young, feminine and sexy. The sheer joy of moving my body to the Latin beat.
I have met many people who also consider salsa as a kind of therapy, a lifeline. Kon discovered salsa after suffering a stroke. Mastering the steps restored his memory and hand-to-eye coordination. My friend Rachel discovered renewed confidence and a new social life through salsa — a welcome antidote to her painful divorce.
The movement of the dance tells a story, offering a different way to connect with others. Shy guys who wouldn’t dare chat to someone in a bar gain confidence on the dance floor, sharing intimacy through body language. “Would you like to dance?” is a simple hand gesture. It gets people out of their heads — away from rules, work and stress — and into their bodies, into feeling, engaging with their senses, connecting with people.
My husband was relieved my depression had lifted but was threatened by the new me that emerged as a result of my new therapy: salsa. Who was this teenager with her enthusiasm for high heels, lipstick and going out dancing? He thought I was having a mid-life crisis. He was probably right! Eventually we struck a deal. He would learn salsa, I would purchase a road bike and all the lycra bling, and together we’d conquer his dream climb: Alpe d’Huez, a stage of the Tour de France.
A fair exchange, I thought. (Until I realised this involved a gruelling 13km uphill climb, traversing 21 hairpin bends of a mountain — a route attempted only by professionals and over-zealous kamikazes.) My husband’s still a beginner, stepping on my toes as we practise. But his hips are coming to life and there’s determination in the set of his mouth and the concentration in his eyes.
One of the things I love about salsa is that it’s something I do just for fun. The dance originated in Cuba, though in Cuba they call it “casino”. It embodies the Cuban culture: it’s sexy, fun, inclusive and empowering. We dance Rueda de Casino, a form of Cuban salsa. It’s a game. We dance in a circle, rotating and exchanging partners. We clap hands, we laugh, we let loose and dance like nobody is watching. It’s like being a child again.
I am finally accepting I may never have children of my own. I also accept we can’t always have the answers. Sometimes we have to let go of needing to know. I adopt the Zen philosophy that everything is the way it should be. I’m doing just that: being. As I approach 40, I am no longer filled with dread and panic at this number representing a cut-off point where the gates of motherhood are firmly closed to me forever.
I’m living. I’m inspired. I’m pursuing other creative goals: returning to university, finishing my novel, teaching yoga, travelling and salsa dancing — enjoying and wholeheartedly embracing the benefits of being childless.
