The Brightest Dancer in the Room Has Wheels

Every Friday morning, I walk into the studio a little rumpled from the week. Sometimes I arrive feeling tired, sometimes frustrated with my own two feet and all the things they still haven’t mastered.

And then I see her.

She’s in a wheelchair, with a sparkle in her eye and a smile that could light up the whole dance floor. I don’t know her story yet. I don’t know exactly what her diagnosis is. What I do know is this: the moment the music starts, she becomes the most radiant dancer in the room.

Her teacher, Andy, stands beside her chair as they begin their foxtrot. They’ve choreographed it together—this gorgeous, flowing number where her chair becomes an extension of the dance, not an exception to it. Sometimes, Andy hops onto the back of her wheelchair and they spin, fast, like two kids who’ve been given permission to break every rule about what movement “should” look like.

And she just laughs.

Not a polite chuckle. A full-body, gleeful, this-is-what-I’m-here-for kind of laugh.

There are days I come to the studio feeling a little small—caught up in my head about timing, technique, posture, “getting it right.” It’s easy, in ballroom, to obsess over the details: heel, toe, alignment, frame. It’s also easy in life to do the same thing—chasing perfection and missing the joy.

But when I see her eyes shine as she rolls out onto the floor, my inner critic goes quiet.

Because here is a woman who could have every excuse not to dance:

·       The energy it takes to come to class

·       The logistics of getting there

·       The vulnerability of being visibly different in a space that’s often about image and lines and “looking the part”

And yet, she shows up. Not once. Not occasionally. Every. Single. Friday.

She doesn’t just show up to occupy space. She shows up to dance.

I watch as she and Andy practice the same section again and again—entry, turn, glide, spin. It’s choreography, yes, but it’s also something bigger. It’s a living reminder that dance isn’t about how your body moves compared to the textbook. It’s about how your spirit refuses to sit this one out.

On the mornings when I’m feeling down—when my own body doesn’t cooperate, when my balance is off, when I catch myself thinking, “Maybe I’m too old for this,”—I think of her.

I picture that twinkle in her eye when Andy hops on the back of the chair and they take off. I remember the way the room shifts when she’s there. People soften. They smile more. They cheer a little louder. It’s as if her very presence gives the rest of us permission to stop being so self-conscious and start being more alive.

That is her gift to me:

She lights up my day without ever saying a word.

One of these Fridays, I’ll finally wheel over, introduce myself, and tell her how much she inspires me. I want to know her name. I want to know what dancing means to her. But even before that conversation happens, her message is already clear:

You don’t wait for perfect conditions to dance. You dance with the life you have.

Points to Ponder:

·       Where in your life are you waiting to “feel ready” before you show up?

·       What would change if you let joy—not perfection—lead you onto the floor?

·       Who quietly inspires you, just by the way they keep showing up? Have you told them?