I remember sitting on the edge of the dance floor in Nashville, right where everyone could see me.
Not in the back.
Not hiding.
Right there — on the front row of chairs, waiting.
I wanted to dance so badly.
I was new. I was scared. And I was, like most follows, waiting for someone to ask me.
Song after song went by.
Couples twirled. Friends laughed.
And I just sat there trying not to look as anxious as I felt.
I remember thinking, “I’m not that bad a dancer. So why is nobody asking me?”
And in a moment I didn’t expect, another thought flickered through me — quiet, uncomfortable:
“Is it… because of the color of my skin?”
My heart shuddered at the idea.
I pushed it away.
I still don’t know the full answer.
But I do know this:
That feeling — that moment on the sidelines — became the seed for why I teach today.
I teach so no one feels invisible.
I teach so no one has to question why they weren’t chosen.
I teach because dance should never make someone feel like they don’t belong.
And that’s why I’m building a Latin dance community in Lawrenceville — a place where people who want to belong, can belong. A space led by a woman, where safety isn’t optional, where respect is taught, where joy is shared, and where everyone is welcome on the floor.
How I First Found Latin Dance
I didn’t grow up in Latin culture.
I didn’t grow up dancing bachata in my living room or watching salsa at family parties.
At Georgia State, I was doing hip hop, step, and heels choreography.
Then I stumbled into a student club meeting called Latin Rhythm Dance Group out of curiosity.
I remember thinking:
“Okay… this is different. And I like it.”
But it wasn’t until after college — when I moved to Nashville for work — that I truly fell in love.
There, I met a teacher named Terry who taught me the foundation of bachata. I took every class I could, danced at every social, said yes to everything even when I was terrified. Nashville is where I went from curious beginner to committed student.
Then, in 2023, life brought me back home — to Gwinnett.
Coming Back Didn’t Feel Like Coming Home
I thought moving back would feel familiar.
It didn’t.
People I knew had moved on.
Friendships had faded.
And I wasn’t the same person who’d left.
So I had to rebuild a social circle from scratch — again.
I started going to every social I could find in Atlanta:
BachaTuesdays, Mambo Mayhem, Tumbao — you name it, I was there.
Going once doesn’t build community.
Going consistently does.
I began seeing familiar faces.
Then familiar smiles.
Eventually, familiar names.
But the real friendships didn’t form on the dance floor.
They formed after.
Waffle House at 3 a.m. after a social.
Tacos after Monday class.
Those “you’re already here, let’s keep hanging” moments.
That’s where I realized:
You don’t move past small talk in the music.
You move past small talk over food.
Dancing is how you meet people.
Eating together is how you get to know them.
Why I Started a Dance Community in Lawrenceville
The honest answer?
I was tired of driving to Atlanta.
Thirty to forty-five minutes one way.
More in traffic.
If you work in the city and want to dance three or four times a week, that drive eats your life.
And I kept thinking:
“Gwinnett has so many people. Why are all the socials still in Atlanta?”
So I did something I’d never done before:
I created the community I wished existed.
Not because I thought it would be easy.
Not because I felt ready.
But because I wanted a space built on the values I believe in:
- Respect
- Safety
- Community
- Joy
- Real connection
I didn’t want a space where follows felt tense about boundaries.
I wanted one where everyone understood etiquette from the moment they walked in.
I didn’t want a space where people blended into the walls.
I wanted one where people felt seen.
I didn’t want a space where newcomers felt intimidated.
I wanted one where they felt welcomed — instantly.
Creating that community wasn’t smooth or glamorous.
There was no existing word-of-mouth.
I had to build that from scratch.
I made flyers and plastered them around the mall.
I posted on Eventbrite and Meetup.
I tapped into Facebook groups.
I used my own social media.
I tried everything.
Slowly — very slowly — people started showing up.
Now, a year later, dancers in Lawrenceville know:
There is a Latin dance scene here.
And it’s growing.
I’m proud of myself for sticking with it.
This is just the beginning.
What Latin Dance Means to Me
Latin dance is not just music + movement for me.
It’s something deeper — something I didn’t find in any other style.
With hip hop and step, you dance alone.
With bachata and salsa, you dance with someone.
It’s an exchange of energy.
A conversation without words.
It’s saying:
“Your vibe meets my vibe — and for the next three minutes, we’re creating something together.”
I love the structure too — the basics, the patterns, the rules you can follow or bend.
It gives people permission to express themselves without having to invent everything from scratch.
And then there’s the culture.
Families dancing together.
Kids spinning with their grandparents.
People bringing food to share at gatherings.
Dancing isn’t a “scene” there.
It’s a celebration.
I saw that and thought:
“This is beautiful. I want this in my life forever.”
Turning Fear Into Joy
When I teach, I get a front-row seat to something most people never notice — the tiny, private battles my students fight within themselves. I see the stiff shoulders, the held breath, the quiet doubt they don’t say out loud.
At the start of class, I’ll show a combination and I can almost hear the panic in the room:
“There’s no way I can do that.”
But then something beautiful happens — not all at once, but piece by piece. A step lands. A turn makes sense. A rhythm settles in. They loosen their shoulders, unclench their jaw, start laughing at their own mistakes instead of shrinking from them.
By the end of class, the same people who were terrified at the beginning are smiling, sweating, and saying:
“Wait… that wasn’t as scary as I thought.”
That shift — from fear to freedom — is the most rewarding part of teaching for me. It’s not the steps or the technique. It’s the moment someone realizes they are capable of more than they believed when they walked in.
And then there’s the joy. Pure, uncomplicated joy. The kind that shows up in the middle of a basic, or when someone nails their first turn, or when two strangers laugh together during a partner rotation.
My class isn’t just a class. It’s a place where people exhale after long days, where IT workers finally look away from their screens, where someone who felt lonely all week suddenly feels part of something. I watch them greet each other like old friends, share stories, joke around, celebrate each other.
Every week, I see community happening in real time. And every time, I think:
“This is why I teach — not to create dancers, but to create belonging.”
A Closing Thought
Wherever you are in your journey — whether you’re returning to something you once loved, or trying a hobby for the first time — know this: connection is built in small, brave moments.
You don’t need confidence to belong. You just need a willingness to show up, exactly as you are.