Dancing is Stupid, I Suck at Adult Responsibilities, and Other Ramblings
I’m grieving and my mind is everywhere.
It’s 2:17 a.m. A cup of espresso on the ottoman, too cold to drink and, while I believe in second chances for many things, reheating espresso is not one of them. Too lazy to roll one, I’ll smoke a pre-rolled joint that might help me fall asleep. Somewhere in the background, through my Dr. Dre Beats headphones, house music is pulsing just loud enough to keep my thoughts from ganging up on me. My to-do list is glaring at me from an app on my iPhone—bills to pay, unanswered emails (most of them junk), and groceries I meant to buy two days ago. And yet here I am… dancing in the bathroom in front of the mirror. Or something vaguely resembling it. Jerky elbows. Determined footwork. A one-man flash mob for an audience of zero.
I’m grieving. I’m avoiding life. I’m doing the cha-cha of denial in clean, perfectly matched socks because chaos is one thing, but sartorial standards still matter. There are sitcoms I can’t finish and people I don’t want to talk to. My inner Costanza is thriving. And somehow, in all this weird choreography of avoidance, there’s relief. There’s motion. There’s something like survival.
This isn’t a breakthrough post. I’m not here to offer tips or enlightenment. I’m just here, flailing with purpose, high, caffeinated, and confused, and hoping the movement counts for something.
But what even is this thing we do with our bodies when words fail and responsibilities loom?
A brief (and deeply biased) history of humans flailing for meaning
Before spreadsheets, before TikTok dances, and before anyone figured out what to do with lentils, humans danced. In caves. Around fires. In ceremonies meant to summon rain, banish sorrow, or coax something holy down to earth. Some traditions turned to dance in mourning: keening bodies moving in rhythm because words weren’t enough. Others danced to exhaust the grief out of themselves—sweat becoming prayer, motion replacing memory.
What’s wild is, none of this was ever about looking cool. Early humans didn’t have mirrors. They weren’t trying to go viral. They were just… moving. Letting the body do something when stillness felt like surrender.
Maybe that’s what I’ve stumbled into in my bathroom mirror at 2:17 a.m.—a descendant of those ancient rituals, except with Beats headphones and questionable knee flexibility or maybe a rekindling of my past in big room nightclubs and dungeon-like after parties. It’s not healing in the traditional sense. But in the middle of modern life’s noise, it’s a rare moment when I’m not trying to be productive, impressive, or remotely functional. I’m just there. Flinching in time.
The anthropologists might say I’m engaging in somatic self-regulation. I’d say I’m avoiding spreadsheets with flair.
The Cha-Cha of avoidance (now with grocery lists)
Modern grief is nothing if not multitasking. You cry, you pay bills. You spiral, you remember you’re out of oat milk. The brain tries to process loss while playing personal assistant to a life still very much in motion, and it fails, and often. Enter dance: the world’s most irrational coping mechanism. Or, if you’re feeling generous, the universe’s least efficient productivity tool.
I’ve sidestepped budgeting apps with a quickstep. Danced past meal prep with the urgency of a man outrunning existential dread. And the thing is, I think dancing is objectively weird. Jerking your limbs to invisible rhythms while mouthing lyrics you only half remember? It’s odd. I don’t trust it. But when the music hits, my body doesn’t wait for permission. The bass grabs me by the nervous system, and my brain, loyal only to its own hesitations, is left trying to catch up. It’s irrational. Inconvenient. And somehow exactly what my grief didn’t know it needed.
That’s the thing about this dance I do with myself: it’s less about expression and more about exorcism. Not of ghosts, but of pressure. Of timelines. Of the fantasy that I should be doing better than this. What begins as avoidance becomes… movement. What feels absurd becomes strangely sacred. And in those minutes, awkward, uncoordinated, and defiantly offbeat, I forget that I’m failing at everything else.
Let’s lower the lights, cue the mirror ball, and step into a grand finale with a shimmering, lonely, oddly affirming moment under the glow of absurdity and motion.
Under the disco ball of Sadness
Every dance needs a spotlight. Mine is less spotlight, more flickering bathroom fixture and the reflection of my own increasingly damp face. But still—I imagine it: a disco ball spinning above my grief. Throwing tiny shards of light across unpaid bills, empty takeout containers, and a body that won’t sit still long enough to “heal properly,” whatever that means.
There’s something strangely comforting about it. The way a disco ball doesn’t stop spinning just because no one’s watching. It turns anyway. Reflects what it can. Makes beauty out of fractured light. I want to believe that’s me—awkward, a little cracked, still showing up.
The music always ends. But before it does, I get to flail. I get to forget. I get to become someone who doesn’t need to know what comes next. And in those three minutes and forty seconds, I’m not a grieving procrastinator. I’m not lonely. I’m not failing at emails or life. I’m just dancing.
And that, somehow, feels like enough.
Why Dance Might Actually Be Good for You (Even If You Look Ridiculous)
Boosts cardiovascular health—It gets your heart pumping, which is technically exercise, even if you’re just vibing in your socks.
Improves balance and coordination—All those awkward spins? They’re secretly helping your brain and body sync up.
Enhances mood and reduces stress—Movement releases endorphins, which is science’s way of saying “keep flailing”.
Strengthens muscles and bones—Especially the underappreciated ones you didn’t know existed until you pulled something mid-twirl.
Supports cognitive function—Remembering choreography (or just not tripping over your own feet) keeps your brain sharp.
Encourages self-expression—Sometimes your body says what your mouth can’t. Like, “I’m not okay, but I’m trying.”
Accessible and adaptable: No gym membership required. Just music, space, and a willingness to look mildly unhinged.
Turns out, my grief ritual doubles as a wellness plan. Who knew?
For anyone else dancing through the noise, solidarity in sweat and sorrow.
Still skeptical? Here’s what the health people say about dance being good for you. Spoiler: I’m accidentally exercising.
